“I held out,” she said, letting the pride ring in her voice even though she was whispering. “Didn’t let go, even though I wanted to.”
“The whole time? I’m impressed. I knew you’d try for me, but I wasn’t sure you could do it. Were you able to handle the clips and the toys the whole time, my good, obedient slave?”
“Yes.” Her voice cracked. His voice was undoing her, undoing all her efforts to keep focused and still, arousing her as if his tongue swirled over her tortured nipples, her hard, aching clit. “But please…talking to you is making it harder. I was doing all right until I heard your voice.”
“Good girl.” She could practically hear his grin. “Good, obedient girl. I’ll reward you properly in a little while. But right now”—his voice dropped to a bedroom growl—“Come for me, slave.”
As her fellow passengers grabbed bags and got ready to deplane, Celia sighed and smiled, clenched her pussy and bit her lip again.
She obeyed, and let a silent, powerful orgasm rip through her as the plane came to a halt at the terminal where her master awaited her.
His will—and hers—be done.
AISLE SEAT
Stan Kent
I
’d decided to burn up all the frequent-flyer miles that I’d accumulated over the years of jetting here and there and splurge on a business class seat to Rome for a long weekend in the Eternal City. After some frustrating ordeals dealing with airline websites and operators protected from human contact by a maze of phone options, I was able to score a seat on an Alitalia 747 from Los Angeles to Rome. The only problem was that I couldn’t get a window seat. I don’t like aisle seats because it never fails that just after I’ve fallen asleep the person next to me decides to go to the bathroom, and even in the relative spaciousness of business class, it still disturbs my hard-fought-for slumber, and then there’s no way I can get back to sleep. I wind up staying up all night reading or writing or watching some movies I really don’t want to watch.
At check-in, I tried to negotiate a window seat but the plane was full, so I resigned myself to hoping that the person next to me wouldn’t have a small bladder. I enjoyed several glasses
of champagne in the lounge and another couple of welcoming drinks onboard as the plane filled up. I was feeling pretty happy and relaxed as the trickle of passengers slowed and the time of departure neared. I began to entertain the hope that the person destined to occupy what would have been my window seat was going to be a no-show, and I would enjoy a truly relaxed flight to begin my Roman holiday, when seconds before they shut the door, in she breezed.
“
Scusi
,” she said as she slid between me and the seat in front of me, her crisp Chanel-suited pussy only a few inches from my face. “No problem,” I responded, and I really meant it. She didn’t smile, and I did my best not to stare at her shapely legs as she stepped over me. She looked like a young Sophia Loren; she could have easily passed for a Fellini diva, and looked well heeled enough to relish
La Dolce Vita
. I was going to introduce myself, but upon taking her seat, she turned her wide-brimmed black floppy hatted-head to the window and stared at the airport runway scene through dark, large glasses that obscured most of a very pretty but pale face.
I regarded her from behind the cover of the in-flight magazine, my eyes peering over the pages in what I hoped was not too obvious of a breathtaken stare. The suit was definitely Chanel or some other haute-couture house—black cashmere with large cream buttons. She had crossed her legs and the skirt had risen up her thigh. The stockings were black and silky, and I knew they were stockings because the darker band at the top was playing peekaboo with her hemline. Her shoes were patent black stilettos, the red soles giving away the fact that they were Louboutins. She was the kind of classy, sensuous beauty that Italy is famous for, and the kind for whom I was happy to give up my window seat.
The flight attendant took her coat and hat and stowed them
safely in the overhead bin. My window seat beauty said a soft and sexy “
Mille grazie
,” took off her sunglasses, folded them up and placed them in her purse, made sure her seat belt was buckled and shook out her voluminous dark curls before looking again out the window as we taxied, took off, and began our flight to Rome. As we soared through cloud tops, I continued to read my in-flight magazine as a guise for looking sideways at her stocking-topped thighs. Surely she knew that the split of her skirt framed her upper thigh, which meant she unconsciously, or as I preferred to fantasize, quite deliberately, fed one of my basic voyeuristic passions: stocking tops and all the sensuous treats that they promise above while deliciously emphasizing the beautiful below. Stocking tops provide the continuity between the refined sexuality of the shoes and the raw sexuality of what lies between the thighs. It is for me a treat of immense pleasure to slide my hand from silky covered ankles to lace-trimmed thighs, crossing that Rubicon to the soft flesh that draws my hand up and around and between.
