Flying High (13 page)

And if Dan let her, that pain would make her come.

Celia glanced in the mirror again, and this time she admired what she saw: breasts marked PROPERTY OF DAN. They were
owned territory, his territory, and beautiful as a result.

Dan hadn't told her to run her thumbs over the sensitive tips that protruded from the clips, but he hadn't said she couldn't either.

The touch jolted through her entire body. She swayed, caught herself…and then realized it wasn't because she was lust-limp. The plane was pitching, caught in another patch of turbulence that made it hard to stand.

Once she staggered back to her seat, the damn turbulence made it hard to sit as well. Each bounce and swoop tugged at Celia's clipped nipples and shifted the balls just enough to arouse her further. Her skirt was damp and sticky beneath her, and her whole body felt as swollen and sensitive and flooded with pleasurably painful sensations as her ass and cunt and nipples.

She'd never make it at this rate.

She opened her book, hoping to distract herself, but the print danced on the page and she found she couldn't care who the serial killer was or whether the clever female FBI agent could catch him before he struck again. Maybe if the serial killer captured the agent and tied her up and started doing dangerous, sadistic (but disturbingly sexy) things to her, or if she turned out to like a good whipping to clear her head…

That would be bad. A plot twist like that would keep Celia's interest, but it would only make her hornier.

She shut the book and pulled out a glossy travel magazine she'd picked up at the airport for just such emergencies. Pictures were good. She could handle pictures and gushing articles about pricey vacations, although each jolt and bounce made it harder to care about hotels in Morocco or biking in Bordeaux.

After what seemed like hours to Celia's hungry body, they made it through the turbulence and the FASTEN SEAT BELTS light went off again.

She checked her watch. Time for the next task.

The bathroom seemed more cramped this time, darker, and the smell of disinfectant seemed more pungent than before—not the sort of place that made you think sexy thoughts.

That didn't matter.

She hiked up her skirt, sat on the tiny toilet, and touched herself.

She was drenched.

She pulled the balls partway out—despite the name, the toy was shaped more like a three-dimensional eight, two ovals with a short, flexible rod connecting them—and then reinserted them.

Ten times, counting under her breath, each more excruciating than the last as she shuddered with the effort not to come.

With slick fingers, she then circled her clit, backing off at the last second from three potential orgasms.

The last time, she bit her lower lip hard enough that she tasted blood. The taste of blood added to her arousal.

He'd see her swollen lip and ask her why, and she'd tell him why she'd bled for him. And he'd say, “Good girl,” and bite the tender lip himself, and then fuck her mouth ruthlessly as a reward for her good behavior.

Jesus god, let this flight land on time!

This time, she couldn't even focus on the travel magazine's vistas of sunny resorts and snow-capped mountains, let alone follow the articles. All Celia could do was breathe deeply, as if she were doing yoga, and glance obsessively at her watch.

Finally the announcement came on: they'd be landing in fifteen minutes.

She had just enough time to hit the bathroom for more wonderful self-torture. Remembering Dan's instructions, envisioning Dan's face, she tapped the base of the butt plug until it resonated. She felt like a ringing bell, quivering and vibrating,
especially when she stroked her clit at the same time, pretending Dan's hands and not her own were teasing her.

She could almost smell him, almost hear him chuckling affectionately at her ecstatic distress; could feel, even miles away, the love between them.

But even in her fantasy, he denied her orgasm. And gritting her teeth, worrying at her already tender lip, she obeyed.

Finally, trying to put herself into his hands even as she tortured herself, she put clothespins on her slick, swollen outer labia, one on each side of her dripping pussy. The first one made her wince, but it was a pleasurable wince. The second one just plain hurt, as though her overstimulated body couldn't take any more. Her whole pelvis ached with need and pain and her nipples felt like they might explode and when she tried to call upon her love for Dan to keep her going, keep her from taking out the toys, ripping off the clips, and either coming or not, but at least not suffering anymore, all she could find was resentment.

