The Mile High Club (15 page)

“Do you have a problem with chest pains, madam?” he asked. “Indigestion, perhaps?” His gaze flickered from my flushed face to my partially displayed breasts, and his expression suggested he knew exactly what my husband and I were doing.

“Oh, my wife isn’t unwell,” Sam replied, “but she was complaining that her bra was too tight. I wonder if you could unfasten it for her, help make her a little more comfortable.”

“Certainly, sir. It’s very important that we look after the needs of our customers.”

I was stunned. I couldn’t believe that my husband was offering me to another man in this way. But the relentless pulsing of my pussy told me that even as my mind was recoiling from the idea, my body was welcoming it.

The flight attendant bent over and snapped open the front fastening of my bra, baring my tits. “Is that better?” he asked courteously.

“I’m sure it is,” Sam said, still speaking on my behalf, “but why don’t you feel them to make sure?”

He needed no second invitation. His large, surprisingly soft hands clamped around my breasts, and began to play with them.
Before the flight, I would have been mortified if I had been told that I would find myself chained to my seat, half-naked, with a stranger openly fondling my body. Now, I no longer cared. It felt so good. I glanced over at Sam, anxious to see his reaction, and saw that he was staring avidly, enjoying what was being done to me. That impression was confirmed when I stole a peek at his crotch. It was a solid bulge beneath the zipper of his jeans. Until now, it had never occurred to me that Sam might be turned on by watching me with another man, but clearly he was.

Just as I was giving in fully to the sensation of being caressed in this way, the call light flicked on above a seat a couple of rows in front of us. The attendant glanced round, looking for someone else to take care of the problem, but his fellow attendants were nowhere to be seen. Reluctantly, he released his grip on my tits. “I’m sorry, I have to deal with that,” he said. “But thank you, both of you. Enjoy the rest of your flight.”

When he had gone, Sam asked, “So did you like that?”

“It was amazing,” I told him, “but you’ve got to release my hands now. I really need to come.”

“I don’t think there’s time for that,” he replied. Over the public address system, the pilot was announcing that we were about to begin our descent into Schipol airport.

“But I
need
—” I was cut off in midwail by Sam’s hand disappearing up my skirt. His fingers pushed aside the gusset of my panties and delved among the slick folds of my sex, finding my clit and beginning to rub. I writhed uninhibitedly in my seat. With everything that had been done to me since the plane had taken off, I knew it wouldn’t take much to push me over the edge. For a moment, I wished our flight attendant friend was back with us, teasing my nipples while Sam worked so expertly on my pussy. I wished the woman in the row opposite would look up from her glossy magazine and see me, so close to coming, and
envy me the thrill I was experiencing. Sam’s finger made one last circuit of my clit and my pleasure crested, my thighs clamping hard around my husband’s wrist as I came.

By the time the redheaded flight attendant came to check that our luggage was correctly stowed away and our tray tables were in the upright position, my clothing had been rearranged, my wrists released from the cuffs and only my slightly glazed expression might have given a clue as to what Sam and I had been doing.

Once we had cleared the baggage claim, we headed for the taxi stand, hand in hand. Sam had been right, I thought. His little game had been the perfect start to our holiday, and I realized I was truly blessed to have a husband with such a kinky imagination.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, once we were settled in the back of the cab, “I can’t wait to get to the hotel so I can fuck your brains out. But just to give you something to think about for the next few days, let me show you what you’re going to be wearing on the flight home.” He pulled a box out of one of the pockets of his flight bag, and gave me a brief glimpse inside. Staring back at me, nestled in pretty pink tissue paper, was a large, black, shiny butt plug.

 

 

 

 

 

I
n my view, when your girlfriend wears a very short skirt, certain things are expected of you. It’s not a matter of abstract morals, though without question it would be ungentlemanly to not properly see to her with great promptness when she goes to the trouble of displaying six inches of thigh above her knees.

But more importantly, it’s a matter of domestic practicality: communication is important in any relationship, and failing to hear her messages will cause problems either immediately or down the road, or quite possibly both.

Then again, I’ll be the first to admit that I might have an off-center view of the matter, since my girlfriend is Emily, who has clear expectations on most relationship issues. Let’s just say that on any given day, certain things are expected of me regardless of whether Emily’s wearing a lime green micromini and six-inch stilettos, or a grubby pair of sweatpants and a Cookie Monster T-shirt. Truth be told, those expectations vary more based on her whim than on what she’s wearing, but when she wears certain things, she’s
sending a message. Her very short skirts, she’d made it quite clear on previous occasions, were not open to interpretation.

And in the case of a miniskirt worn on the occasion of our first long flight together—a red-eye, mind you—there was even less interpretation needed. But just in case I was still wondering, as we boarded, she made casual conversation.

“What color do you think my panties are?”

I already knew the answer, or intuited it—but I played along, mostly because I was so impressed that she’d been able to say it loud enough for me to hear, but in such a decidedly casual tone of voice that no one around would have picked it out of the babble of conversation all around us.

“Black,” I said noncommittally, choosing her favorite color.

She shook her head with a smile.

“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.