Flying High (10 page)

“Oh, I do like it, ma'am. I like it a lot.”

The banana moved deeper and it seemed like I would burst in a hail of ribbons. “Thought so.” Her fingers slopped the copious fluid from my cock, which juiced like a pussy.

I felt the orgasm begin to grow in my groin.

“Not yet. I'm Top Banana, and you come when I say.”

“Yes—mmm! Yes, ma'am.”

She fucked my ass slowly, then she increased her speed. The sliding fruit was splitting me. Tendrils of ecstasy mingled with luxurious pain. She knew just when to fuck, just when to stop. She stroked me while turning the banana in me like a stick shift.

Not accustomed to waiting for release, I found the long journey excruciating and exciting. My hands remained obediently locked over my head.

There was a knock on the door.

“I unh—”

“You okay?” An elderly woman's sweet voice dripped with concern.

God! How long has it been?
“Uh—” The banana pushed deeper. “Ohh. Just a little uh—sick—use—other—bathroom.”

“Good boy,” Jacqueline whispered. Her strokes, along with the pumping of the banana, widened and contracted like clapping fists. She bit my earlobe hard, sending a clear signal.
Keep quiet!
I fought to comply. The opposing pressure forced my first blast of come to explode so hard I heard it thump against the wall. She turned it like a machine gun and it shot short bursts across the sink, over the lowered toilet seat. I actually worried I wouldn't be able to stop coming.

As I drew breaths like a marathon runner after a race, Jacqueline scrubbed her hands. “Clean up this mess and get back to your seat. There may be turbulence ahead.” She opened the little door and peered out, then was swallowed into the cabin.

When she returned to my seat with a complimentary scotch, she smiled softly and sweetly. I kept my hands neatly folded on my tray while she trickled the brown malt slowly, luxuriously over the ice.

She pressed her face close to mine and licked her lips. The bouquet of fresh Certs filled my nose in a whisper. “Who's Top Banana?”

“You are, ma'am.”

“Good boy.”

 

My sales manager called me into his office. “Kevin, your sales have been tracking two-hundred percent above the average over the last few months. I admit that for a time I had doubts you'd make the transition to computer sales.”

“It did take a while to get my head around it.”

“Well, you did. I got a call back from one of your recent sales. He said the damnedest thing: ‘Kevin made the pain of spending so much on this equipment feel like a pleasure.' Not sure what that means.”

I swallowed the urge to laugh.

“It's no big deal. These computers sell themselves.” I took a big mouthful of coffee.

“No, no they don't, and you know it. Really, though, you're my youngest salesman, you really are top banana in my book.”

I spat my coffee down the side of his teak desk.

Of course, I cleaned it up thoroughly.

 

Brenda was a pretty, chestnut-haired, amber-eyed stewardess. She had a gentle smile on her lean, angular face as she brought me my first complimentary club soda on a red-eye flight to the Midwest.

Later, as she poured me a coffee, the lights in the cabin were switching off. She lingered nearby. “Brenda, will you join me for breakfast in St. Louis?”

“That's very sweet, but I shouldn't.”

“Really, just breakfast. I'd like to get to know you a little better, that's all.”

“You see, Mr. Gartner—”

“Please, call me Kevin.”

“Kevin. I never go out with passengers.” I'd seen the blue-suited salesman four aisles up pinch her butt as she poured his third gin.

“Never?”

“Well, usually.” She bit her lip.

“Maybe this once?”

She thought for a moment. “Frankly, we deal with so many, pardon my French, assholes.” She looked four rows up the aisle. Her soft eyes gleamed darkly just for a magical second. “Sometimes I just want—well, anyway. I mean, you are different, you're a gentleman, but—”

“No need to explain. Maybe we'll meet again sometime under better circumstances.”

Brenda paused. “I should know better, with that salesman's smile of yours.” She didn't say it, but I heard
smart-ass salesman's smile.
I tried not to flash it.

She tilted her head slightly. “Yes, I'll join you for breakfast.”

