The Mile High Club

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I was sure I saw her wink in the dark cabin as she continued up the aisle. I pivoted my hard-on parallel with my pinstripes.

  The plane descended toward a yawning sunrise. “Jacqueline, we should be arriving just in time for breakfast. I know a great diner just in town.” I smiled as she paused to check my seat belt.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Gartner, but I have plans.”

  “I thought you Hughes Airwest employees say yes!” I gave a sly wink.

  “Well, we do our best.” Her lips curled in a tight smile.

  Not long later, Jacqueline and I met yet again. It seemed fate had something in mind. She beamed as she took my boarding pass. “Good evening, Mr. Gartner.” She didn’t even look down at my ticket. She remembered my name!

  “Please, Jacqueline, call me Kevin.”

  “Of course, Kevin. As you wish. If you should need anything, don’t hesitate to call on me.” Her smile gleamed like pearls.

  It would be a four-hour flight, and from the diminutive turnout at the gate the plane was going to be sparsely populated. I stopped halfway to my seat and looked back at Jacqueline as she greeted another passenger. Her eyes were on me. I thought I might ask her to join me for breakfast, and maybe dinner “after,” but the truth was I would be staying a good two hours from the airport in some town built around a large factory. The woman behind me tapped her foot impatiently at my blocking the aisle.

  Jacqueline’s smile widened. Yes, yes, YES!

  This might be that moment when I’d finally join the Mile High Club.

  Jacqueline sent a signal as she poured my scotch ever so slowly, a signal clear as the rarified air at thirty-five thousand feet. My knuckles slid from the arm of my seat to her knee. The scotch continued to trickle. I traced up under her skirt. The scotch stopped halfway through the pour. It was as if it was a beer and she was waiting for the head to settle.

  I felt a tiny shock of curly hair. No panties! I eased one fingertip inside her as a light went up at a seat down the aisle. Damn! I withdrew my finger and traced her dew down her thigh.

  I breathed her aroma as I sipped my scotch. Each time she passed me, she locked my gaze, and my cock got as hard as the fuselage of the 727. I drank my scotch a little faster than usual. The reading lights were shutting off all around the plane like the porchlights of a one-horse town after nine o’clock. Heavy, sleepy breaths began to rise in the darkened cabin.

  I held up my empty little scotch bottle and shook it like a bell. Jacqueline returned with a fresh bottle. She set it on my tray and looked at me, waiting.

  “Will you pour it, Jacqueline?”

  “Of course.” She opened the bottle and began pouring slowly. I slid my hand straight up to her pantyless pussy. She leaned close to my face, so close it could’ve been a kiss, and her Certs breath filled my nose. She whispered. “Go back to the bathroom on your left. Take off all your clothes and wait. I’ll knock two times, pause, then two more. Unlock the door only for that knock. Any other, tell them you’re sick and to go away.”

  It’s hard to negotiate with a raging hard-on. I followed her instructions to the letter. My heart jackhammered when two knocks came. The silence seemed an eternity. Two more knocks.

  Jacqueline pinched her full lower lip tight in her teeth as I cracked the door. She nodded for me to open up. I cupped my hardness in my hand as she opened the door wide. She closed it, then gently spread my wrists and my cock pointed at her yellow-clad hip. She winked. “I’ll give you credit. You do have a lot of nerve.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re almost too perfect.” Her face was sweet and warm, but there was a darkness swelling in her eyes. “You’ve got a beautiful cock, though.” She traced it.

  “Uh, thank you?”

  “Spread your legs.”

  I surveyed the tiny lavatory. She turned so the front of her yellow dress was pressed to my back like a chair. One cool hand smoothed down my back, across my butt, around my hip. The other circled my cock tightly. “Spread your legs,” she repeated.

  I opened my feet as far as I could.

  “Wider.”

  I bowed my knees like a cowboy on a thick horse. Her hand slid under my asscrack. “What are you doing?”

  She leaned in and whispered. “I was so glad when I saw you board the plane.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. You believe in karma?”

