Flying High (20 page)

I licked my bottom lip and was rewarded with a barely perceptible groan. “Don't stop until I come.”

Roughly, he slid his hand under the waistband of my panties and touched me. He was using his left hand and the position was awkward, with his elbow lodged uncomfortably beneath my breasts, but it didn't seem to matter when his middle finger found my clit. I clutched at his wrist, needing to touch him and not just be touched. I moved my hand down until it covered his, resting against my pussy, pressing against my clit. I rubbed his hand and he rubbed me.

“Like that?” He stroked me and I tried not to moan. “You like that?”

I bit my lip to keep from making a sound and nodded. I wanted to fling myself on top of him, run my hands all over his body, sink down onto his cock, but I was limited to this—his hand on my mound, his middle finger pressed against my clit in the confines of the airplane.

I reached between us and unfastened my seat belt. Without the restraint, I was able to slide a little lower, spread my thighs a little wider….

Max made a
tsking
sound in my ear. “You're supposed to keep your seat belt fastened at all times.”

I grinned wickedly as I pressed his hand between my thighs. “I told you I wasn't a good girl anymore.”

My smile faded to a look of surprise as he slid his middle finger inside me. I felt my pussy clench involuntarily and couldn't contain a gasp of desire. I clutched at his hand, guiding him with urgency as he rubbed my pussy with short, but hard, strokes.
The palm of his hand rested against my clit—not enough pressure to get me off, but enough to keep me in a state of near orgasmic arousal.

“You're so fucking wet. I knew you would be if I ever touched you like this,” he whispered.

We were shoulder to shoulder because of the angle and the narrow seats, his body kept a little away from me because he would have to move his hand if he shifted closer and I needed that hand where it was. I needed to come.

We both froze as a flight attendant passed by, Max's finger pressed inside me, my spread thighs barely concealed by the flimsy blanket. But she didn't even glance our way and, after a moment, she passed back to her station and Max resumed playing with me.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered. “I want to get you off.”

I trembled at his words. We might not have been in the most intimate of positions or locations, but his words were doing as much to get me off as his finger. I shifted, frustrated at the confines of my seat and the bad angle.

“More, another finger,” I told him. “And keep talking to me.”

Immediately, I felt him slide his index finger inside me along with his middle finger. I brushed my own fingertips against the back of his hand and down over his knuckles, wet with my desire. If there had been room, I would have added my finger to his two—to feel both of us inside me, surrounded by my wetness.

“Better? Feel full?”

I nodded.

“Wish it was my cock inside you instead of my fingers?”

I jerked up against his hand. “Yes,” I said with a whispered hiss. “Oh god, yes.”

“Good. Think about my cock fucking you,” he said as
he stroked me harder. “Think about it as you come on my fingers.”

That was all it took. I clenched my thighs around his hand, a mental picture of his cock—which I had never even seen—driving into me. I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood, eyes closed so I could pretend we were alone as I rocked as little as possible against the fingers inside me.

“I feel you,” he whispered. “You're grabbing on to me. Your pussy is so wet, but you're still clinging to me.”

Max kept talking to me, whispering sexy, naughty things as my orgasm went on and on. It was as if my body, limited by our surroundings and position, was taking as long to finish coming as it had taken to get to orgasm. Softly panting, I relaxed my grip on Max's wrist, realizing that I had been digging my nails into him the entire time.

“Sorry,” I said, rubbing the indentations my nails had left behind. “I was kind of lost there for a minute.”

He slowly withdrew his fingers, rubbing them over my pussy. “Don't worry about it. That was amazing.”

I shook my head. “You have no idea.”

There was a moment of awkward silence punctuated by yet another flight attendant pass-by. This time, she looked pointedly at us. Her expression was neutral, but the wink gave her away.

I sunk lower in my seat, mortified. “Oh hell, she knows.”

“There's still some of that good girl left in you,” Max said.

I shifted in my seat, tugging my skirt down over my hips. I smiled wickedly at him as I slipped my hand into his lap and stroked his erection through his pants. The motion was so familiar I knew exactly how he would react. This time, though, I knew I wasn't going to be content with a little groping and fantasizing.

“I bet you could have me thoroughly corrupted by the time
we leave London,” I said, giving his cock a little squeeze.

By the time we made our descent into Heathrow, the butterflies in my stomach had nothing at all to do with flying.

 

 

 

 

 

At nine o'clock in the morning, the Philadelphia International Airport was fairly busy. The wide brown corridors were packed with people, there were long lines at the newsstands, and the food court was all lit up and ready to serve. All of the gates were admitting flights. Their signboards were filled and their rows of gray chairs occupied and noisy.

But Betty Culp was far enough away from all this confusion, at the back end of the airport, to take a deep breath and inhale the freshly showered, spicy aroma of the guy standing in front of her. They were boarding a flight to Kearny, Nebraska, and there weren't many people going
there
that day. She could see that most of the people on the flight were business travelers, and that they were all carrying briefcases, light and simple, to their destinations. And the guy in front of her, a young man in his early thirties, with short, dark hair and wide, solid shoulders, was rocking on the balls of his feet as he inched toward the gate with a black raincoat over his arm. He kept fidgeting with a
thick, gold wedding band on his right hand as if it either hurt, or itched, his ring finger.

When Betty discovered a few minutes later that the same awkward guy was seated right next to her, she lowered her head and sighed as she slipped past his stocky legs to claim her seat. He had the aisle, and she had the window. Why couldn't he have been bald and fat? Why couldn't they just seat her next to someone's grandmother for once? The plane was almost empty; she could have had two seats to herself. Just when she swore that she was going to be good in the air, and that she wasn't going to seduce one more guy on a commercial flight again, fate had placed her in another tempting situation.