I may have pretended to be reading about the latest hotel to open in some exotic city but I was thinking about stocking tops and what they say about the woman who wears them routinely rather than just in the bedroom. As these libidinous musings taunted me, I kept reminding myself that despite my overactive imagination and the fantasies it conjured, I should not reach across the small divide of the seats and touch her inviting thigh, no matter how much she might have been consciously teasing me. I should not let my hands wander to her stocking tops.
I repeated this mantra over and over, all through dinner, no matter how much wine I had with my meal. Even though the foldout table and tablecloth obscured her black-stockinged legs, I knew they were there. It didn’t help matters that her black lacy bra shone through the cream silk blouse she wore buttoned up
tightly to her neck, promising that she was a lady who loved lingerie, and here I was, a man who lusted for ladies in lingerie. This could not be coincidence; it had to be the Erotic Fates that had us flying together to Rome in adjacent seats for the simple pleasures that two passing people might enjoy between destinations. Joining the Mile High Club with this lady would be a much better way to pass the flight than watching a movie, even a Fellini one, which Alitalia always seemed to feature.
As I regarded my traveling companion, I said a silent thank-you to those same Erotic Fates for my hectic schedule and lowly position in the Hollywood pecking order. Prior to my flight I’d been at a pitch meeting and it had run late thanks to me as a writer being the lowest priority on the producer’s calendar. I barely had time to get my five-minute summary out and hear the “Thanks a lot. My assistant will call you if we’re interested…” response before dashing to the airport. I’d had no time to change, just making it through Friday afternoon Hollywood to LAX rush-hour traffic with minutes to spare, and in those spare minutes I’d opted for champagne in the lounge rather than getting changed. As a consequence, rather than my usual travel uniform of comfortable sweats, I still had on my best pitch suit, which was a two-tone blue skinny Merc rock-star thing with a red shirt, black suede pointy ankle boots, and a skinny blue tie. If the beauty in the window seat could have been an Italian movie star, in my suit, with my hair suitably spiky and carefully unkempt, I could have been any one of several fashionable rock stars—a desirable commodity to many women and a good conversation starter at the least.
Even so, despite my posing she paid me no mind, and after a few ignored smiles I resigned myself to a platonic relationship. Dinner gave way to dessert and an after-dinner whisky as I retired to the comfort of my iPod and set it to cycle through
Stéphane Pompougnac’s
Hôtel Costes
collection. Laid-back lounge music, a hectic day, and a bit too much to drink took its toll, and I felt my eyelids losing the battle with gravity. I hit the recline-all-the-way-to-a-flat-bed button and fell instantly asleep, looking forward to waking up just in time for the descent into Rome’s Funicello airport and a morning espresso on the Via del Corso with the spirit of Fellini looking on.
At first blush I thought I was dreaming, or had fallen into an Alitalia Fellini film, but the dryness in my mouth and eyes was real, and I was awake enough to know that once again, the Erotic Fates had been kind. My
bella donna
was stepping over my fully reclined seat. She had straddled the seat but a little turbulence and the skyscraper Louboutins had made her teeter and put her arms on the headrest to steady herself and prevent her shapely body from falling on top of me. As my body sensed the disturbance and my eyes opened, I saw her skirt slide upward from her full-body stretch. Stocking tops became visible and gave way to pale white softness that lead to jet black lace covering her sex that had to match the bra I’d earlier admired through the cream silk of her blouse. I’d fallen asleep with my overhead light on and the crisp beam illuminated her lingerie-clad pussy with porn-flick precision.
The underwear was La Perla and underneath was a pearl of a pussy. I discerned small tufts of dark pubic hair pressed tight to the slight curve of her pubic mound, and the bulge of her labia strained against the smooth round of the panty’s silky crotch. Our eyes met as my gaze went from the delta of her Venus to her face and her long black hair that draped down. It was a sexy sight that would not have been out of place between two well-fucked lovers. She looked like she liked it on top, and I particularly enjoyed the view from the bottom during such hot sex, especially the feel of a woman grinding her ass into my crotch
like she’s trying to stay on top of a bucking horse. What should I do? Close my eyes and pretend I really hadn’t seen anything and let her recover her demure posture? Should I continue to stare? Should I reach up to steady her? Should my hand slide up her thigh and cup her pussy? Should I then slide my finger inside the elastic and bring her to orgasm? Should I pull her down on top of me? Should I—?