  Truth was, I’d heard the lyrics in the John Lennon song, “Instant Karma.” I had no fucking idea what it meant. “Yes, I believe in karma.”

  Her little laugh was hollow but sweet. “Me, too. I’m celebrating tonight.”

  “What are you celebrating?” My words became choppy and awkward as she gently squeezed my balls. My sac tightened.

  “It’s my last flight as a stewardess. I’d like to go out with a bang.”

  “Glad to be able to help.”

  “Of course. Say, you seem to know that Hughes Airwest jingle pretty well.”

  I grinned. “Yes.”

  “What is it they call us?”

  “Top Banana in the West?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Her finger slid back from my tight balls and pushed at my asshole.

  “Wait, what are you—” Her finger popped inside. “Whoa!” A long banana had appeared on the sink. “I—”

  Her finger descended to another knuckle and I gasped. I grabbed her bare arm and her free hand gripped my cock. She stroked slowly, deliciously. My arms fell slack.

  “You’re kinda cute, with your salesman pitch and smart-ass smile. You think you’re entitled, don’t you?” She stared, half anticipating my reply, half not caring.

  I opened my mouth to protest, and gulped air. I squeaked as she popped her finger out.

  “Admit it, Kevin. You feel entitled.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Good. Put your hands on your head.” She kissed my cheek.

  I complied. She pulled out a tube and started to squeeze it. A juicy dollop of clear fluid splattered her fingers. She reached around my back again and slathered the rim of my hole. I felt like I’d just plunged into a cold pool on a hot day. It felt weird, but that cool goo also felt very good.

  “Who is Top Banana?” Her other hand gently cupped my tight balls.

  “Unh!”

  Her middle finger poked back in, and I almost came when she grabbed my cock like a handlebar. “Who is Top Banana?”

  “Hughes Airwest?”

  “Who?” Her finger pushed deeper while her other hand doused the long yellow fruit. Her slick finger popped out. She glazed the banana and it disappeared around my hip.

  “You’re Top Banana, ma’am.”

  “That’s better.” And the tip of the fruit kissed my sphincter.

  It pushed in a little and my ass resisted. “Unh! Mmm!”

  She pushed the banana just a little deeper.

  “Jacqueline?”

  “Shh.”

  My mouth gaped as she stroked my cock, then cradled my balls. “Ohh.” The fruit descended a bit deeper. “Ma’am?”

  “Shh.”

  With each twitch of resistance, she stopped until I relaxed, then she pushed a bit farther, holding my body fast with my hard-on. All the nerves in my asshole felt like they had been suddenly brought to life after a long coma. Each additional push made my limbs tingle.

  “You like this, don’t you?”

  “No.” But my rod was now dark purple, pointing at the vibrating ceiling, and the veins popped like the Rocky Mountains up from the plains.

  She stopped. “No?” She tilted her head sweetly and began to ease the banana out.

  “Oh, I do like it, ma’am. I like it a lot.”

  The banana moved deeper and it seemed like I would burst in a hail of ribbons. “Thought so.” Her fingers slopped the copious fluid from my cock, which juiced like a pussy.

  I felt the orgasm begin to grow in my groin.

  “Not yet. I’m Top Banana, and you come when I say.”

  “Yes—mmm! Yes, ma’am
.”

  She fucked my ass slowly, then she increased her speed. The sliding fruit was splitting me. Tendrils of ecstasy mingled with luxurious pain. She knew just when to fuck, just when to stop. She stroked me while turning the banana in me like a stick shift.

  Not accustomed to waiting for release, I found the long journey excruciating and exciting. My hands remained obediently locked over my head.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “I unh—”

  “You okay?” An elderly woman’s sweet voice dripped with concern.

  God! How long has it been? “Uh—” The banana pushed deeper. “Ohh. Just a little uh—sick—use—other—bathroom.”

  “Good boy,” Jacqueline whispered. Her strokes, along with the pumping of the banana, widened and contracted like clapping fists. She bit my earlobe hard, sending a clear signal. Keep quiet! I fought to comply. The opposing pressure forced my first blast of come to explode so hard I heard it thump against the wall. She turned it like a machine gun and it shot short bursts across the sink, over the lowered toilet seat. I actually worried I wouldn’t be able to stop coming.