Resentment would do, though.

She'd be damned if she gave in and let that sadistic bastard win. (Granted, she loved him partly because he was a sadistic bastard, but logic didn't have much place right now.) She'd show him—and the best way to show him was by enduring what he must have meant to be an impossible challenge.

Someone pounded on the bathroom door. She pulled herself together and somehow made it back to her seat.

As she fought the building pain and arousal, Celia found herself whispering the Lord's Prayer under her breath. She wouldn't even call herself nominally Christian these days, but at times of stress the words learned in childhood would slip into her head and the rhythm, the old-fashioned familiarity, soothed her.

Then one phrase caught her:
Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.

And wasn't that what this was all about?—Dan's will, and her will to do Dan's will, not mindlessly but mind
fully
, choosing to hold out, to endure, to do what he wanted to bring them both pleasure in the end.

Thy will be done.
The prayer narrowed to that one line, repeated over and over. She wasn't talking to God, she certainly wasn't thinking about God, and the part of her that remembered Sunday school and Easter services was appalled at the blasphemy, but in those words, repeated like a mantra, she found stillness, peace, strength.

The bouncing when the plane touched down bobbled her breasts and brought tears to her eyes, but Celia neither came nor cracked. Thy will be done. Obedience.

As soon as they were allowed, Celia pulled out her cell phone and called Dan. “I'm waiting for you, love,” he said, his voice going straight to her tortured nipples, her swollen clit. “How did you manage?”

“I held out,” she said, letting the pride ring in her voice even though she was whispering. “Didn't let go, even though I wanted to.”

“The whole time? I'm impressed. I knew you'd try for me, but I wasn't sure you could do it. Were you able to handle the clips and the toys the whole time, my good, obedient slave?”

“Yes.” Her voice cracked. His voice was undoing her, undoing all her efforts to keep focused and still, arousing her as if his tongue swirled over her tortured nipples, her hard, aching clit. “But please…talking to you is making it harder. I was doing all right until I heard your voice.”

“Good girl.” She could practically hear his grin. “Good, obedient girl. I'll reward you properly in a little while. But right now”—his voice dropped to a bedroom growl—“Come for me, slave.”

As her fellow passengers grabbed bags and got ready to deplane, Celia sighed and smiled, clenched her pussy and bit her lip again.

She obeyed, and let a silent, powerful orgasm rip through her as the plane came to a halt at the terminal where her master awaited her.

His will—and hers—be done.

 

 

 

 

 

I'd decided to burn up all the frequent-flyer miles that I'd accumulated over the years of jetting here and there and splurge on a business class seat to Rome for a long weekend in the Eternal City. After some frustrating ordeals dealing with airline websites and operators protected from human contact by a maze of phone options, I was able to score a seat on an Alitalia 747 from Los Angeles to Rome. The only problem was that I couldn't get a window seat. I don't like aisle seats because it never fails that just after I've fallen asleep the person next to me decides to go to the bathroom, and even in the relative spaciousness of business class, it still disturbs my hard-fought-for slumber, and then there's no way I can get back to sleep. I wind up staying up all night reading or writing or watching some movies I really don't want to watch.

At check-in, I tried to negotiate a window seat but the plane was full, so I resigned myself to hoping that the person next to me wouldn't have a small bladder. I enjoyed several glasses
of champagne in the lounge and another couple of welcoming drinks onboard as the plane filled up. I was feeling pretty happy and relaxed as the trickle of passengers slowed and the time of departure neared. I began to entertain the hope that the person destined to occupy what would have been my window seat was going to be a no-show, and I would enjoy a truly relaxed flight to begin my Roman holiday, when seconds before they shut the door, in she breezed.