Pivoting on the leg that was anchored in the aisle, she swung her other leg over the seat in a move that told me she had studied ballet, yoga, and at least one or two martial arts. She shimmied her skirt down, smoothing the ruffled material. I enjoyed the reverse striptease, and expected her to march toward the bathrooms, and indeed, she took one step, but then she paused, reached down to my iPod earphones and pulled them from me, tossing them aside, as if she was insulted that I had been listening to music instead of paying attention to her. Then, leaving no mistake in her meaning, she unsnapped my seat belt. And then she marched toward the bathrooms. That’s when my heart started beating again, only twice as fast as it ever had, perhaps to keep pace with the blood demand of my throbbing hardened cock.
Now there was no hesitation, no should-I-stay-or-should-I-go, Clash-like indecision. I stood up just in time to see her disappear into one of the bathrooms. I took a refreshing swig of water and popped in a breath mint from the complimentary business class vanity bag and followed her steps. There were two bathrooms, and both were signed vacant. I looked around. Everyone else was asleep. There were no flight attendants hovering, and despite the Homeland Security warnings not to congregate in the bathroom area, I swallowed the lump in my throat, straightened the lump in my trousers, and pushed open the bathroom door.
For one horrible moment I thought she was going to scream. She was sitting on the toilet. Her knees were together, her ankles
apart. The La Perla underwear hovered around her ankles. She was peeing. I was going to make some excuse when she reached behind her and flushed. It was a loud roar that I felt for sure would wake the entire plane. She seemed shocked by the noise and giggled self-consciously as she stood and reached out toward me, her fingers curling back to beckon me in. As I neared her grip, she grabbed my tie in her fist and yanked me inside the relative spaciousness of the business class bathroom. In more ways than one, this could never have happened in economy class. She would have never traveled dressed like that in the cheap seats, and there’s just too much traffic and the bathrooms are tiny and usually too well-used and stinky to make fucking that pleasurable. At least I was getting my frequent-flyer’s worth out of my 120,000-miles ticket. I wasted no time in shutting and locking the door.
No words were spoken. No hands were washed. The La Perla underwear remained down at her ankles. Her Chanel skirt remained about her waist. Her hands went around my neck. Our lips met. She tasted of the same Alitalia-issued breath mints.
The first kiss was a frantic melding. Our tongues fought for dominance as if the plane was crashing and this was our last good-bye rather than our first hello. Her fingernails raked up and down my back. We struggled for balance, bouncing from the wall to the sink, until I had her pressed firmly against the wall. My hands slid up her thighs, enjoying in stereo the erotic journey I had previously fantasized about. From the lace band of the stockings, I trailed my middle fingers along the crest of her thighs, up to her waist, where I reversed direction and slid down the
V
of her crotch, where I cradled her pussy in my hands. I slid one hand around to grip her ass, pulling her into me, squeezing the silky-soft yet oh-so-firm flesh while the middle finger of my other hand slid back and forth along her pussy lips, feeling her
moisture flow, coating my skin until it felt as much a part of her body as the clitoris I coaxed from its shroud. Under my probing and assertive touch, she moaned and her head lolled backward against the wall. I took advantage of the proffered skin and kissed her neck, nibbling at the perfumed flesh, feeling her moan through her throat. Her hands left my back and found my shoulders, where she pressed down, harder and harder, until it dawned on me that she wanted me to go down, down, down, and down, down, down I descended.
I slipped the sodden La Perla silk and lace thong over her ankles and her stiletto heels, and put the underwear in my pocket. I took her right leg and lifted it onto the toilet seat, opening her pussy for my mouth. I grabbed her ankles, and held her long legs apart as I leaned in and kissed her thighs from the stocking top up to the dripping bulge of her cunt as my hands enjoyed the feel of black silk-sheathed legs. At her cunt I did not linger, but flitted on to the other thigh and down to its waiting stocking top where I traveled my tongue inward as far as I could go, teasing, angling my head upward so that when my tongue ascended I met that tender space between ass and pussy. I flicked my tongue across the rosebud of her anus. She tensed her thighs and her hands gripped my spiky hair, pulling at the tufts as I directed my tongue back from her ass to leaf through the folds of her pussy. She liked that, muttering sexy Italian encouragements that were lost to me in the muffle of her thighs and my unfamiliarity with the language.