Bless her heart, Brenda married this smart-ass smiling salesman.

And to this day, from time to time, I come to the bedroom holding a nice long banana. Brenda's sweet eyes gleam dark and her smile stretches wide. She disappears into the walk-in closet while I go into the bathroom and strip. She knocks the secret knock on the bathroom door.

Clad in that bright yellow silk baby doll, she steps inside.

“Who is Top Banana?”

“You are, ma'am!”

 

 

 

 

 

Today's the day I'll break my nasty little habit once and for all
.

That's what I tell myself as I shuffle on to the London-bound plane with the other Premiere Executives. I'm the only woman in the bunch, which isn't unusual. Before I decided to change my ways, the closeness of so many anonymous male bodies was the first thing to get me in the mood for later misbehavior. I'd imagine them gathered around me as I pleasured myself, cocks in hand, ready to shoot their loads all over me until every inch of my flesh glistened like a freshly glazed doughnut.

Today, however, I resolutely wipe such thoughts from my mind as I hurry through the business class cabin—no upgrade this time, alas—and silently repeat my vow.

I will not masturbate under the blanket on this flight
.

I murmur it, under my breath, as I slip my suitcase into the overhead bin.

I will not masturbate under the blanket on this flight
.

Pulling my book from my shoulder bag, I settle into seat 33B. Call me a masochist, but I specifically requested a center seat rather than my usual window. Breaking bad habits always requires a certain amount of discomfort, and it will be that much harder to jam my hand down my pants with a vigilant stranger on either side.

I pick up the plastic-wrapped blanket from my chair and push it under the seat in front of me, well out of temptation's way. It'll make for a chilly night, but I can hardly masturbate under the blanket if I have no blanket, can I?

“Excuse me.”

It's a male voice, obviously the occupant of 33A. I don't even look his way as I rise and step into the aisle to let him pass. He gives me a nice “Thank you,” but I continue to ignore him, except to notice that he's tall and sturdy, which means he'll probably hog the armrest.

My new row mate makes all the requisite motions of unpacking and buckling his seat belt, while I try my best to focus on my book. I can feel him glancing over at me, though, and it's all I can do not to roll my eyes. One vow I've had no trouble keeping is to reject overtures from chatty neighbors on long flights, especially men. I do enough coddling of male egos in my work. I've recently been promoted to VP of marketing, North America for a power tool company, and my coworkers and customers are virtually all men. Sometimes I need a break from the cordless screwdriver crowd.

My neighbor clears his throat softly, but with obvious intent.

He's certainly persistent. In spite of myself, I glance over, not at his face, but at his hands resting in his lap.

I do a double take. He's holding the very same book I have: the new paperback edition of
The View from Castle Rock
. A guy reading Alice Munro?

He says, “It looks like we have something in common.”

I smile. “I didn't know men were allowed to read fiction by highbrow female Canadian authors.”

“Oh, I'm not reading it. I just bought it for the pictures.”

For the first time I really look at him: dark hair, warm brown eyes, and a smile to melt a glacier. He's not bad. Not bad at all.

“How'd you get turned on to Alice?” I'm actually curious to know the answer.

“I like her stories in the
New Yorker
and thought I'd check out her latest book. It's very good.”

I narrow my eyes. “What other authors do you like?”

“Let's see, John Irving. T. C. Boyle. Vonnegut. Sometimes I venture into Don DeLillo.”

“Good. Those are all Y-chromosome writers. With that talk of Alice Munro, I was thinking you might be a dyke undergoing testosterone therapy in preparation for the Operation.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “I guess I'll take that as a compliment.”

We laugh.

By the time they bring around dinner we're still talking. Paul tells me he's a project manager for an open source database company and travels a lot, like me. We have other things in common: crazy bosses, older sisters who just had surprisingly cute kids. He runs 5K races and so do I. Strangest of all, we both just discovered a slow-food bistro in Noe Valley that serves “priest's collar” pasta. Paul confesses that his Catholic childhood adds a certain kinky enjoyment to the dish. I agree and tell him about my great-aunt, Sister Loyola.

