The Mile High Club (16 page)

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.

 

 

 

 

 

y
ou 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.

So I was thrilled when he said, “We have a bed right here,” and tied me to the wrought-iron railing, my wrists over my head, my body naked, hot and wet and ready for him. The fans blew a mechanical breeze over us, and I drew in big gulps of the cool air as Adrien kissed his way down my body. He held on to my waist as he nuzzled the tender skin of my inner thighs, licked me right on the indents of my hips, those ticklish spots, before bringing his mouth to my pussy and suckling my clit. I couldn’t think for a minute, couldn’t worry about this vacation that I emphatically did not want to take.

“Don’t we have a perfectly good bed?” Adrien murmured when he stopped for a breath.

I think I nodded. I might have moaned. All thoughts of air travel were replaced by the journey to orgasm as Adrien began to make those looping circles that I love best, love most of all when he has me bound so that I cannot fight. I have to give in. Who’d fight against pleasure like this? Not me. Not really. But being forced to take the endless rotations of his tongue, of his fingers, being fixed in place while he has his way with me: that nearly makes me see stars.

Which reminded me…

“Sasha says there aren’t any lights anywhere. Nothing but the moon and the stars.”

“Really?” Adrien asked, slipping back up my body to reach for something in our toy drawer. Quickly, he placed a blindfold
over my eyes and fastened the strap under my smooth, flat-ironed hair. “With a blindfold on, doesn’t matter if there are lights or not.”

Oh, god, he was right. Who cared if there were lights? Who cared if we had one of those power outages that often happens when the city gets too darn hot for its own good? No, that’s not the same as living in the wilderness, but it’s about as close to camping as I ever get.

In this manufactured darkness, I kept up my monologue. Sasha had not only put the idea in my head—she’d given me the gift of a five-thousand-dollar vacation. Guilt had me nearly as giddy as Adrien’s tongue.

“Sasha said that the nights were so still you can hear yourself breathing.”

“I hear myself breathing all the time,” Adrien said, bending down to me, letting me lift my head to press my ear to his broad chest. The steady rise and fall of his breath soothed me, as much as the sound of traffic outside our window.

Would I be able to handle no sound at all?

Adrien pumped himself over my body, and even with the blindfold on, I could visualize what he looked like: long dark hair pushed off his forehead, dark blue eyes focused intently on my own face, watching for the changes in my expressions that would let him know I was getting closer. His cock dipped between the lips of my pussy, and I could feel how wet I was. He thrust in again, slim hips meeting my body, and then he rotated slowly, so that his cock stirred me up inside. Finally, I gave up playing little-miss-travelogue. Fucking Adrien always takes me away—as neatly as a jet slicing through the dark velvet sky. I couldn’t speak when he worked me like that: on a bed, in the middle of the night, with the hot air around us and the lullaby of traffic out our window.

But that made me think of one more selling point: “You’re all by yourself,” Sasha had said. “You and Adrien would be the only people there. Your own private oasis. Your own private island.”

Adrien undid the bindings on my wrists and slid the blindfold from my face. I hadn’t come yet. Neither had he. I felt as if I might melt in the heat; melt from desire, from the way he was watching me. Somehow, I didn’t realize his plan until he pushed up the window and dragged me out onto our fire escape. I was naked, and I gripped on to the cool metal and looked down at the San Francisco traffic as he positioned himself behind me. His body was warm and strong, and he held my hips and drove in, hard.

No noise
, Sasha said.
No people. No lights. No sound.

But fuck me, I like the noise.

And I found myself adding to the cacophony as Adrien rocked his cock in to the hilt. I couldn’t keep myself quiet as he wet his cock with my own juices, then slipped the head between the cheeks of my ass, pressed there—ready, waiting.

I groaned and lowered my head to my chest, desperate to climax. Adrien ran one hand down the front of my body, as his cock pushed into my ass. His fingers landed naturally on my clit, rubbing, rubbing to get me over the edge, to loosen me up to the pain-pleasure of the throb of his cock. His fingers became my metronome, ticking, tickling, so that he managed to time my climax with his own.

If we were all by ourselves, then we couldn’t be exhibitionists, could we?

If we were all alone, then just like that tagline for
Alien
, nobody would be able to hear me scream.

 

Adrien shepherded me back inside the apartment, pulling me
after him to our shower. “No running water,” Sasha had said. “You don’t mind after a day or so. You get used to it.” Even under the spray of our shower, we could hear the rush of the traffic rumbling by. When we turned off the shower and walked into the living room, air-drying in the heat, we could hear more sounds: a low bluesy number from our neighbor’s stereo, the
tap-tap
of the leaky faucet in the kitchen.

“So how do you get there?” he asked, really focusing on the concept for the first time. I watched him lift the envelope from the coffee table—the crisp manila one that held the tickets.

“A big plane to a little plane,” I said hopelessly. “A little plane to a scooter to a boat to a bike.”

When was the last time I’d been on a bike? Not a stationary bike at the gym, but a real live cycle? I remembered mine from elementary school—outfitted with a banana seat and fancy high handlebars. Little fluttery streamers were attached to the ends of the bars, and they flapped in the breeze. The body of the bike was purple spangled. I didn’t think that’s what would be waiting for us at the other side of the river.

“Do you want to go?” he asked next. I could tell that he was game, as I’d thought he’d be from the start. He was always game, up for a fuck on the balcony or a wild trip to a lonely island. Sasha had said, “So romantic.”

Who was I to say no?

 

But I
did
say no.

To myself. I said
No fucking way
as I looked at my reflection in the mirror. What would I do without a bathroom? Without a mirror? What if I got food in my teeth? How would I floss?

“You’re superficial,” I told myself, and I agreed wildly with me. Yes, superficial. Yes, I like the soft fluffy towels and the Rembrandt toothpaste and the fabric softener and the scent of
Febreeze. I’d choose walking on a treadmill any day over walking on an honest-to-goodness wilderness path. Why couldn’t Sasha have given us a trip to the Four Seasons hotel? Why did she have to want to remake me in her own image? If I were to do the same things to her, I’d flat-iron her frizzy hair, buy her a bikini wax, give her a full-on spa treatment; throw away her butt-ugly shoes.

A jet to a six-seater to a scooter to a boat to a bike
became my mantra. Over the next few days, whenever I caught myself relaxing, that image would find a way into my thoughts, and fresh panic would fill me. How could I go through with the trip? Why would I want to spend my anniversary in a humid hell, where my hair would go back to its natural jungle state and there’d be no place to plug in my iron?

Adrien didn’t appear to have the same sort of worries at all. He seemed to enjoy the thought of our impending vacation. If anything, he reveled in taunting me.

“Don’t forget to pack the netting,” he said, and while I thought he meant French Net, he really meant
mosquito
net. What do you bring to a place with no power? There’d be no coffee brewing. No hair-dryer. No stereo. I like my accessories. I like to sit on the floor of the bathroom and dry my hair while reading fashion magazines. I am a city mouse. I’ve never wanted to be a country mouse. But what had started as a notion for our anniversary—“You’ll love it,” Sasha said, “You need it”—had turned into something of a challenge.