  As I drew breaths like a marathon runner after a race, Jacqueline scrubbed her hands. “Clean up this mess and get back to your seat. There may be turbulence ahead.” She opened the little door and peered out, then was swallowed into the cabin.

  When she returned to my seat with a complimentary scotch, she smiled softly and sweetly. I kept my hands neatly folded on my tray while she trickled the brown malt slowly, luxuriously over the ice.

  She pressed her face close to mine and licked her lips. The bouquet of fresh Certs filled my nose in a whisper. “Who’s Top Banana?”

  “You are, ma’am.”

  “Good boy.”

  My sales manager called me into his office. “Kevin, your sales have been tracking two-hundred percent above the average over the last few months. I admit that for a time I had doubts you’d make the transition to computer sales.”

  “It did take a while to get my head around it.”

  “Well, you did. I got a call back from one of your recent sales. He said the damnedest thing: ‘Kevin made the pain of spending so much on this equipment feel like a pleasure.’ Not sure what that means.”

  I swallowed the urge to laugh.

  “It’s no big deal. These computers sell themselves.” I took a big mouthful of coffee.

  “No, no they don’t, and you know it. Really, though, you’re my youngest salesman, you really are top banana in my book.”

  I spat my coffee down the side of his teak desk.

  Of course, I cleaned it up thoroughly.

  Brenda was a pretty, chestnut-haired, amber-eyed stewardess. She had a gentle smile on her lean, angular face as she brought me my first complimentary club soda on a red-eye flight to the Midwest.

  Later, as she poured me a coffee, the lights in the cabin were switching off. She lingered nearby. “Brenda, will you join me for breakfast in St. Louis?”

  “That’s very sweet, but I shouldn’t.”

  “Really, just breakfast. I’d like to get to know you a little better, that’s all.”

  “You see, Mr. Gartner—”

  “Please, call me Kevin.”

  “Kevin. I never go out with passengers.” I’d seen the blue-suited salesman four aisles up pinch her butt as she poured his third gin.

  “Never?”

  “Well, usually.” She bit her lip.

  “Maybe this once?”

  She thought for a moment. “Frankly, we deal with so many, pardon my French, assholes.” She looked four rows up the aisle. Her soft eyes gleamed darkly just for a magical second. “Sometimes I just want—well, anyway. I mean, you are different, you’re a gentleman, but—”

  “No need to explain. Maybe we’ll meet again sometime under better circumstances.”

  Brenda paused. “I should know better, with that salesman’s smile of yours.” She didn’t say it, but I heard smart-ass salesman’s smile. I tried not to flash it.

  She tilted her head slightly. “Yes, I’ll join you for breakfast.”

  Bless her heart, Brenda married this smart-ass smiling salesman.

  And to this day, from time to time, I come to the bedroom holding a nice long banana. Brenda’s sweet eyes gleam dark and her smile stretches wide. She disappears into the walk-in closet while I go into the bathroom and strip. She knocks the secret knock on the bathroom door.

  Clad in that bright yellow silk baby doll, she steps inside.

  “Who is Top Banana?”

  “You are, ma’am!”

  NASTY LITTLE HABIT

  Donna George Storey

  Today’s the day I’ll break my nasty little habit once and for all.

  That’s what I tell myself as I shuffle on to the London-bound plane with the other Premiere Executives. I’m the only woman in the bunch, which isn’t unusual. Before I decided to change my ways, the closeness of so many anonymous male bodies was the first thing to get me in the mood for later misbehavior. I’d imagine them gathered around me as I pleasured myself, cocks in hand, ready to shoot their loads all over me until every inch of my flesh glistened like a freshly glazed doughnut.

  Today, however, I resolutely wipe such thoughts from my mind as I hurry through the business class cabin—no upgrade this time, alas—and silently repeat my vow.

  I will not masturbate under the blanket on this flight.

  I murmur it, under my breath, as I slip my suitcase into the overhead bin.

  I will not masturbate under the blanket on this flight.

