The Mile High Club

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “Are you okay?”

  It was Henry’s voice.

  “I’m fine,” I said and straightened up quickly.” I’ll be out in a few.”

  I was excited to hear his voice and at the same time annoyed at my thwarted orgasm. I felt myself blush and wondered if he knew what I was doing. The thought excited me and I quickly went back to work. I imagined opening the door and seeing him standing there. I’d make a move as if to push past him and then he’d catch my wrist in his hand and bring it to his nose. I’d feel his dick move in his pants, that’s how closely to me he’d be standing and then before I knew it he’d push me back inside the bathroom.

  He’d lock the door and wouldn’t say a word. He’d turn me to face the wall as he reached around and unbuttoned my jeans. They’d be back around my ankles a second later. His strong hand would reach into my folds as the other cupped a breast. I’d gasp, reveling in his manly scent, his manly strength. He’d be nothing like the whiny bitch boy I was currently stuck with.

  I’d reach behind me and press my hand to the front of his pants. He’d stop pawing me just long enough to undo his pants. I’d hear them drop to the floor. He’d grab my hips forcefully and push me even harder against the wall. My nipples would brush the smooth surface as they stiffened further. Cock exposed, he would press it against me and then pull my shirt up around my waist and wedge himself between my cheeks. He’d be thick. His fingers would probe me for a couple minutes and then I’d inhale a sharp breath as he plunged into me suddenly. I could practically feel the walls of my pussy stretching, struggling to accommodate his girth. My nails would dig into the bathroom wall as his dug into my hips. He’d draw all the way back and slam into me, then out and in and out and in with a force that would have me seeing stars. His fingers would sink into the flesh of my ass, holding me steady while he continued his assault.

  I got so lost in my fantasy, it was like it was actually happening right then and there: His pace quickens and he’s fucking me so hard and so fast, I come in record time. He places his hand over my mouth to silence me while continuing to pump forcefully inside me. I feel his legs quiver and I know he’s close to the brink. I squeeze my pussy tight, clamping down on his dick, and then he bites down on my shoulder, shuddering and stifling groans as he comes inside me. He’s still for a minute, waiting for our breathing to even out. He releases me from his grip, quickly does up his pants, and exits the bathroom as quietly as he’d come in.

  These fantasies of Henry the flight attendant really made me take my time with myself, tease myself, make love to myself in the airplane bathroom. I pushed two fingers as far into my pussy as they would go while rubbing my clit faster with the other hand. I felt my legs quiver as I began to wonder what Henry’s tongue would feel like lapping between my legs. My hand moved faster. I felt the orgasm start to rumble in my lower abdomen and I moaned. I removed my fingers from my pussy and pinched my nipple. I threw my head back and squeezed my clit between my fingers and rolled it. Then I brushed back and forth against the surface with my thumb, lightly but swiftly. My body shook as I let out a guttural sound and I had to brace my foot against the wall to steady myself. After letting my breathing return to normal, I fixed my clothes and washed my hands. Then I tried to wipe the stupid grin off my face.

  I exited the bathroom, half expecting my fellow passengers to shoot scandalized looks my way and point judgmental fingers. But no one seemed to notice me as I made my way back to my seat, where Drew was happily listening to jazz on his iPod, right where I left him.

  “Are you okay?” he asked as I sat down.

  I grinned widely. “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Good.” He smiled. “I’m glad you’re in a better mood. We’ll have fun, you’ll see.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I said. I took one last glance over at Henry, smiled, and then pulled my sleep mask back over my eyes to finally settle in for a nap.

  GET ON, GET OFF

  Jeremy Edwards

  Get on, get off when you fly in masturbation class! Only from Zirbin Airlines.

  Trendsetting tycoon Maxwell Zirbin had definitely outdone himself this time. Granted, his enormously successful business plan for the airline that bore his name had always hinged on the sorts of innovations that hip consumers would find seductive—in an industry otherwise noted for dreariness and inconvenience, served up in three shades of blah. From the retro-chic color schemes to the sensory overload of onboard entertainment to the sassy personalities of the cabin crew, the word Zirbin had become synonymous with airborne fun.

  Even in this context, the introduction of a special, sequestered seating section (eighteen-plus) for passengers who wanted the comfort, release, or diversion of being able to masturbate en route from New York to London was considered pretty damn daring. It was one thing to be plied with Day-Glo cocktails by charming, androgynous flight attendants who danced their way down the aisle to house music; it was quite another to be informed at check-in that one could upgrade to wanking class for only a fifty dollar surcharge.

  “We have plenty of seating available in Zirbin M-Class,” the agent told Jared discreetly. Jared remembered reading that this latest Zirbin revolution, although it had understandably attracted plenty of publicity, was only beginning to catch on with passengers.

  Jared represented the target audience well. High on libido and low on inhibitions, he found lengthy plane rides boring as hell. Long before Zirbin had unveiled M-Class, it had occurred to Jared that a nice, sensuous stroke session would be a great way to refresh and relax himself at about hour five of a transatlantic jaunt. And he could see why the possibility would appeal to others, too—to the retiree whose flame had been kindled by an ocean-side torso in her travel guide, or by a lingering look at the tight-trousered crew member who’d offered her a pillow; to the macho guy whose only phobia was flying, and who could use one more thing to take his mind off the altitude; to the overworked, overtraveled executive woman who might be so very glad to undo the knot of tension between her legs.

