Flying High (16 page)

“Leopard print,” I said, remembering this one time at TGI Friday's….

“Nope,” she said, and kissed me quickly on the lips. It was done casually, in a way no one around us would notice, especially if they hadn't already noticed her short skirt and unbelievable legs, which most of them had. But the casual kiss told volumes, since her lips went slack and soft against mine in the way that made my muscles tense.

“White.” “Pink.” “Blue.” “Burgundy.” “Forest green.” “Tobacco.” “Mauve.” “Taupe.” “Clear plastic.” Each got a smiling head-shake as we crept closer to the ticket-taker, glad we'd checked our bags for the now-exorbitant fee rather than play the carry-on game that so resembles big-time wrestling. Each of us had just a small backpack, and Emily's was mostly stuffed with a big thermal blanket—she hated that airline acrylic, she said. “Orange.” “Silver lamé.” “Raw meat.”

“Raw meat?” She screwed up her face. “Now you're just playing with me. You already know.”

“I'm not playing with you,” I said innocently, thinking hard about what was under that skirt. “Yet.”

She gave me a self-satisfied look, as if pleased that she'd netted a guy who could carry on a filthy conversation like we were discussing the weather. We made it to the ticket-taker, got our bar codes scanned with a beep, and walked down the gangway; Emily in front, me following behind, eyes on her perfect ass in that short skirt, knowing what was underneath but wanting very badly to check, just in case.

When your girlfriend wears a very short skirt, certain things are expected of you. If your girlfriend is Emily, that is. And speaking for myself, there are far worse things to spend eight-plus hours doing than fulfilling them—no matter what the in-flight movie.

 

The Boeing 757 is a marvelous airplane, and online reservations are a pervert's godsend. Emily had obviously been planning ahead, as she'd gotten us seated in the plane's exit row, which only had two seats. The arm between us pivoted easily out of the way; the tray tables were those crappy side-loaders, but it was a damn sight better than trying not to disturb some innocent third party. The first thing I did was reach for the blanket; she swatted my hand away and said, “Jeez, don't you even buy a girl a drink first?” She brought my hand to her mouth and licked my wrist gently, as if to convince me it made sense to wait. “Besides, I like it with the lights out,” she said softly.

I pouted and paged through a plastic-sleeved
Popular Mechanics
while she paged through
Newsweek
. The plane powered up, taxied, sped down the runway, tilted, rose, shuddered all over and gradually smoothed out.

“We have to wait until the lights go down,” Emily said
insistently when I leaned closer and my hands began to wander. “Then give it fifteen minutes. That's how you avoid getting caught.”

“You've done this before?” I said.

“No,” she told me. “I just read the FAQ.”

God bless the information age.

“I'm not giving it fifteen minutes,” I said.

“Wow,” she answered with a merciless smile. “Tough talk, but I like it. How long are you going to wait?”

“I'm not. When those lights go out, you're mine.”

“I see. You're going to find out what color my underwear is?”

“If I can see it in the dark,” I said.

“Oh, you most certainly can,” she sighed. “Then what are you going to do to me?”

“Wait and find out,” I said.

Though I never, ever drink on planes—dehydration, you understand—I ordered a bourbon, and Emily a vodka. We sipped them while I waited on pins and needles for the lights to go out. Meanwhile, Emily casually got out the blanket, a soft full-size thermal; it had been the spare blanket tossed over the back of her couch for as long as I'd been dating her, and had seen more filthy goings-on than the barkeep in a brothel. She looked at me innocently as she unfastened her seat belt and draped the blanket over her body, omitting me entirely. “Do you want some?” she asked, eyes wide.

I growled at her softly, and she lifted one edge of the blanket. I undid my own seat belt and she let me slide closer under the blanket with her. She caught my wrist at her knee, and looked me in the eyes, smoldering.

“Not yet,” she whispered. “The lights.”

Several long minutes passed while the plane shuddered and swayed. Emily and I looked into each other's eyes like poker
players trying to read hearts and clubs, jacks and aces. At one point she laughed, a cruel little giggle that told me how much she enjoyed making me wait.

Then everything went black.

