Flying High (12 page)

Almost,
I managed to type back. The excruciating frustration of not being able to hear his voice, not being able to even whisper his name, let alone run my fingers along my hardened nipples or stroke myself between my legs, was unbearable but also arousing. The furtiveness was part of the turn-on, a complete contrast to his freedom to do whatever he wanted. For a brief moment I wondered if he was going to take a photo of his cock and send it to me, which would leave me no choice but to hastily shut down my laptop and hope I didn't get reported to the airline authorities.

But Brandon didn't do that. He relied on describing his delicious dick to me in explosive detail. He told me exactly where his hand was, how hard he was stroking himself. His cockhead
looked
red and ready to burst.
He could feel the come bubbling up. He wanted to taste my panties. Oh wait—he was going through our laundry and fishing out a dirty pair to approximate what he couldn't have. I was trying to read his text while inching my panties lower and lower. Finally they were poised at my skirt's edge. I felt them trapping my legs as I widened them just so. Sometimes I hold my panties around my legs when I masturbate, legs up in the air, elastic keeping me in place like some erotic exercise band. I like the way they feel pressing against my skin, the resistance they form as my muscles flex, sending me on my way to climax. Now I looked down below me, as if I were searching for a missing pen, whisked them off and into my hand in what had to be three seconds, and shoved them way down deep in the pocket in front of me, nestled against a barf bag and a magazine.

My heart was pounding, and I'm sure my juices were leaking onto my skirt. I didn't care anymore if they were visible.
I did it!
I typed, and I got the praise I'd been hoping for.

Very good. I like it when you listen to me, Cindy. I like it when you do whatever I ask you to. That means when you get home you're going to get a very special reward. A gold star, if you will.
I knew exactly what that meant. That was our code word for the glittery gold butt plug he'd bought me when I got that rave review from the
Times.
I'm not one of those insatiable anal babes who need it up the ass all the time. Getting fucked there is reserved for special occasions, ones that involved sensual bubble baths, oysters hand-fed to me, and me spending a long time across his lap getting spanked and fingered and filled. He prepares my ass so lovingly for the invasion it's about to take, I practically melt around the plug. This happens maybe twice a year, and I never know when it will occur. It's another area where I cede control to Brandon, knowing that he knows just how to please me.

As I was drifting off into an anal sex daydream, the captain
came on and said we were going to have to put away all electronic devices. I hadn't come yet, but I was in that preorgasmic state that is sometimes better than orgasm, where it feels like anything and everything could fill my cunt and I'd still crave more; where my pussy is almost in pain with need. It's what I like to think of as the female equivalent of blue balls. It was so delicious that I almost forgot about Brandon for a second. I looked at the screen to see he'd told me that he'd poured some lube into his palm and was moving his hand up and down, fast as can be.

He's let me watch him often enough that I knew exactly what he was doing now. Sometimes he ties me up, wrists bound with red rope behind my back, once in a while a ball gag shoved in my mouth, so I can't touch myself—or him—and I just observe as he slowly, teasingly, jerks himself off, until by the end his hand and cock are one body part, moving in perfect sync until he spatters me with his come.

I didn't type anything back, just brought the screen closer to me as he stopped typing and I knew he was coming.
Love you, will call soon,
I typed as I closed my computer and slipped it back into its case. I shut my eyes and settled a blanket over my lap, hoping nobody had seen me.

I learned two things on that trip: coach isn't so bad after all, if you know how to handle it, and there's more than one way to join the Mile High Club—you don't even have to be in the air to do it. I'm looking forward to my next trip, and I'm sure Brandon is, too.

 

 

 

 

 

As she waited for the final leg of her flight home, Celia's cell phone chirped. One text message, three short words:
Are they in?

Yes, Master.
Her hands shook enough that she could hardly type. Or was it her brain shaking, distracted, already slipping into the erotic daze that Dan wanted to find her in when he picked her up at the airport?

Celia tightened her internal muscles to shift the SmartBalls—a one-piece silicon version of ben wa balls she'd slipped into her pussy just minutes ago in the public bathroom—and to bear down on her butt plug. Although it was her smallest, the butt plug already felt huge, and curiously conspicuous, as if everyone in the waiting area must know she had something stuffed into her ass.

And it was squirm-inducingly wonderful. It had been far too long since she'd filled her ass on Dan's command, and the small toy felt like an extension of him, like his fingers or his cock,
transported to another state to suit his pleasure and her increasingly heated desire.

She couldn't feel the SmartBalls much, not yet, but long before the plane landed, they'd drive her insane with need.

And she'd do more to herself to make sure she was in an erotic frenzy, dripping and shameless, before the flight touched down and Dan took her home again—home to his ropes, his collar, and his collection of toys for pleasure and pain.

Home where Celia was a beloved slave, both pampered and restrained by her master, trained to obey in every way, although he made sure that, more often than not, obedience was rewarding. It might be frustrating and challenging sometimes, but it was ultimately rewarding—like now, stuffed with toys at his pleasure, ordered not to come, and awaiting a bumpy ride on a small commuter prop plane.

The phone chirped once more. Another text from Dan:
Did you remember everything else?

Wet and full and embarrassed in a way that just made her more horny, she looked around as if her few fellow passengers could see the screen of her phone before she listed the pervert-able objects in her purse.

Good girl,
came the quick reply.
Love you and good luck.

Love you, Master
, she texted just before the little plane started boarding.

 

Small as the plane was, the flight wasn't full. Thank god. They'd be in the air just over an hour and during that time, Celia's orders would take her to the bathroom several times. At least this way she wouldn't end up standing on line too often.