“
Scusi
,” she said as she slid between me and the seat in front of me, her crisp Chanel-suited pussy only a few inches from my face. “No problem,” I responded, and I really meant it. She didn't smile, and I did my best not to stare at her shapely legs as she stepped over me. She looked like a young Sophia Loren; she could have easily passed for a Fellini diva, and looked well heeled enough to relish
La Dolce Vita
. I was going to introduce myself, but upon taking her seat, she turned her wide-brimmed black floppy hatted-head to the window and stared at the airport runway scene through dark, large glasses that obscured most of a very pretty but pale face.

I regarded her from behind the cover of the in-flight magazine, my eyes peering over the pages in what I hoped was not too obvious of a breathtaken stare. The suit was definitely Chanel or some other haute-couture house—black cashmere with large cream buttons. She had crossed her legs and the skirt had risen up her thigh. The stockings were black and silky, and I knew they were stockings because the darker band at the top was playing peekaboo with her hemline. Her shoes were patent black stilettos, the red soles giving away the fact that they were Louboutins. She was the kind of classy, sensuous beauty that Italy is famous for, and the kind for whom I was happy to give up my window seat.

The flight attendant took her coat and hat and stowed them
safely in the overhead bin. My window seat beauty said a soft and sexy “
Mille grazie
,” took off her sunglasses, folded them up and placed them in her purse, made sure her seat belt was buckled and shook out her voluminous dark curls before looking again out the window as we taxied, took off, and began our flight to Rome. As we soared through cloud tops, I continued to read my in-flight magazine as a guise for looking sideways at her stocking-topped thighs. Surely she knew that the split of her skirt framed her upper thigh, which meant she unconsciously, or as I preferred to fantasize, quite deliberately, fed one of my basic voyeuristic passions: stocking tops and all the sensuous treats that they promise above while deliciously emphasizing the beautiful below. Stocking tops provide the continuity between the refined sexuality of the shoes and the raw sexuality of what lies between the thighs. It is for me a treat of immense pleasure to slide my hand from silky covered ankles to lace-trimmed thighs, crossing that Rubicon to the soft flesh that draws my hand up and around and between.

I may have pretended to be reading about the latest hotel to open in some exotic city but I was thinking about stocking tops and what they say about the woman who wears them routinely rather than just in the bedroom. As these libidinous musings taunted me, I kept reminding myself that despite my overactive imagination and the fantasies it conjured, I should not reach across the small divide of the seats and touch her inviting thigh, no matter how much she might have been consciously teasing me. I should not let my hands wander to her stocking tops.

I repeated this mantra over and over, all through dinner, no matter how much wine I had with my meal. Even though the foldout table and tablecloth obscured her black-stockinged legs, I knew they were there. It didn't help matters that her black lacy bra shone through the cream silk blouse she wore buttoned up
tightly to her neck, promising that she was a lady who loved lingerie, and here I was, a man who lusted for ladies in lingerie. This could not be coincidence; it had to be the Erotic Fates that had us flying together to Rome in adjacent seats for the simple pleasures that two passing people might enjoy between destinations. Joining the Mile High Club with this lady would be a much better way to pass the flight than watching a movie, even a Fellini one, which Alitalia always seemed to feature.

As I regarded my traveling companion, I said a silent thank-you to those same Erotic Fates for my hectic schedule and lowly position in the Hollywood pecking order. Prior to my flight I'd been at a pitch meeting and it had run late thanks to me as a writer being the lowest priority on the producer's calendar. I barely had time to get my five-minute summary out and hear the “Thanks a lot. My assistant will call you if we're interested…” response before dashing to the airport. I'd had no time to change, just making it through Friday afternoon Hollywood to LAX rush-hour traffic with minutes to spare, and in those spare minutes I'd opted for champagne in the lounge rather than getting changed. As a consequence, rather than my usual travel uniform of comfortable sweats, I still had on my best pitch suit, which was a two-tone blue skinny Merc rock-star thing with a red shirt, black suede pointy ankle boots, and a skinny blue tie. If the beauty in the window seat could have been an Italian movie star, in my suit, with my hair suitably spiky and carefully unkempt, I could have been any one of several fashionable rock stars—a desirable commodity to many women and a good conversation starter at the least.