“You’re sure you don’t want to?” my husband asked, a little disappointment lingering in his voice.
Shuffling down the aisle of the cabin of the airplane and not letting our bags hit people who were seated, I answered over my shoulder. “The bathrooms are gross. Think of all the people who have been in them.”
He shrugged.
Before the flight, he and I talked about fucking on the plane—becoming members of the Mile High Club. The restroom didn’t intrigue us—me particularly. It was too metallic, too cramped for space, too overused.
We shoved our bags in the overhead bins and settled into our tiny economy seats.
Everything went smoothly on the taxiway, and soon we were airborne over Boston on our way to Los Angeles. He and I were enjoying ourselves as we were scrunched in those narrow seats. I put on my noise-cancelling headphones and closed my eyes. I considered them to be a technological do not disturb sign. But they did not keep away my husband’s touch.
A number of times, I had to pat his hands and move them away the whole time we were over New England and the Midwest. Somewhere above Oklahoma, I got an urge. I didn’t slap his hand.
I let his hand slip under the drab olive jacket in my lap. His fingers slid under the elastic band of my black joggers. I had opted against panties for this flight. Maybe I had subconsciously imagined having a little fun on the flight.
His fingers brushed over my stubble to explore farther down. They hit my moistness, and I immediately wrapped my hands tightly around his arm, as if a girl trapped high in a tree. We were just flying at 30,000 feet.
I am not afraid of flying. Instead, I had to restrain myself from bursting into a wild fit. The first touches had launched me onto another plane.
He inconspicuously swished his fingers side to side and dillydallied over my sensitive private parts. It felt so good, intoxicating. My eyelids hovered, half open, as if I was on the cusp of a better trip than going 500 mph to L.A.
I bet he had an amazing time watching me. He often said that few things in life are as good as making a woman jitter in pleasure.
Despite having my body rush to the brink of an orgasm, my mind startled awake. We were in a tight space and the eyes of bored passengers may be roaming here and there. With one abrupt movement from me, attention would settle on us. We might get a quiet complaint from the person behind me if I pushed against the seat too wildly.
Who, in view, was watching?
I glanced across the aisle at the lone man seated by the window. He was staring at Oklahoma’s plains below us. Another man with a bald head sat in the row before us. A heavy-set woman sat across from us. Luckily, the aisle seat by her was empty, so we had a tiny buffer zone. Her attention was elsewhere thankfully. She flipped through the airline company’s magazine—the same, crumpled copy that was in our seatback pockets. So no one was paying attention to us.
Knowing that no one realized, I refocused on the sensation of my husband’s thick fingers stroking my little pussy. For a moment, I stared at the locked tray table and let my body absorb the pleasure. I read and reread, “Fasten seatbelt while seated” and “Life vest under your seat”.
The absorption happened fast, and pleasure melted me.
My stare slid down my chest to the slight shifts happening under the jacket and then to his knees.
He brushed over my clit, and the tiny touch jolted me. Like a little girl, my hands tightened around his arm. I didn’t realize I hadn’t let go since the initial grip. Sensations floated across my body. It was turbulence of a special kind.
I then heard a woman’s soft voice.
“Is everything all right?”
It was the blond flight attendant in a mauve vest, white blouse, and a red scarf around her neck tucked in the opened collar. She looked at me, seeming to assess my situation, and then at him, as the companion of this woman, who looked worried.
The stroking fingers paused.
“We’re all good. Just fine. Thank you,” he said softly in the quiet cabin.
“Okay.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Let me know if she needs anything. A pillow or a drink.”
“Sure thing.” He nodded.
“Hey, I could use a bottle of water,” interjected the large woman who was reading the magazine.
People had been listening!
The stewardess left, and my husband started again. I was concerned for a moment, but his fingers stroked, not giving me a chance to lose the elevated sensations.
My chest swelled several times, until I calmed my breathing. Others—that stewardess and who knew who else—were actually watching us—me—as I shifted in pleasure while seeming to struggle with the fear of flying.
My breaths shortened as his fingers started stroking faster. I recalled feeling the same when, as a little girl, I stood on the edge of the high dive and looked at the clear water, far below, waiting to catch me. My heart sped and my chest tightened on the edge of the board.
By his hand, tension rose to the place between my collarbones and paused there.
Two fingers brushed softly over my clit while ambling over my labia. Then the forefinger dipped in between my lips. It drove me crazy. I pressed my foot against the floorboard, as if attempting to brake the plane midair.
As he played, I could only nibble on my bottom lip and gripped his arm. In the wild sensation, my eyes squeezed tight and then opened slightly, as if nearing that acid craze.
He knew my body. Too well. He knew I wanted to move, to resettle, to twist, to spread, to allow more access. However, I corralled these desires, controlling myself. It was a mind game that my pussy wanted to win and soon would win, as the game was rigged in its favor.
He pushed his finger deeper into my pussy, forcing my neck to stiffen and my head to press against the headrest.
I sucked in a breath, the base of my neck seeming to suction inward. The tendons in my neck became pronounced in their strain. However, I could not control everything. A tiny, high-pitched moan escaped from my constricted throat. It could have been a wild shout, if I had not worked to stifle the outbursts of my pleasure.
My chest again rose and fell, going faster each second. No doubt, I looked like a sprinter regaining strength after an Olympic race.
Suddenly, it hit me. An avalanche or the pressure of the seatbelt against my waist when the plane first touches the taxiway.
I arched my back and twisted toward him. My manicured fingernails dug into his right arm. My nails were sharp, and orgasms always strengthened my hands. I heard him, from long, long away, say something and try to move his arm. I would not let him go. Not so much me, but my body would not allow me.
I swallowed down my pleasure.
Once down, I smiled at him, at his dark eyes. It was love, as much as pleasure. I pressed my cheek against his shoulder, feeling the turbulence of orgasm.
I was almost embarrassed that I had done this in such a cramped place. With the heat of pleasure subsiding, I leaned against him, as if he was a father who had saved his daughter from high in a tree.
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