The Red Eye Flight
The plane hums in the darkness, a metal tube suspended between worlds. Twomasks shifts in his narrow middle seat, his raccoon mask-markings barely visible in the dim cabin light. On either side of him, men slumber—their bodies surrendered to the pharmaceutical assistance of sleep aids and miniature bottles of overpriced alcohol. Their heads loll and shoulders slump, while below their waistbands, the prizes that have caught Twomasks' interest remain packaged but unmistakably present.
The immortal raccoon has endured countless flights across countless decades, but tonight's red-eye traversing the Atlantic provides a rare opportunity. The cabin is nearly empty, the flight attendants huddled near the galley, and his immediate neighbors—a businessman bull to his left and a college-aged skater punk snow leopard to his right—sleep with the peculiar heaviness that suggests they won't be waking anytime soon.
Twomasks' paw rests casually on his own thigh, fingers tapping with contemplative rhythm. The bull breathes deeply, his broad chest rising and falling beneath a crisp dress shirt that's come partially untucked during sleep. The leopard, by contrast, wears a loose hoodie and jeans so worn they've gone soft at the edges, his lanky frame curled awkwardly against the window. Both, however, share one trait that draws Twomasks' expert eye—impressive bulges pressing against their respective pants.
The overhead lights have dimmed to a twilight blue. Most passengers have pulled down their window shades, creating a liminal space divorced from time zones and daylight. Twomasks feels that familiar tingle in his fingertips—the particular excitement that comes when opportunity and desire align. He shifts his hips, adjusting to face the bull.
The businessman's belt is Italian leather, expensive and supple. His slacks, tailored to his muscular frame, nevertheless strain slightly at the crotch. Twomasks' fingers hover over the belt buckle, then descend with practiced stealth. The metal prong slides free with barely a whisper of sound. The button beneath pops open under subtle pressure, and the zipper glides down tooth by tooth, controlled by Twomasks' expert touch.
The bull's boxer briefs are black cotton, stretched over what appears to be a modest penis but an impressive set of testicles. Twomasks slips his paw beneath the elastic waistband, feeling first the warmth, then the texture of short, coarse fur, and finally the velvety skin of the bull's scrotum. The testicles within are heavy, dense—perfect specimens that cause Twomasks' mouth to water slightly.
"My, my," he whispers, barely audible above the plane's constant drone. "Quite the package for such an uptight suit."
He eases the entire genital package free of its cotton prison, bringing it into the dim cabin light for proper appreciation. The bull's penis is indeed small—perhaps five inches when erect, Twomasks estimates—but it has a certain charm in its proportion. The foreskin is ample, covering the glans completely, and the shaft has a pleasant curve. But it's the testicles that truly impress—each the size of an orange, hanging low in their dark-furred sack.
Satisfied with his initial assessment, Twomasks turns his attention to his right, where the snow leopard's lean body occupies the window seat. The feline's jeans are worn thin and torn at the knees, the button fly already half-undone from his slouched sleeping position. Twomasks slips his fingers between the buttons, gently widening the gaps until he can peer inside.
"No underwear," Twomasks notes with approval. "How convenient."
The leopard's equipment lies coiled within, impressive even in its dormant state. With delicate movements, Twomasks works the massive organ free, his eyes widening despite his centuries of experience. The snow leopard's penis unfurls across his wrist with a flaccid thump, the sheer weight of it momentarily surprising even the immortal thief.
Fully exposed, the foot-long member rests across Twomasks' palm and forearm. It's pale pink beneath white spotted fur, with prominent veins running along its considerable length. The foreskin is tight, barely covering the substantial glans, and the whole apparatus exudes a musky scent that makes Twomasks' whiskers twitch.
"What an extraordinary specimen," he murmurs, genuinely impressed by the college student's endowment. "Nature's generosity knows no fairness."
Twomasks settles back, a male in each hand, appreciating the contrast. The bull's package feels dense, substantial, with his minimal shaft overshadowed by his prominent testicles. The snow leopard, meanwhile, is all length and girth, his testicles proportionate but unremarkable compared to his magnificent shaft.