All it took was, “We have now dimmed the cabin lights,” and I was on her.

I pressed my lips to hers and tasted her tongue; she let out a little whimpering sigh as she relaxed into the seat and spread her legs a little. I made her wait, though—the way she'd made me wait, only this time it was simple torture, not propriety.

Our tongues tangled and my hand crept to her breasts under the blanket; her nipples were soft despite the air-conditioned chill, but they responded instantly to my touch as I eased my hand down the V-neck shirt. She whimpered softly as I pinched first one nipple, than the other, kissing her the whole while. A quick glance around told me no one was watching; it was sufficiently dark that I felt safe. Whether Emily felt safe was mostly immaterial, since she's always thought safety is overrated, and her “fifteen minute” rule was nothing more than a ploy. Turning back to her, I slid my hand up under her shirt and began caressing her breasts through the thin fabric of her bra.
Who wears a bra on a red-eye
? I found myself thinking in that strange way that practical, unsexy thoughts can intrude on a perfectly erotic moment—but in this case, I knew Emily'd worn a bra because not to do so would look bizarrely conspicuous with such a short skirt. Propriety? No, she got off on the game of seeming just barely respectable.

I eased the lacy fabric out of the way and caressed her stiffening nipples with my fingers and thumb, my other hand tucked into the small of her back and pulling her close. She clutched the satin binding with one hand and with her other, she reached out and began stroking my cock. It was mostly hard already, tenting
my cotton cargo pants, and it got harder as she rubbed it. Her fingers worked at my belt, but she never got it all the way undone, because once I had her nipples ripe and excited I moved my hand down to her thighs, which were parted more than enough under the blanket to give me easy access, and I didn't need my eyes to see what color underwear she was wearing. She wasn't wearing any, which was the answer to her trick question I'd guessed immediately. But little games like that are the stuff of flirtation for Emily, as evidenced by how incredibly fucking wet she was when I began to caress her smooth cunt. My fingers went into her two at a time, middle and index, middle and ring, then three—middle and index and ring, thumb working her clit while she clutched herself close and hard to me, biting my neck and uttering dirty things into my ear. Her warm breath carried soft blasphemies as I began to finger her, feeling her G-spot swelling against the pads of my fingers, her clit hardening against my thumb.

“Shhhhhh,” I whispered to her. “Don't make a sound or they'll turn this plane around.”

She had to bite her lip not to make noise. She continued clutching after my pants, but didn't make much ground; to undo them was a fairly complex task at that angle, and she was intensely distracted. She got as far as my belt and then couldn't find the button. I took a moment from fucking her and lifted my fingers to her mouth; she obediently licked them and I kissed her, tasting sharp musk as I brought my wet hand down and quickly undid my pants under the blanket. I guided her hand onto my cock; I didn't need to guide it, really, but it felt good to press it insistently onto me. Emily's fingers circled my hard cock and began stroking up and down while she kissed me.

I took that moment to reach up and turn on both air vents, creating a loud hissing sound. We'd need it, I knew, because my hand's next stop was my thigh pocket.

It took Emily a moment to realize what was happening. The vibrator was silent, so she didn't quite get it until after the sensations began to flow into her clit. It was an infinitesimal, exorbitantly priced model I'd picked up at the local connoisseur's shop, which promised to be virtually silent and intensely powerful. She continued her hand job with one hand while her other hand lay soft against her thigh, fingers splayed.

Her body went tight and then shuddered all over as she realized she was going to come. I tucked the vibe between my thumb and her clit so I could slide my fingers back into her. I kissed her deeply as her strokes got shaky on my cock—she was close, and the three fingers inside her sent her right over the edge. She clutched me tight and buried her face in my neck, desperately fighting to not make a sound—and she succeeded, but just barely. I felt her pussy tightening hard around my fingers as she climaxed, then a series of frantic shivers went through her body as pleasure subsumed her. I switched the vibrator off when the spasms began to dissipate. Emily let out a long, low sigh of satisfaction, and I chuckled.

