Flying High (6 page)

I nodded. “Yes. I have. But I bet everyone, boy or girl, who's ever crushed on you has wondered.”

“It is the number one question.” Her fingers slid under the waistband of my panties and I closed my eyes and tried to breathe. She was so close and I still couldn't quite believe it was real. That she was about to touch me there.

“I'm sure,” I gasped. Her fingertip parted my outer lips and I watched my unsteady breath fog up the chrome in front of my lips. Jannie rolled a tight circle over my clit and my knees went a little loose.

“It was real. Don't tell. It's a secret. To this day, most people in the industry believe it was staged,” she said coolly, working harder and harder circles as I chugged closer and closer to orgasm. I splayed my fingers on the cool wall and rested my cheek there, too. I couldn't seem to get enough air but I listened. “Only a select few of us knew. He was really fucking me, she was really sucking me, and the unsteady shot toward the end was because Buzzy the camera guy got off at the same time I did.”

“Oh.” My voice was a few octaves higher than normal as I clawed at the wall. Jesus. But Jesus couldn't help me now. I was in the hands of Jannie Blair and I was about a gnat's ass away from coming like a freight train.

“So basically it was porn but it made it to the big screen. Or as big as B movies get.” I felt the button at the back of my skirt give and she tugged the zipper. Her other hand joined the first
and she slid two perfectly manicured fingers into my wet pussy. I sagged back against her and she nibbled the back of my neck. My nipples pebbled and my skin followed suit.

“They always blurred it out, sadly,” I said, laughing, and felt my pussy clench around her fingers. I was pretty much done for. I put my lips to my forearms to stifle myself.

The plane bobbed and weaved and I wondered what would happen if we fell in a tangled injured heap on the floor. What a mess that would be. What a scandal.

Her laugh was throaty. “I know. But I have an unedited copy at home. If you'd like to see it when we land. My sons are with their father and I could use the company.”

Her fingers slipped in and out of me effortlessly. I was beyond wet. I could hear the slick sounds of her fingers fucking me and the rustle of my skirt seemed louder than the plane. “I'd like that!” I bit my forearm as my cunt spasmed around her fingers. She fucked me harder and juices seeped down my inner thighs, warm and wet. Another warm wave rolled through me and I bucked in her arms. The plane wobbled.

“Good girl. Even through your fear you gave me such a nice one,” she whispered against my throat.

“You. I want you,” I said, turning. “Before that redheaded flight attendant shows up and starts banging on the door. He'll notice we're not back. He will.” I moved her back as I chattered anxiously, my skirt hanging loosely around my hips.

I pushed her until her hips connected with the chrome counter. Her dress was long and black, tucked and tailored at her waist but with a voluminous skirt. I burrowed under it desperately until she helped me out by bunching it at her waist. I didn't think about the fact that I was kneeling in an airplane bathroom. I could Handi-Wipe my knees later. She made a small noise and I pushed her black lace panties down: tango
pants. No thong for her; classy grown-up panties instead.

Her thighs were softer than once upon a time and pale white. She smelled like spices and arousal and lavender. I touched my tongue to her clit and she hissed. I licked harder, sucking the essence of her into my mouth. She tasted like flowers. The plane tilted to the left and we both slid just a bit. I knew he'd come looking: that attendant. I could feel the excitement of limited time run up my spine. I shivered. Jannie plunged her hands into my hair as I shoved my rigid tongue into her wet pussy.

Her short pubic hair tickled my nose and I nudged her harder, suckling until I thought I might suffocate. Her fingers found my nipples and she pinched me. I bit her clit gently and she let out a high cry that made me think of her movies.

I worked my fingers inside of her and stroked her swollen G-spot. She was so ready, my fingertips went right to it and I teased it with my fingertips. Another tilt and we slid to the right. “You have to hurry, Jannie,” I said. “He's coming. I'm sure of it.”