He wore a dark business suit, with a pale blue shirt and a yellow tie, but you could see his body was muscular and stocky: like a professional baseball player. He sat with his legs spread wide and his big feet crossed at the ankles; he was one of those steak and potatoes types, who looked a bit out of place in anything other than worn jeans and a T-shirt. Betty sat next to him and crossed her legs like a proper lady. She was wearing a short beige skirt that day, with fawn leather pumps and no stockings. It was August and her long, thin legs were tanned and smooth. She hardly ever bothered with underwear.

They buckled their seat belts, and she noticed that his bulky hands gripped the arms of the seat with thick, long fingers. His skin was tanned, too, so his knuckles didn't turn white, but he clenched tightly until the plane was finally in midair. She couldn't help laughing when he took a deep breath after the captain announced that everyone could unbuckle their belts. “I guess you don't fly often,” she said. “That was a pretty smooth takeoff.”

He smiled and rubbed his strong chin. “Ah well, actually, I hate to fly. And I never do it unless it's absolutely necessary. But I guess I'm going to have to get used to flying about once a month
now. My ex-wife just moved back to Nebraska to be with her family, with my two kids, and I don't have much of a choice.” His voice was deep and hoarse and he kept shaking his right knee up and down.

She smiled. “Trust me, you'll get used to it. I fly all the time.” When she smoothed her skirt she noticed that he stared at her legs for a moment. At least he was divorced, but she still wasn't sure if he was remarried because of the wedding band.

“Are the flights to Nebraska always this empty?” he asked. He looked around the plane and motioned with his left arm. The seats behind them and in front of them were empty, and there were two college-age boys sitting across from them in the middle row listening to their iPods. “This is almost like a private charter flight, when you think about it.”

“You really never know,” Betty said. “Sometimes the flights are jammed, other times they
are
empty. That's the one rule I've learned about flying: you never can predict anything.” And she was an expert, too. As the marketing director for a large chemical company, Betty had flown the world by the time she was thirty years old. She'd also blown half the world, too. She discovered early in her career that men who travel a lot by plane are usually walking around the airports with semi-erections in their Brooks Brothers slacks.

“I'm Bert,” he said, and then extended his right hand.

She reached for it, and smiled. “I'm Betty. Nice to meet you.” When she softly squeezed his hand, their eyes met; he stared for a moment and then jerked his head and smiled. And that's when she secretly predicted she would be able to get into his pants before the flight was over.

Bert began to tell her the story of his bad marriage, while she folded her arms across her chest and pretended to be interested. When he told her about how his ex-wife suddenly announced
one afternoon that she was bored and needed to explore her “inner self,” Betty sighed, but she was staring at the rough stubble on his jaw and wondering what it would be like to rub her soft boobs against it. And when he told her that his ex-wife decided to take a cooking class so she could learn how to make
pumpkin ravioli
and broaden her horizons, Betty just shook her head and frowned. She was really concentrating on Bert's large fingers and wondering if his penis was just as large. He said his ex-wife was a fan of the television show “The Office,” and that she actually decided to leave him on the night he went to bed early and refused to watch the season finale with her. He pressed his hands on his knees, and asked, “How do you like that? She left because I didn't stay up to watch the season finale of ‘The Office'…and I was freaking tired that night!”

“Ah well, there you are,” Betty said. “I guess some women want the world.” She pushed a strand of long blonde hair away from her face and smiled. But she was really wondering what kind of dumb bitch would force her poor husband to watch a TV show like “The Office
.
” She'd watched it once or twice; she hated it.

Bert lifted his right hand and waved it. “And now I can't even get this damn ring off my finger. I'll have to have it cut off eventually. We were married for ten years and I gained about twenty pounds since the wedding.”

“Well, there you are. What with all that pumpkin ravioli that's understandable,” Betty said. “But I think you look fine; very athletic and strong.” She reached over and gently squeezed his bicep.

But he missed the compliment. “Oh, please. She couldn't cook to save her own life. She only
took
cooking courses…there's a difference.” He stretched his wide legs forward and leaned his head on the back of the seat. “I'm going to try to get some sleep;
besides, I've been boring you long enough. No one likes to hear ex-wife stories, and I don't normally tell them.”

“Don't be silly,” Betty said, “I'm happy to have the conversation.” She was always amazed at how some men never got the subtlest of hints. There she was, practically licking her lips to get a taste of what he had between his legs, and all he cared about was a nap. So she reached down to
her
lap for her purse and purposely spilled the contents between Bert's legs. “I'm so sorry,” she said. “I'm such a mess.”

Bert smiled, but when he looked down between his legs his eyes bugged out and his jaw dropped. Beside her lip gloss and bronzer, just next to her small makeup mirror, he saw a small red dildo. You couldn't miss it: a rubbery latex penis, about five inches long, leaning against his testicles.

Betty pressed her hand to her throat. “Sorry…it's my secret travel companion, is all.” Then she reached between his legs and started to fish for the contents of her purse. She gathered her makeup, and purposely rubbed the side of her hand against the inside of Bert's thigh. When she reached for the red dildo, he jerked because she took a handful of his balls instead. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Ah well…” he said. His eyes were closed by then, and he started to wiggle his legs.

She began to massage his testicles; they were large and filled her hand. “Why don't you just sit back and relax for a while? I'm not usually this forward with strange men, but you are so attractive,” she said. But it was a bold lie. She'd done this before, with many guys, either in an airport or on a plane.

Bert's eyes were rolling and his mouth was half open. “Is this okay? I mean, we could get in trouble for this.” But he didn't look up to see if anyone was watching them while she stroked his balls in public.

“The plane is empty,” she whispered. “No one is watching. Just close your eyes, handsome.”