With methodical patience, Twomasks begins to work both members simultaneously. His right paw strokes the leopard's length with a loose grip, using the natural oils of the feline's skin as lubrication. His left circles the bull's smaller shaft, occasionally dipping down to fondle the impressive balls beneath. Both techniques are calibrated precisely—enough stimulation to coax arousal, but gentle enough to maintain the slumber of their owners.
The bull responds first, his modest penis stiffening until the foreskin retracts of its own accord, revealing a blunt, purple-tinged head. A drop of clear fluid forms at the tip, catching the dim cabin light. Twomasks dabs it away with his thumb, then brings it to his nose to appreciate the male's unique scent—a combination of expensive cologne and primal musk.
The snow leopard takes longer, his massive organ requiring more blood to achieve full tumescence. But as it firms up, the transformation is remarkable. What was already impressive in its flaccid state becomes truly magnificent—thickening and lengthening until it stands nearly vertical despite its weight, the prominent head pushing free of its foreskin sheath.
"There we go," Twomasks coos, keeping his voice below the engine's constant hum. "Both of you are such responsive boys, even in your sleep."
The bull's hips shift slightly, a small grunt escaping his throat as Twomasks expertly manipulates his shaft. The leopard remains more still, but his penis pulses with his heartbeat, a drop of pre-ejaculate forming at its tip. Twomasks collects this as well, adding it to the bull's on his thumb, then brings the combined essence to his mouth for a taste. The flavors mingle—one sharp and salty, the other mellow and sweet.
Twomasks' own arousal builds as he continues his ministrations, but he remains focused on his task. His paws move in different rhythms, each attuned to its subject's particular needs. The bull responds best to short, firm strokes concentrated on the upper shaft, while the leopard's length requires long, sweeping motions from base to tip.
The cabin air grows thick with male scent—subtle enough that sleeping passengers wouldn't notice, but to Twomasks' sensitive nose, it's an intoxicating bouquet. His eyes flick between his two prizes, assessing, appreciating, deciding.
"Such different beauties," he muses, rolling the bull's heavy testicles between his fingers while simultaneously tracing the prominent vein along the underside of the leopard's shaft. "A modest business model and an extravagant sporting goods display."
The bull's penis begins to leak steadily now, small beads of fluid that Twomasks distributes along the shaft with his thumb. The leopard's member throbs more insistently, its considerable girth straining the skin to a taut smoothness. Both males breathe differently now—still asleep, but their bodies responding to the pleasure being administered with such care.
Twomasks pauses his ministrations, allowing both organs to rest fully erect across their respective owners' laps. The bull's smaller penis points straight up from its nest of impressive testicles, while the leopard's magnificent member extends nearly to his navel, curved slightly to accommodate its size.
A moment of consideration crosses Twomasks' features, his paws hovering over the displayed masculinity. He has always been a collector of fine things, particularly those attached to males who would never willingly part with them. For centuries, his unique abilities have allowed him to separate men from their most precious appendages without blood or pain—a talent that has brought him both pleasure and a formidable collection.
"Should I?" he whispers to himself, eyes gleaming in the darkness. "Both of you have such worthy equipment, for different reasons. The question is whether I should be satisfied with merely handling you, or whether I should add you to my collection."
The decision crystallizes as Twomasks recalls the date. Somewhere over the Atlantic, as the date line blurs beneath them, it's technically his birthday—one of thousands he's celebrated across his immortal lifespan.
A smile spreads across his face, whiskers twitching with delight. "It is my birthday after all," he decides, his paws resuming their attentive caresses. "And what better gift than two such diverse specimens? One modest but substantial, one extravagant and impressive—both perfect in their own way."
His fingers trace the veins and ridges of both members with renewed purpose, his decision made. These two sleeping passengers will leave the plane with less than they boarded with, and Twomasks' collection will grow by two uniquely appealing specimens.
"Happy birthday to me," he whispers, as his paw reaches into his pocket for the special tool he always carries for just such occasions. The monofilament string slides from Twomasks' pocket like liquid silver, nearly invisible in the cabin's dim light. He stretches it between his fingers, testing the tension. Forty six hundred and sixty three hundred years of collecting male appendages has taught him that preparation matters—the wire must have precisely the right tautness, the cut executed at exactly the right moment. He loops the translucent garrote around his fingers, eyes fixed on the bull's modest but fully engorged penis rising from its nest of impressive testicles.
