They waited, wordlessly. The line moved slowly, but finally, finally, they were next. She looked up at him, as if to say, “Are we really going to do this?”
He looked down at her, as if to say, “You bet your ass we’re going to do this.”
They boarded one of the white, outer cars – the “stationary” cars, as they’re identified by the hanging wooden signs. But of course, they’re hardly stationary. They rock back and forth in the wind, when the wheel stops to pick up or discharge passengers. She climbed in first, stepping up to the steel bottom of the car, and sliding along the bench to make room for him. He boarded, next.
The carney slid the metal door shut, and as it clanged, the car rocked just a bit. She smiled, slyly, shyly, and looked at him as the wheel started to turn, as they started to move, backward, past the crowd and up, up above the throngs.
He smiled back, and rubbed his cock, bending over to put his mouth on hers. His tongue and hers met, and he pulled her close, closer. Her cotton skirt was growing damp beneath her, and they had hardly reached 9 o’clock on the rotation of the wheel.
He reached over, his arms strong, and lifted her up, off the bench, twisting her around over him, and she instinctively raised her skirt as he lowered her to his lap. He fumbled with his fly, finally springing his cock free, and lifted her up to move her the final few inches. She reached down and guided his cock into her as he lowered her, as the wheel jerked to a stop.
They both knew the rhythms of the wheel, the pace, the way it started, stopped, started, stopped. They’d each ridden the wheel dozens of times, though never together. But as the wheel lurched into motion again, he pulled her down onto him, against him. His cock drove deep into her as they worked, together, to make maximum use of the movement and stopping of the wheel. They didn’t have much time, they knew, only a few minutes to go around once, to be back before the ride operators, and then around one more time before the door would slide open and they’d be asked to exit to the back.
They didn’t need long: this wasn’t where, or when, either of them planned to cum. They simply wanted to feel the delicious sensations of fucking high, high above the crowd. As they fucked, they looked out, over the ocean, over the rides, over the crowd. In and out he slid, up and down she rode, back and forth the car moved, periodically thudding to a stop, grinding forward. They had imagined what the wheel might do to the normal sensations of fucking, but their imaginations came up short. The physical sensations were great, but the sensation of fucking in public – of fucking really in public – with thousands of people within just a few feet of them – were beyond anything they’d considered. Fear, frolic, kitsch, adventure – seriously – how many people had done this? It was truly an elite club they were joining, and the thrill of joining it – of joining it together, made them both far happier even than the familiar feeling of her ass slapping down on his thighs, his hands squeezing her ass, pulling her hair, his cock pressing into her.
The mile-high club has lots of members.
How many members does the 200-feet-high club have?