She shifted in her seat as they taxied, enjoying the feeling of fullness, the stickiness from the lube she'd slathered on the toys, the slight discomfort that wasn't truly discomfort.

God, she'd needed this, needed this fullness and this pleasurable torment, needed to be under Dan's sexual command again, even indirectly.

Not that she'd had time to think much about sex during five long weeks of doing her only-child duty, helping her mother get back on her feet after a nasty car accident. She'd missed Dan every minute she was gone, missed his laugh and the safety of his arms, the comfort of knowing she was cared for and protected, the pleasure of serving him. But from the time of the first terrifying call about the accident, it was like someone had flipped her sex switch to
OFF.
She'd just been too worried and stressed to care.

Dan must have sensed that, because he'd held off on suggestive talk and raunchy emails and the small, naughty tasks he'd normally assign her when they had to be apart. Only in the last week, when her mom was almost herself again, though still limping, and was just waiting on the okay to drive again before sending Celia home, did her sexuality reawaken.

Somehow Dan knew before she told him, before she even really knew it herself, and started sending her emails and texts designed to keep her mind in the gutter.

Of course, being the sadistic bastard she knew and loved, he revved her up long-distance, but told her she wasn't allowed to come until she got home.

Complying had been curiously pleasurable. It was also frustrating, of course, but this opportunity to be a slave again, to focus on his orders and his pleasure, to obey without question (or at least without too much questioning—she was only human and damn it, sometimes a woman just wanted an orgasm or six!) was a relief after weeks of taking charge in a messy, nerve-straining situation, of dealing with a tangle of doctors and insurance providers and a wheelchair-bound mother who was addled
on painkillers half the time and miserably cranky with pain the other half.

When she begged for permission to come, he made it clear that he had a purpose. “You need to remember what it feels like to obey,” he'd said. “I've had to back off and let you do what you needed to do, and it's good to know you can still be that take-charge woman when you have to be. But at home, you have to be able to yield to my will, and this will help you ease back into it. Best I can do long-distance without making your mom wonder why you're calling me to ask what's for dinner.”

And she'd clenched and melted and thanked him at the time.

When she was ready to leave, Dan sent a list of very explicit instructions for the flight home, instructions that would make sure she arrived home as a wet, yielding, obedient slut.

And again, she'd thanked him.

That was before she thought it through, though, and realized just how hard it would be; before she'd begun to follow his instructions.

Wet, she was managing just fine. The yielding and obedient part, though, was getting harder by the second. The toys were supposed to be a slow tease that built throughout the flight, but she was getting aroused too fast. She could clench a few times and come right now, in her seat, with no one the wiser.

Not even Dan.

And as the plane began to move, jouncing a bit on the runway and jouncing the toys that filled her, that sounded tempting. It had been so damn long.

Right now, she wasn't obeying because it was the right thing to do, or because she wanted to please him, but because the payoff would be worth the wait. One hands-free orgasm now would help take the edge off her frustration, but it wouldn't be anything like the amazing welcome-home kinky
sex that he'd promised her in loving, explicit detail.

And she probably wouldn't get any if she screwed up now. She knew she'd confess to her failing—she'd never been able to keep a secret from him, even when it would have been in her best interest—and then Dan would punish her. This would mean his doing something like jerking off in front of her without giving her any pleasure, even the vicarious pleasure of touching him, until he relented days later because his own lust was getting the better of him.

That would be miserable, humiliating. And worse yet, it would make Dan just as miserable as it made her, so she'd have the torment of seeing his frustration on top of her own, and knowing it was her fault for being disobedient.

The plane took off with an abrupt force that pushed her back in her seat and sent tantalizing waves of pleasure from her ass and cunt through her body and for a tempting second she almost let herself fall.

She breathed deeply and touched the fine gold choker that was her public collar.

Soon it would be replaced by the stainless steel one that locked in place.

Soon she would be with Dan again, her love and her master.

She could be patient. She would be patient. She would honor him with the obedience he deserved.

But damn it, it wasn't going to be easy.

Especially when her body asserted itself every time the airplane bounced or jounced—and it was jouncing and bouncing like the clouds were a country back road laced with frost heaves and potholes. It would have to be stormy today, wouldn't it?

Finally, the FASTEN SEAT BELTS light went off. Carefully, holding the seats against sudden turbulence, Celia made her way to the bathroom.

First she used it for its intended purpose.

Then she used it as Dan wanted her to.

She pulled two plastic clothespins from her purse and tugged her sweater up.

Under the sweater's loose, casual cotton, she was braless—pantyless as well, which was usual when she was with Dan. For a few seconds, she looked at her bare breasts in the tiny, spotty mirror, trying to see them as Dan did. To her, they seemed merely average, but Dan loved them, loved to caress and praise them, loved to bruise them, loved to hurt them and then kiss them better again.

They'd be ready for kissing better by the time she got home, although she imagined there'd be more hurting first. Lucky her.

She grasped one nipple between thumb and forefinger, and stifled a gasp at how sensitive they already were.

Then she pinched the erect nubbin in the grasp of a green clothespin, repeating the procedure on the other side with a red one.

Pain radiated out from her abused nipples. No, not pain—it was hot and tortured and made her want to whimper and made her pussy and ass tighten on the toys that filled them, but it wasn't pain in the usual sense. Her nipples craved that feeling, had missed it for five weeks. Before long, her nipples would scream for relief, yet she'd drip moisture past the SmartBalls, and if anyone had offered to release her from the torment, she'd have begged to keep the clips on just a little longer.

Dan would remove them when she got home, or maybe when they got to the car. It would hurt like the devil by that time, hurt like someone had clamped her nipples in a vise and then set them on fire.