I clamped my lips back over her hot little clit and sucked. I finger-fucked her furiously as she pulled my hair in short yanks. I felt her cunt seize up around my fingers and I laughed for just a moment. “Oh, god…god, god!” Jannie yelled. But true to movie form, she kept gathering steam as she came, letting loose with a high earsplitting shriek as the orgasm ripped through her.

Sharp knuckles rapped the door and a muffled voice yelled, “Is everything okay in there? Do you need help?”

It was my redheaded friend. “No,” I called, stifling a laugh, “Just scared by the turbulence. It's fine!” Then I stood unsteadily and kissed Jannie's full lips. “Lady, you really are the Scream Queen.”

“Sweetie, you ain't heard nothing yet,” she said and kissed the tip of my nose.

 

 

 

 

 

I couldn't help looking over her shoulder. She was sitting right next to me, after all, and I've never been one not to notice a woman, even if she is fifteen years my junior. But even if I weren't the type to try to see what my seatmate was reading or check her out, the furious way this girl was scribbling in her notebook, a loud, angry kind of scrawl, was the equivalent of pounding a piano keyboard, hard, and it was difficult to ignore.

Her entire aura was angry, and she was dressed in typical
post-teen fashion—black tank top over jeans, with a black hoodie, plenty of black eyeliner, an eyebrow ring, and a scowl. Oh, and dark green Converse sneakers. As I took in her words, I knew immediately that she was all but a virgin. She was too fired up, too cocky to have ever fully surrendered to a boy—or a girl. She had all the charm of a young woman whose sensuality is hidden not so deeply beneath the surface, but who just hasn't figured it out yet.

She made me want to smack some sense into her, or fuck her. I could've told her to grow up, but what would be the point? So she could become jaded, I mean, “mature,” like me? No, I figured I could have some fun with her, though, and maybe let Miss Attitude know that there's more than one way to get screwed on an airplane.

Her eyes, once you got past the shaggy bangs and overdone makeup, were almost sexy. And yes, I was now officially a dirty old man, likely twice her age or damn close, for even considering what she had going on under that hoodie. But she started it, and I felt like it was in both our best interests to pursue it.

“You're wrong, you know,” I said in as snotty a voice as I could muster. Like meets like and all that. “It's not just about yuppies sneaking off for a quickie and calling it the best sex of the year. There are all kinds of ways to fuck on a plane. You're just too young to know about them.”

She glared up at me, and let me tell you, it was the sexiest glare I'd ever seen, the kind of sneer that says “Leave me alone” and “I want to suck your cock” at the very same time, the kind of stare that made my dick even harder. “Like you'd know,” she muttered, then cut me with her eyes before turning to face the window, deliberately closing her journal and curling up into a ball as best she could within the confines of the seat. Normally, I don't care what my neighbors are reading or eating or doing
on a plane; I'm intent on getting where I'm going as quickly as possible. I've had my share of fun on planes, but for the most part I think they're utilitarian vehicles, the fastest way to get from point
A
to point
B,
nothing to get too excited about.

But I was excited about this girl, because she was definitely a girl, not a woman—not even close. I'd been spending my time with women who'd been around the block, who knew exactly how to give a blow job designed to make me melt, who approached sex like a sport they'd already won several medals in. Maybe that's not totally fair, but I was bored. I was on the plane because I wanted to shake things up, not necessarily with a wild fling, but with something different. I'd been certain a quick trip to Miami would snap me out of my rut. I'd fantasized about somewhere more exotic, but time was even tighter than money and I just wanted to be in the sun, soak up a few rays, ogle some chicks in bikinis and flirt and drink and not think about my latest breakup or my job performance. Things were salvageable at work, but I wasn't exactly going to be made employee of the year. I'd been drinking too much and had taken some of my frustration out on Heather, who'd finally had enough. But looking at this girl full of smoldering sex appeal buried beneath layers of goth indifference, I wondered if maybe I didn't even need to get to the land of beaches, sunshine, and Cuban flair for that to happen. This wild child seemed tailor-made for that, and looked like she could use someone to talk some sense into her before she became jaded like all the others.