She was the one to surprise me, then, as she went down under the blanket and took my cock in her mouth. Her lips glided up and down my shaft; I glanced around nervously, but everyone was sleeping or otherwise occupied. That wouldn't last, but it didn't need to—Emily's skilled hand had brought me close, and her seething tongue and wet lips working up and down on my cock made me grit my teeth and let go. She milked me with her hand around my shaft and her throat muscles worked, swallowing.

When she came up from under the blanket she was red-faced and her hair was a mess, but we were lucky—darkness and the hissing sound from the air vents had covered our indiscretion. Emily quickly zipped me up and I pulled down her skirt. I went
to put the vibrator away. She caught my hand and inspected the tiny bullet-shaped device, nodding her approval.

“You're the perfect boyfriend,” she teased me with a smile. She took the vibrator out of my hand, tucked it into her waistband, and slipped out from under the blanket.

She kissed me once, her mouth tasting like the juices that covered my fingers. She climbed over me and headed for the bathroom. There was no line.

When your girlfriend wears a very short skirt, you see, certain things are expected of you, by my way of thinking. This being our first red-eye together, I'd surmised Emily's planned outfit, along with her expectations, and packed for the trip.

I looked over my shoulder. The plane shuddered all over, and Emily swayed on her way to the head. She looked back at me, pouted, and patted her waistband. She went in.

I waited five minutes and followed her.

 

 

 

 

 

“You take a jet plane to a little plane. A six-seater, you know?”

Sasha was the one who bought us tickets to the retreat.

“The six-seater lands at this tiny little airport in the middle of nowhere.”

“How tiny?” I asked, trying to wrap my mind around the location—did she mean tiny like LaGuardia compared to JFK or tiny like Oakland compared to SFO, or…?

“Trust me, Jaz. It's tiny. Tiny like no place you've ever been before, which is why this is the perfect present for you.” My sister looked so smug as she said that, her frizzy ash blonde hair pulled back in a loose bun, her shapeless hemp shirt hiding the curves of her body. Sasha always dresses in clothes that emphasize the fact that she doesn't give a shit about clothes. Even though she and her husband Jarred are wealthy, they put a lot of effort into pretending that they aren't. I say
pretending
because Sasha's brand-new beige Land Rover was parked outside the
café, and I knew for a fact that her ugly, no-animal-was-harmed-to-make-these shoes had cost well over four hundred dollars.

“A scooter is waiting for you by the airstrip. You know, one of those Vespas, the old-fashioned kind. You drive the scooter to a boat. Paddle the boat to a bike. Wind your way along a twisting dirt road to the cabin.”

“Cabin,” I repeated, dully. I could see the cabin in my mind: wood walls, no screens, the scent of pine needles and Off in the air. At least, I could see the cabin until Sasha said, “Well, tent really. I
call
it a cabin, but there's not a roof or windows, exactly. No running water. No electricity.” She sighed deeply. “It will be good for you to get out of the city. Trust me, Jaz. It's so romantic.”

Sasha pushed the envelope across the table. This was my older sister's big gift for Adrien's and my ten-year anniversary, and all I wanted to do was rip the tickets to tiny shreds and pretend she'd never invited me to lunch at all. I
like
the city. I like sprawling in bed on weekend mornings and watching the airplanes take off over the bay, imagining the people inside heading off to faraway, exotic locations.

But I didn't so much like the thought of what Sasha had described.

 

“You take a jet to a six-seater,” I told Adrien that night. “Then a scooter to a boat to a bike to…”

“…A bed, I hope,” he interrupted.

“Sasha said there wasn't any bed. Just a mat on the floor.”

I hoped the horror wasn't visible on my face. I own a mat, for yoga at the center down the street. I'd never think of sleeping on one. But I was trying not to color the situation for Adrien. If he wanted to go on this impromptu trip, taking a vacation that we could never dream of affording ourselves, then who was I to be
a killjoy? Besides, Adrien is adept at playing in the wilderness. He rock climbs on the weekends, fly-fishes in the summer, and he's been known to make fun of my lack of outdoorsy skills, teasing me for wearing high-heeled mules to a three-mile hike at the beach or bringing a flat-iron that plugs into our car's cigarette lighter to kill the frizz in my hair when we've dined at Half Moon Bay.