  Pulling my book from my shoulder bag, I settle into seat 33B. Call me a masochist, but I specifically requested a center seat rather than my usual window. Breaking bad habits always requires a certain amount of discomfort, and it will be that much harder to jam my hand down my pants with a vigilant stranger on either side.

  I pick up the plastic-wrapped blanket from my chair and push it under the seat in front of me, well out of temptation’s way. It’ll make for a chilly night, but I can hardly masturbate under the blanket if I have no blanket, can I?

  “Excuse me.”

  It’s a male voice, obviously the occupant of 33A. I don’t even look his way as I rise and step into the aisle to let him pass. He gives me a nice “Thank you,” but I continue to ignore him, except to notice that he’s tall and sturdy, which means he’ll probably hog the armrest.

  My new row mate makes all the requisite motions of unpacking and buckling his seat belt, while I try my best to focus on my book. I can feel him glancing over at me, though, and it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. One vow I’ve had no trouble keeping is to reject overtures from chatty neighbors on long flights, especially men. I do enough coddling of male egos in my work. I’ve recently been promoted to VP of marketing, North America for a power tool company, and my coworkers and customers are virtually all men. Sometimes I need a break from the cordless screwdriver crowd.

  My neighbor clears his throat softly, but with obvious intent.

  He’s certainly persistent. In spite of myself, I glance over, not at his face, but at his hands resting in his lap.

  I do a double take. He’s holding the very same book I have: the new paperback edition of The View from Castle Rock. A guy reading Alice Munro?

  He says, “It looks like we have something in common.”

  I smile. “I didn’t know men were allowed to read fiction by highbrow female Canadian authors.”

  “Oh, I’m not reading it. I just bought it for the pictures.”

  For the first time I really look at him: dark hair, warm brown eyes, and a smile to melt a glacier. He’s not bad. Not bad at all.

  “How’d you get turned on to Alice?” I’m actually curious to know the answer.

  “I like her stories in the New Yorker and thought I’d check out her latest book. It’s very good.”

  I narrow my eyes. “What other authors do you like?”

  “Let’s see, John Irving. T. C. Boyle. Von
negut. Sometimes I venture into Don DeLillo.”

  “Good. Those are all Y-chromosome writers. With that talk of Alice Munro, I was thinking you might be a dyke undergoing testosterone therapy in preparation for the Operation.”

  He lifts his eyebrows. “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  We laugh.

  By the time they bring around dinner we’re still talking. Paul tells me he’s a project manager for an open source database company and travels a lot, like me. We have other things in common: crazy bosses, older sisters who just had surprisingly cute kids. He runs 5K races and so do I. Strangest of all, we both just discovered a slow-food bistro in Noe Valley that serves “priest’s collar” pasta. Paul confesses that his Catholic childhood adds a certain kinky enjoyment to the dish. I agree and tell him about my great-aunt, Sister Loyola.

  “Maybe we’re twins separated at birth?” I haven’t had anything to drink, but by movie time, I’m feeling tipsy.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Paul replies, “but I hope we’re not.”

  His eyes flicker. Okay, so he wants to drill me with his power tool like all the rest. I have enjoyed the flirting, but sense it’s best to cool things down before he makes any further moves. Letting guys pick me up on airplanes is a habit I gave up for good several years back.

  “Well, Paul, it’s been fun, but I’d better get some sleep now or I’ll never get over jet lag.”

  “Of course, I should get some sleep, too.” He reaches under the seat in front of him. “Hey, I seem to have an extra blanket—would you like one?”

  My stomach tightens.

  I will not masturbate under the blanket on this flight.

  Still, it would look strange to refuse his offer, so I take the blanket and tuck it under my arms, leaving my hands exposed and out of mischief. To Paul’s “Sweet dreams,” I smile politely and turn my head toward the neighbor on my right, a silver-haired gentleman who’s already snoozing under his sleep mask.

  I close my eyes.

  The dreams that await me are definitely not sweet.

  So, what’ll it be? Masturbate now and get it over with or futilely resist the inevitable for another half an hour and then do it?