  He handed over the fifty bucks, and the agent asked for his seating preference: “Male neighbor, female neighbor, or no preference?” The seats were two abreast in M-Class—with a retractable curtain between them—and your neighbor would, at a minimum, be the person you were most likely to sense, and whose motion might make your own seat vibrate in sympathy.

  “Female,” Jared responded, feeling a tingle in his groin.

  “All set, sir. You understand that the curtain between seats goes up only by mutual consent?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The seats were certainly very comfortable. This in itself, Jared observed, might have been worth the extra fifty. Still, there was no doubt in his mind that he intended to get his money’s worth out of the premium price, in every way.

  M-Class was on the upper deck of the plane. The seats were all on one side of the aisle, with a row of utility cupboards lining the other side. Jared, who’d been assigned the outside seat, got himself situated and pulled the outside curtain closed. He had noted, with a bit of disappointment, that his neighbor had already taken her place and closed the interior curtain between them—meaning that he probably wouldn’t get a chance to see what she looked like until such time as she got up to use the lavatory, or peeked out to accept a drink or a snack. (Surely, Jared reasoned, one got drinks and snacks in masturbation class.)

  He glanced down to take in his companion’s feet—the only part of her not concealed by the curtain. She wore beige stockings, and black shoes with a low heel. There was nothing very distinctive about these details, but nonetheless Jared searched his brain for recollections of women he might have noticed in the departure lounge, to see if he could put a face to these feet. But he came up blank. The plane had boarded very soon after he’d upgraded, and he hadn’t had the time or the focus to make a study of his fellow passengers. The only woman he happened to remember, a redhead with a pleasant, quasi-permanent smirk, had been wearing sleek pink and white sweats with
running shoes. By default, Jared’s mind automatically planted that woman’s face atop the mostly invisible body seated to his right, though he knew it wasn’t the same person.

  He was reluctant to speak to her through the curtain—unless she spoke to him first. Instead, he quietly wondered if she’d specifically requested a male neighbor, or if she’d had no preference. Would she actually have preferred to be entirely alone? Or maybe part of what had made her select M-Class had been the opportunity to do herself with a stranger just inches away—someone like him. This thought gave Jared the beginning of his official masturbation-class erection.

  He tried to relax. Airline regulations clearly stated that masturbation was not to occur during takeoff or landing. For a moment, he wondered why. Then he realized that, of course, it was the seat belt issue. He visualized an urgently horny but rule-abiding passenger hiking her skirt up to access herself during takeoff, while still keeping her belt buckled. Then he imagined the woman next to him doing that.

  The image made his erection burgeon further—even before he saw a pair of black silk panties float down to his neighbor’s ankles, sort of like the oxygen masks that always pop down in the safety videos.

  “Mmm.” The sound he heard from the seat beyond the curtain was soft, but unmistakable. Even amid the moderate hubbub of flight attendants clattering around, passengers settling into place, engines warming up, and air-conditioning cycling on, her purr of light pleasure came across loud and clear. Jared’s neighbor, having slipped her panties down, was obviously getting into the mood. He imagined her shifting her hips and squeezing her thighs together for a second before touching the exposed flesh under her skirt.

  Jared was the rule-abiding sort himself, but he figured there was no harm in unzipping his fly while they awaited takeoff. It felt good to do so. He let his hand rest firmly on the opening in his jeans, and he found his hearing tuned keenly toward the neighboring seat.

  Things went smoothly for the flight crew, and it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes before they’d taxied, soared, and leveled off. But cruising altitude came none too soon for Jared, whose cock, still enclosed by a thin layer of underwear, pulsed tentatively but unceasingly against his palm. The woman, his partner, was clearly biding her time as well; Jared heard no further sounds from her while they ascended, and the elegant feet remained still, looking like a piece of lewd sculpture with the panties seductively adorning them. It crossed his mind that this must be what one woman sees of another in neighboring bathroom stalls—shoes and panties. Almost involuntarily, he visualized the long row of stalls in an airport women’s room, then visualized the row of soft, bare asses inside those stalls, each neatly seated for that satisfying postflight pee. His cock ached, and he gave it a sustaining squeeze.

  At last, the pilot switched off Zirbin’s trademark FASTEN SEATBELTS sign—a cartoon crocodile in sunglasses, whose 1970s-style belt and buckle appeared to be part of his body. Even as Jared registered this, he heard a deep, sensual sigh from next door, and he could only assume that his invisible companion’s fingers had made welcome contact with her intimate zone.

  He extricated his cock from his briefs, letting out a silent sigh of his own as his fist finally met his flesh. At least he thought it had been silent, but a peculiar discontinuity in the breathing from beyond the curtain made him feel that his partner had heard him, and had tracked his progress. It excited him to speculate that she was that aware of him, as she gently nurtured her hungry pussy lips.