"Let's make sure you're at your absolute best," Twomasks whispers, his breath warm against the bull's ear.
The businessman doesn't stir, his breathing remaining deep and rhythmic as Twomasks returns his attention to the exposed genitals. The raccoon's fingers dance along the shaft with practiced precision, coaxing it to its maximum potential. Despite its modest length, the bull's member has a certain aesthetic appeal—the thickness proportionate to its length, the head blunt and purple-tinged against the darker skin of the shaft.
Twomasks pays particular attention to the very tip, his thumb circling the sensitive ridge where glans meets shaft. The bull's body responds even in sleep, his penis twitching and hardening further until it points straight up, foreskin fully retracted, veins standing proud against taut skin. A bead of pre-ejaculate forms at the slit, which Twomasks dabs away with his finger, then tastes—salty with an undertone of something earthy.
"Perfect," he murmurs, satisfied that he's extracted the bull's maximum expression of masculinity.
With the member fully erect, Twomasks carefully positions the monofilament wire. He slides it beneath the entire package, looping it around both testicles and the base of the shaft in a single, continuous circle. The wire is so fine it's nearly imperceptible, resting against the bull's skin without pressure—for now.
The bull shifts slightly in his sleep, perhaps sensing on some subconscious level that a momentous change is imminent. Twomasks pauses, waiting for the businessman to settle back into deep slumber. The plane hits a pocket of turbulence, the slight jostling providing the perfect cover for what comes next.
In a single, fluid motion—practiced over centuries of similar acquisitions—Twomasks pulls the wire ends with precise pressure. The monofilament cuts through skin, vessels, and connective tissue with molecular precision. There is no blood, no tearing—just a perfect separation at the cellular level, the follicles and flesh parting like water before a keen blade.
The bull's entire package comes away in Twomasks' paw, the still-hard penis and heavy testicles now divorced from their owner. Where they once joined the bull's body, there is now only smooth skin, the special properties of Twomasks' supernatural wire sealing blood vessels and nerves instantaneously.
"Thank you for your contribution," Twomasks says, carefully tucking the bull's intact slacks back into place and sliding the zipper up with the same stealth he employed to lower it. The businessman continues to sleep, unaware that beneath his expensive trousers, his pride and joy has been cleanly removed.
With the bull's package secured in his left paw, Twomasks takes a moment to examine his prize under the dim cabin light. The penis has already begun to soften slightly, though it maintains much of its erect stature. The testicles hang below, disproportionately large compared to the modest shaft—each one looking swollen and heavy with unreleased seed. Twomasks enjoyed the familiar thrill of delight in knowing that the male would not be enjoying an orgasm again, at least not in the way he was accustomed to.
"Quite the mismatched set," Twomasks observes, turning the package to view it from different angles. "Such magnificent balls, yet such an ordinary penis. It's as though nature couldn't decide whether to be generous or stingy."
After thorough consideration, Twomasks makes a decision. He has no particular use for the bull's testicles, impressive though they may be. His collection focuses on the penises themselves, each unique in its own way. With practiced ease, he separates the scrotum from the shaft, the monofilament making another clean cut that leaves both parts intact.
The detached scrotum rests heavily in his lap temporarily, while he holds the bull's penis up for closer inspection. It's already fully soft now, the foreskin creeping back over the head, the shaft shrinking to a modest three inches.
"Small but charming," Twomasks decides, placing it carefully in an inner pocket of his jacket. "Sometimes the modest ones have the most character."
He shifts his attention rightward, where the snow leopard's magnificent endowment still stands proudly erect. The foot-long member throbs with each beat of its owner's heart, the pale pink shaft a stark contrast to the white-spotted fur surrounding it. A prominent vein runs its considerable length, pulsing visibly in the dim light.
Twomasks wraps his fingers around the impressive girth, feeling the heat radiating from the turgid flesh. Unlike the bull's organ, which required considerable coaxing to reach its full potential, the snow leopard's member seems eager, responsive—a young stallion straining at the bit.