“Maybe we're twins separated at birth?” I haven't had anything to drink, but by movie time, I'm feeling tipsy.

“Don't take this the wrong way,” Paul replies, “but I hope we're not.”

His eyes flicker. Okay, so he wants to drill me with his power
tool like all the rest. I have enjoyed the flirting, but sense it's best to cool things down before he makes any further moves. Letting guys pick me up on airplanes is a habit I gave up for good several years back.

“Well, Paul, it's been fun, but I'd better get some sleep now or I'll never get over jet lag.”

“Of course, I should get some sleep, too.” He reaches under the seat in front of him. “Hey, I seem to have an extra blanket—would you like one?”

My stomach tightens.

I will not masturbate under the blanket on this flight
.

Still, it would look strange to refuse his offer, so I take the blanket and tuck it under my arms, leaving my hands exposed and out of mischief. To Paul's “Sweet dreams,” I smile politely and turn my head toward the neighbor on my right, a silver-haired gentleman who's already snoozing under his sleep mask.

I close my eyes.

The dreams that await me are definitely not sweet.

So, what'll it be? Masturbate now and get it over with or futilely resist the inevitable for another half an hour and then do it?

I squeeze my eyes tighter. I made a vow. I'm too old for this. I'm a responsible executive. Playing with myself in public is a nasty habit and I have to stop.

Come on, you know that cute guy got you so worked up, you won't get a wink of sleep if you don't diddle yourself
.

I curl my hands into chaste fists. I have to think of something—anything—besides sex. What about Alice Munro? A great writer, so controlled in her prose.
She'd
never masturbate on an airplane. Then again, her stories are always full of sexual yearning. I flash on a scene in her latest work about a young man who's troubled by the urge to stroke the velvety skin of his
sister-in-law's birthmark. It was slightly perverse, but the idea made me a little warm and tingly inside.

Now I'm very warm and tingly.

In desperation, I turn back toward Paul, hoping some pleasant conversation might rescue me from my own troubling urges. Unfortunately, he's already asleep, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, his lips slightly parted. I study his face, the thick eyelashes and kissable mouth. His hand is even more appealing—he is indeed hogging the armrest—with long, sturdy fingers and a tracery of veins on the back that reminds me of a hard cock. My left arm prickles from the warmth of his body. We're close enough that we could be in bed together, dozing after a satisfying fuck.

I sigh and turn away. I fly often enough for business that it should be a bore, but airplane travel still arouses me in some primal way. The moment I arrive at an airport and get that first whiff of jet fuel on the breeze, my blood starts to race with the promise of adventure and escape. That pulse still throbs now,
down there
, between my legs.

My fingers twitch.

The throbbing quickens, fueled by the drone of the jet's engines.

All right, there's no use fighting it. I
am
going to masturbate under the blanket on this flight.

With careful nonchalance, I slide my hands under the blanket and rest them on my thighs. Over the years, my nasty little habit has evolved into a careful system to bring myself off with a minimal chance of exposure. I close my eyes and fantasize like hell while I squeeze my secret muscles, sometimes lingeringly slow, sometimes as quick as hummingbird wings. I do this until I get myself so hot it takes just a minute or two of direct stimulation to come. Then I lift my hands slightly and clasp my right wrist
with my left hand, forming a tent that lets my pussy finger wiggle away unseen until I achieve the desired result. After that comes the extra bonus: sweet, untroubled sleep straight til breakfast.

I don't need to search far for my fantasy today. My lewd mind steals Paul's large, tanned hand and copies it three-fold, one for each breast, the third to rest over my mons like some avant-garde artist's vision of a fleshly bikini. On cue, the hands cupping my breasts begin to pleasure me, expertly tweaking and palming my nipples, which really do stiffen and rise under my shirt. Down below, the middle finger of Paul's extra hand slithers into my cleft to tease my clit with a soft, circling motion.