Just then the stewardess came by and asked about drinks. My companion surprised me by ordering a club soda. I opted for water—with extra ice, and a whiskey. I smiled politely even as my mind formed deviant plans. My seatmate continued to pretend to ignore me, but I sensed her eyes peering at me over her shoulder. I pulled out a book, some thick thriller on the
bestseller list I'd grabbed off the shelves. I used to have a stack of books just waiting to be read, and would sometimes rush home to them like they were old friends, but lately all I'd been reading were labels on jars and captions on my TV screen.

I tried to act like I was immersed in the book, playing hard to get, if you will, but when the stewardess returned with my requested cup of ice, I was grateful for the chance to pull out my tray, and grinned up at her. I think she thought I was flirting with her, from the way she leaned down, thrusting her tits in my face. That brief nearness made my seatmate a little jealous, apparently, because she scowled at the woman and demanded both a Coke and a tomato juice. “You better not spill on me,” I said to her like she was eight.

“Why don't you just mind your own business?” she snapped back.

“Are you sure that's really what you want…Donna?” I asked, having copped a glance at the copy of
Bust
with its address label still attached she'd been rifling through.

“You're damn nosy, you know that?”

“You were the one writing about something that I happen to have a vested interest in.”

“I was writing in my
journal,
you idiot.”

“Fine. Stay young and uninformed, I don't care,” I said, sipping the whisky I'd so wisely had the busty stewardess bring me. I reached for my book again and tried to imagine I was in first class. But my cock was insistent that I not let this one get away.

I ignored her for as long as I could stand it before turning toward her. She now had her headphones on full blast, her hoodie hiked up around her ears, and her body turned all the way away from me, her petite build allowing her to sit with her legs tucked against her as she faced the window, staring into the darkening sky.

“The ice is melting. Such a shame,” I said quietly.

“Why?” She wasn't exactly gracious, but I was pretty sure I had piqued her interest.

“I don't know. Some people, you know, those stuffy, uptight dickwads you think so highly of, might be interested in playing with ice, like a sex toy. I'm sure that would be way beneath you, so there's no point in even going on about it.”

There was silence for a few minutes as I sipped my drink and actually let myself get sucked into the mystery novel, the first clues making my brain spin with possibilities. Just when I thought I had a lead on who the killer might be, she spoke again. “Not that I actually care or anything, but what exactly would you do with the ice? And how do you do it without getting caught?”

I turned to look at her and her eyes seemed wider, the makeup seeming to fade as she stared up at me. “Well, the only real way to tell you is to show you. Otherwise it'll just sound boring. Do you think you're up for it? I'm not so sure a delicate flower like you could stand it. It's really more for the…masochistic sort of girl.” Of course I already knew that she was as submissive as they come. It's the bratty ones who always need a good spanking, and the sniveling, simpering ones who are actually the biggest bitches once you scratch that outer layer. Time and time again, my theory has been proven right, as ballsy babes who've busted my nuts at work or among friends have begged to have their hair pulled, to choke on my cock, to be degraded in ways even I hadn't thought of.

Donna looked up at me and nodded. “I can take it.” She said it like I was about to take her before a firing squad, rather than make her more aware of her nipples than she'd ever been.

“Try not to sound too enthusiastic,” I said right into her ear. She shivered, and I made my lips brush against her lobe.

“Cold?”

“No, I'm fine,” she said.

“Good, because you're about to get a lot colder.” And with a practiced move, I took one of the pieces of ice in my hand, put my arm around her, and quickly worked it below her T-shirt and into her bra. I made sure it was secure there, as I felt it start to melt just a little. I allowed my fingers only a brief meeting with her already-hardening flesh before removing my hand and patting her on the shoulder.