"You're certainly ready for attention," Twomasks murmurs, beginning a slow, rhythmic stroking from base to tip.
The leopard's penis responds immediately, a generous bead of pre-ejaculate forming at the slit. Twomasks spreads this natural lubricant along the shaft, his paw gliding smoothly over the heated skin. The size requires a different technique—a fuller grip, longer strokes, occasional twisting motions near the prominent glans.
As he continues his ministrations, Twomasks contemplates the differences between his two prizes. The bull's organ had been a testament to contrast—modest length but impressive supporting equipment. The leopard's, however, is all about abundance—length, girth, responsiveness all existing in perfect proportion.
The leopard's breathing changes slightly, growing deeper as pleasure builds even in his unconscious state. His penis throbs more insistently now, the veins standing out in sharp relief against the straining skin. Twomasks recognizes the signs of approaching climax—the slight stiffening of the shaft, the darkening of the glans, the increased production of pre-ejaculate.
A decision forms in Twomasks' mind. Unlike the bull, whose orgasm would have been pleasant but unremarkable, the snow leopard's climax promises to be spectacular given the size of his equipment. It seems almost a waste to deny the organ its final performance.
"Perhaps you deserve one last hurrah," Twomasks decides, leaning closer to the magnificent member.
With the leopard's penis still firmly in his grip, Twomasks bends forward, bringing his muzzle to the swollen head. His tongue extends, tasting the saltiness of pre-ejaculate, feeling the silky texture of the taut skin. The musky scent is stronger now, a heady blend of feline pheromones and male arousal that makes Twomasks' own body respond with interest.
He takes the head into his mouth, his lips stretching to accommodate the considerable girth. The warmth and wetness cause an immediate reaction—the leopard's penis stiffens further, pumping out more pre-ejaculate that Twomasks swallows with appreciation. His tongue circles the sensitive ridge, feeling every bump and texture of the engorged flesh.
The leopard moans softly in his sleep, his hips shifting unconsciously, pushing more of his considerable length toward the source of pleasure. Twomasks accommodates as much as he comfortably can, his paw continuing to stroke the portions his mouth cannot reach. The organ pulses rhythmically now, the telltale precursor to ejaculation.
In these final moments, Twomasks savors the living quality of the massive member—the heat, the throbbing vitality, the taste of arousal. But as the first contraction signals imminent release, Twomasks makes his move. Without removing his mouth, his free paw brings the monofilament wire into position, looping it around the base of the shaft with practiced precision.
The snow leopard's body tenses as orgasm begins, the first powerful spurt of semen filling Twomasks' mouth just as he pulls the wire tight. The molecular-sharp filament severs the impressive organ in the same instant that it reaches its ultimate expression of purpose—ejaculation and severance occurring in perfect synchronicity.
Twomasks holds the detached penis carefully between his teeth, the severed end sealed by the supernatural properties of the monofilament, a single spurt of final load remaining in his mouth. The warm, salty essence slides down his throat, the organ pulses one final time against his tongue as though unaware it's no longer connected to its owner.
With deliberate movements, Twomasks shifts his attention to the snow leopard's groin, where a heavy pool of semen continues to flow from the sealed stump, the body's momentum continuing despite the absence of its delivery system. Using his free paw, he carefully rearranges the leopard's jeans, zipping them up with the same stealth he employed earlier.
The denim darkens immediately around the crotch, a wet stain spreading as the remainder of the ejaculate soaks through the fabric. It looks, to any casual observer, like nothing more than an embarrassing wet dream—the true nature of the loss concealed beneath ordinary clothing.
Twomasks finally removes the severed organ from his mouth, holding it carefully in his paw. Unlike the bull's member, which had immediately begun to soften, the snow leopard's penis remains largely erect, still oozing out the last vestiges of its final orgasm from the swollen glans. The surface glistens with saliva and semen, the pale pink flesh flushed darker with blood that will never return to its original circulation.
"Magnificent to the very end," Twomasks observes, wiping his muzzle with his free paw. "A truly exceptional specimen."