  He squirmed in his seat, and he accidentally brushed the curtain. For an instant, he felt the solidity of the body on the other side.

  “Sorry.” He whispered it.

  “Okay,” returned a breathy voice, raw with intensity.

  The voice, that aroused “Okay,” echoed in his head as he stroked himself. Its imagined repetition became a masturbation mantra, blending with the real sound of the jet—and the real sounds coming from lap and mouth level one seat over. Her wetness was now audible, and Jared could visualize the slippery activity of delicate fingers across and between pouting lips, as vividly as if it were being displayed for him on Zirbin’s egg-shaped video screens. As her breathing dipped, plodded, and crested to a complex and ever-changing rhythm, he thought he could actually follow her trail along her folds, in and out of her cunt, and back and forth to her clit. His own rhythm, simple but powerful, rocked him in harmony with her.

  He reached for one of the generous, Zirbin-monogrammed handkerchiefs, which were provided within a candy-striped Personal Intimacy Kit that also included plastic bags, disinfecting gel, and—just in case people wanted to join forces—a box of condoms. With a grape-colored handkerchief wrapped around him, he gave out a prehistoric grunt.

  “Hey,” the breathy voice suddenly said, in a labored whisper rich with erotic texture.

  “Yeah?” Jared was tingling right on the edge.

  “Maybe we could pull the curtain up.”

  It was technically a “maybe” statement rather than an invitation, but Jared knew what it meant. Clutching his swaddled cock in his left hand, he used his right, with passionate dexterity, to release the catch that had kept the curtain anchored. With a shoooop of relief, it disappeared into a slit in the ceiling—leaving only a plastic nipple visible, by means of which future passengers would, at some far-off time, pull it back down.

  The face that greeted him was a tableau of melting, sensuous beauty. The woman’s blonde hair was in disarray, her eyes were glazed in preorgasmic semifocus, and her mouth twitched in a way that made her lip gloss repeatedly catch, and transform, the sterile cabin light. Her white blouse was unbuttoned enough to show two cheerful breasts, each half-out of its bra cup, with nipples erect and moistened.

  She was so far gone down the road to ecstasy that Jared couldn’t tell what she might look like in repose, what expression her face would hold under normal circumstances. But here, now, she was stunning—possessed of that quintessential grace that comes to a woman on the verge of orgasm.

  She smiled at him, then closed her eyes.

  He realized that a moment of eye contact with him—enabling her to observe that his gaze was on her exuberant breasts, on her hiked black skirt, on her cunt-clutching fingers, and, most important of all, on her radiant face—had been all she needed to go over the top. Now she threw her head back as far as the seat in its fully upright position would allow, and she quivered, absolutely quivered, from panty-draped ankles to self-mussed hair. Her moan sounded all the more intense for its courteous softness.

  And Jared got his money’s worth out of Maxwell Zirbin’s big purple handkerchief. He pumped for what seemed like forever as he inhaled her aroma, contorted his eyes shut, and visualized a night sky of milky clouds over the Atlantic.

  Just when he had milked himself dry, he heard her voice again.

  “Want a taste?” She sounded shy, but somehow confident. He opened his eyes. Her fingers, held aloft, were glistening, and her pupils were sparkling.

  Without hesitation, he leaned forward and sucked one finger, then another, then another.

  “Nice,” he commented, feeling suddenly drunk with impetuousness, and completely at ease. “You taste like berries. And maybe, uh, tamari. And—mm—a hint of black pepper.” He licked his lips.

  She laughed. “Thanks. But I think you may have read one too many of Zirbin Magazine’s extreme wine columns.”

  He joined her laughter. “Well, yeah, it’s possible.”

  “Just don’t tell me I taste like cilantro. I hate cilantro.”

  “Deal.”

  They laughed again, and Jared noticed that she was perhaps even lovelier when she laughed than when she came. He wanted to see more of both.

  Thank god it was going to be a long flight.

  THE SCREAM QUEEN

  Sommer Marsden

  I couldn’t resist. It was only ten minutes into the flight when I leaned in and said the inevitable, “Hey, aren’t you…?” Then I stammered, embarrassed at my fandom.r />
  “Jannie Blair. Yes. Guilty as charged.” Her hair was close cropped and alternating shades of dark gray and silver. Her blue eyes sparkled. She smiled and incredibly white teeth shone behind full, mauve-painted lips: gorgeous. I crossed my legs and flexed my thighs, but it did no good. It didn’t stifle a damn thing. My crush on her reared up, bright and shining and feeling brand new instead of twenty years old.

  “God. Not to sound like a babbling idiot but I loved you in All Saint’s Eve. Edna, your trained parrot, too. My god! You were so sexy in that movie,” I gushed. I wanted to shut my damn mouth but it wouldn’t stop. I could hear myself, as if from a great distance, rattling off favorite movies and characters, and dear god help me, wardrobe choices. “That blue dress was so incredible. I have tried and tried to find a dress that makes my tits look that good and I can’t.” Then my face was scorching red and I swallowed. I had just said the word tits to Jannie Blair. “Maybe I just don’t have the tits.”