Twomasks pulls the bull's modest but charming penis out of his pocket, and compares it with the leopard's magnificent member in his other paw. Two more additions to a collection centuries in the making, each unique, each with its own character and history. The bull's penis rests in Twomasks' left palm, a modest sculpture of flesh now detached from its original purpose. In his right hand, the snow leopard's impressive length curls across his fingers like a sleeping snake, its considerable heft a testament to nature's unequal distribution of gifts. Twomasks brings both to his nose, inhaling deeply, cataloging the distinct aromas—musk and cologne from the businessman, youth and virility from the college student. Each has its own bouquet, as unique as vintage wines but infinitely more personal.
The bull's organ, now fully relaxed, has shrunk to a compact package barely three inches long. The foreskin has retracted completely over the glans, leaving only a small pucker at the tip to hint at what lies beneath. The skin itself has a velvety texture, darkened with age and use to a rich mahogany that contrasts with the paler flesh where it was once attached to the body. Twomasks runs a finger along the underside, feeling the rigid tube of the urethra, the subtle texture of veins now collapsed in permanent flaccidity.
"Such a modest thing," he murmurs, turning it over to examine it from all angles. "Yet it served its purpose well enough, I suppose."
The snow leopard's member provides a striking contrast. Even in its post-orgasmic softness, it extends well beyond Twomasks' palm, draping over his wrist and forearm. The skin is pale pink mottled with white, mirroring the spotted pattern of its former owner's fur. Thick veins wind along its considerable length like rivers on a topographical map, and the prominent head remains partially exposed even with the foreskin in its relaxed position.
Twomasks weighs them both, one in each hand, like a merchant assessing the value of different goods. The snow leopard's organ, despite its impressive dimensions, feels surprisingly light—youth making it more spongy and less dense than its more mature counterpart. The bull's penis, though smaller, has a solidity to it, a concentrate of maleness compressed into a more economical package.
"Size and substance," Twomasks reflects, "rarely found in equal measure."
He brings the bull's penis to his mouth first, his tongue exploring the wrinkled texture of the foreskin. The taste is complex—salt and musk layered with hints of expensive soap and the faint metallic tang imparted by the monofilament cut. Twomasks works his tongue beneath the foreskin, feeling the smooth glans hidden within, coaxing out flavors that even the bull himself might never have appreciated.
The leopard's member requires a different approach. Its size allows for more varied exploration, and Twomasks takes advantage, running his tongue along the considerable length from base to tip. The taste here is sharper, younger—less complex perhaps, but with an enthusiasm that makes up for its lack of subtlety. The prominent veins provide textural interest, and the lingering traces of semen add a salty finish that Twomasks savors with the appreciation of a connoisseur.
So absorbed is he in his sensory examination that Twomasks fails to notice the approaching footsteps. The plane has entered a patch of smooth air, the engines humming at a lower pitch that no longer masks the soft padding of paws on carpet. It's only when a shadow falls across his seat that Twomasks realizes he's no longer alone in his appreciation.
A male tiger in a crisp flight attendant's uniform stands in the aisle, his professionally neutral expression at odds with the scene before him. Twomasks freezes, the bull's penis still partly in his mouth, the leopard's impressive member draped across his wrist, and the discarded scrotum resting in his lap like an abandoned coin purse.
Heat rises to Twomasks' ears, an unusual sensation for one who has spent centuries taking what doesn't belong to him without a hint of shame. Being caught mid-appreciation is somehow more embarrassing than being caught mid-theft—the former so much more personal than the latter.
"I—" Twomasks begins, then stops as recognition dawns.
The tiger's professional mask cracks slightly, one corner of his mouth lifting in a familiar smirk. Yellow eyes, sharp and knowing, meet Twomasks' startled gaze. It was Charn, of course, not just any flight attendant, but an old friend and occasional accomplice in Twomasks' more elaborate acquisitions.
"Collecting trash, sir?" Charn asks, his voice pitched to carry no further than Twomasks' ears, his paw extended expectantly.
The formal language is for the benefit of any wakeful passengers, but the gleam in his eye speaks volumes of shared history and mutual understanding. Twomasks quickly removes the bull's organ from his mouth, tucking it into his inner pocket alongside its feline counterpart. The scrotum, however, remains in his lap—surplus to his requirements.
"Ah, yes. Thank you," Twomasks responds, his composure returning as he places the bull's discarded testicles into Charn's outstretched paw.
The tiger's fingers close around the offering, his gray eyes flicking briefly to the sleeping bull, then to the snow leopard with his damp jeans, and finally back to Twomasks. A knowing smile spreads across his features, his whiskers twitching with suppressed amusement.
"Enjoying the in-flight entertainment, I see," Charn murmurs, leaning closer under the pretense of adjusting Twomasks' tray table. "Happy birthday, by the way."
Twomasks' ears perk up in surprise. "You remembered."
"Well, you're still in your mid twenties, if I'm not mistaken," Charn said, a twinkle in his eye and his voice a smooth purr that could easily be mistaken for routine customer service by any casual observer. "I thought you might appreciate some... accommodations for your special day."
Understanding dawns on Twomasks as he glances at his sleeping neighbors. "You arranged this? The seating? Their deep sleep?"
Charn's smile widens, revealing the sharp tips of his canines. "Let's just say I may have suggested a complementary upgrade to these particular passengers, and perhaps ensured their drinks contained something a bit stronger than the usual minibar offerings."
He pockets the bull's testicles with professional smoothness, the movement indistinguishable from storing a used napkin or empty snack wrapper. "The bull's a corporate lawyer who specializes in helping companies avoid environmental regulations. The leopard's a trust fund kid who brags about never tipping service workers. I thought you might enjoy providing them with a certain... karmic adjustment."
Twomasks chuckles softly, a warm feeling spreading through his chest that has nothing to do with his new acquisitions and everything to do with the thoughtfulness behind them. In forty six centuries of birthdays, gifts have come and gone, but few have shown such attention to his particular interests.
"Your thoughtfulness never ceases to amaze, Charn," he says, genuine appreciation coloring his tone. "Though I'm curious—what will you do with those?" He nods toward the tiger's pocket where the bull's testicles now reside.
Charn's eyes gleam with mischief, his striped tail swishing slightly behind him. "Let's just say I have my own collection. Not as extensive as yours, perhaps, but with its own... flavor."
The implication hangs between them, unspoken but understood. Charn's predilections have always leaned toward the culinary, his appreciation of male essence taking a more literal form than Twomasks' collectible approach.
"Well then," Twomasks says, patting his pockets where his new acquisitions rest, "it seems we both got what we wanted."
"Indeed." Charn straightens, resuming his professional demeanor as another passenger signals from across the aisle. "Enjoy the rest of your flight, sir. We'll be landing in approximately three hours."
The tiger moves away, his stride confident and measured, every inch the dedicated flight attendant rather than the accomplice to genital theft he truly is. Twomasks watches him go, appreciation for their long friendship warming him almost as much as the weight of new treasures against his chest.
Settling back in his seat, Twomasks allows himself a moment of satisfied reflection. The bull continues to sleep on his left, the snow leopard on his right—both blissfully unaware of their contributions to his birthday celebration. When they wake, the drugs will leave them groggy and disoriented, the memory of their flights hazy at best. It might be hours before they discover their losses, and by then, Twomasks will be long gone.
He pats his pocket, feeling the comforting presence of the bull's modest member nestled against the impressive length of the leopard's organ. Two more additions to a collection centuries in the making, each unique, each with its own story. The contrast between them pleases him—a reminder that masculinity comes in all shapes and sizes, each with its own particular charm.
"A very happy birthday indeed," Twomasks murmurs, closing his eyes as the plane continues its journey through the night sky.
In his pocket, the severed organs remain warm, preserved by the same magic that allows their bloodless removal. They will never decay, never lose their essential character—frozen at the moment of their taking, permanent tributes to their former owners' masculinity. And Twomasks, immortal collector that he is, will appreciate them for centuries to come, long after the bull and the leopard have lived full lives and passed from this world, never knowing that pieces of them remain, treasured possessions in a collection beyond imagination.
Twomasks smiles, whiskers twitching with contentment. Some birthdays pass without note, forgettable markers in an endless existence. But this one, thanks to the unwitting generosity of two well-endowed passengers, will be remembered with particular fondness.
The plane hums onward through the darkness, carrying them all toward morning.