Flying High

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  She took my cock in her hand and rubbed it across her sex, and then she paused in midstroke, rolling her fingers up and down my dick, looking at me with large brown eyes. As she touched my cock she shrugged her shoulders and made that quizzical and extremely cute yet condescending face that Italian women are expert at.

  A condom! Of course! “Mi scusi,” I blurted.

  For one moment-spoiling moment I thought our fun was done for. I doubted that Alitalia gave out condoms with its vanity kit. I had several in my toiletries but they were in my carry-on bag above my seat. I really didn’t want to make that trek in my agitated state, but it was clear that there would be no love without a glove, so I reached down to pull up my trousers and then I realized that I was as prepared as a troop of Eagle Scouts. In my wallet I kept an emergency ration slid carefully in the change compartment. I pulled it out and let my trousers down. My window seat companion smiled and gave a little applause, adding a truly sexy “Magnifico.”

  She took the condom and tore off the wrapper, rolling the sleeve down my shaft with amazing rapidity and dexterity. She put her arm around my neck and pulled me to her. We kissed, tongues darting, bodies squirming as we struggled for just the right angle. I lifted her slightly and eased her down onto my cock, letting gravity and the slight bumpiness of the flight settle her pussy around me. Our bodies locked together. We were in a perfect position for up-against-the-wall sex; her long legs were anchored by the Louboutins, one foot resting on the floor and the other foot on the toilet lid so that her sex was open and the perfect height for my enjoyment. My hands went to her neck and I held her face toward me and steady as my thrusts jolted us against the bathroom wall. I kissed her lips, and she bit at my tongue and lips, pulling away to arch her neck. I bent and kissed her neck, trailing kisses down to her breasts, arching my back as I fucked her, licking at her nipples.

  Pausing in my thrusting because I did not want to come just yet, I used all the strength in my legs, thankful for the many leg presses I’d done in the gym over the last few years, and lifted her from the floor so that her clit was pressed with all her weight against my pubic bone. I flexed my calves and strained upward, pushing her fully off the ground, watching as the Louboutins dangled from her feet. It was a sexy sight, and a position of extreme stimulation for her, judging by the way she reciprocated in her moaning and moving. I grabbed her ass in my hands and rocked her body and rolled her around my cock to give her clit a maximum joyride. The curve of my upward-arching cock rubbed right across her G-spot. Her rhythmic motions became small shudders and then more violent tremors. I gripped her ass even harder, pulling her asscheeks aside, opening her cunt to me. One of the Louboutins fell to the floor, and she wrapped her stocking-covered leg around my legs and undulated her body as she came, milking my release from me with the clasp of her thighs rippling through to the velvety clench of her pussy.

  We stifled our moans and groans by kissing, by inhaling each other’s heaved breaths until we’d fucked our passions away, and silence ruled. My legs melted and we slid to the airplane bathroom floor.

  We stared at each other for minutes, possibly longer. Time seemed to stand still as the 747 chased the sun. She reached out with her fingers and touched them to my lips. They tasted salty and musky, and I kissed them. She stood, and playing the Prince Charming, I slid the fallen Louboutin onto her Sinderella (yes, she deserved to have it spelled with an S) foot. I stood and she bent and kissed my softening cock, before straightening upward in her heels to meet my lips in a soft farewell and thanks-for-thefuck kiss. Then she smoothed her skirt into place and buttoned her blouse. I reached into my pocket and pulled out her damp panties, offering them to her. She shook her head and curled my hands over them—a parting present to cherish more than any souvenir or passport stamp from my Roman holiday. She motioned me aside and washed her hands, arranged her hair and again motioned me to stay still as she opened the door and went back to 12G.

  I stayed for a few minutes for decorum’s sake and then returned to my seat. She had already covered herself with a blanket and was curled up facing the window, her back to me. I curled up likewise, and for once, after being disturbed by a window seat passenger going to the bathroom, I had no difficulty falling asleep.

  We skipped breakfast since we slept late, being forced awake by the flight attendants before the 747 dipped toward Rome, then touched down and taxied. Several times I turned to say something, to smile, to ask for an email address or phone number, but she would always look away. It was clear we were to remain anonymous. Once the FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign went off she waited for me to stand and get my bag. I handed her her jacket and hat. She smiled and said, “Mille grazie.”

  “Prego,” I replied, and as she walked ahead of me to leave the plane she waved and mouthed “Ciao.”

  I followed her through the terminal, admiring her sensuous walk, the wiggle of her ass that I had so recently gripped in my fingers as we’d fucked at 37,000 feet. I rushed through passport control trying to keep pace with her. Our bags arrived almost at the same time. She had porters help her with several large suitcases, and outside of the terminal I watched her being escorted to a limousine.

  She didn’t look back.

  I fingered her panties in my pocket. I took out my hand and pressed it to my face. I smelled her lust on my fingers. I blew the receding car a kiss.

  Welcome to Rome. I had a feeling that in a café on the Via del Corso, the spirit of Fellini was laughing.

  GAME IN THE SKY

  Elizabeth Coldwell

  Sam waited until the flight attendant had walked down the aisle, handing out boiled sweets prior to takeoff, before snapping the handcuffs around my wrists. I had been busy making sure the paperback I’d bought in the terminal was stowed in the seat pocket in front of me, and didn’t register the metallic click until it was too late. When I looked down, I realized that I was effectively fastened to the armrest between me and Sam, preventing me from leaving my seat.

  “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” I hissed, not wanting to raise my voice even though it was a night flight and the cabin was only half-full.

  “You’ve been complaining for a while that we never do anything spontaneous or exciting anymore,” he replied, casually draping his jacket over the armrest to hide my cuffed wrists from passersby. “And joining the Mile High Club in the toilets is a little too predictable, wouldn’t you say? So I thought we’d play a little game instead.”

  The words “a little game” sent an unexpected jolt of pleasure through me. Sam was right. I had been complaining that our sex life was becoming predictable. This was due to the fact that for the last few months we had both been working such long hours that when we got to bed we rarely had the energy for anything more than a few sleepy caresses. And my husband’s little games had always been fun. There had been the time we booked into a hotel and he had informed the staff that I was his secretary, before seducing me in the public bar. On another occasion, I had heard him calling me from the bedroom when I let myself into the house, and found him lying on the bed wearing nothing but swirls of whipped cream on his nipples and cock. The handcuffs that were around my wrists now had first been used on me in the bathroom. Sam had chained me to the shower rail and fucked me under the steamy spray. I had loved every one of these scenarios. They were simple, exciting stuff that had spiced things up when our sex life was in danger of getting boring, and I had assumed that was how our games were destined to remain. Until now.

  “So what is this game, exactly?” I asked, starting to become intrigued despite myself.

  “Well, you’re a jewel thief who skipped bail and fled the country, and I’m the detective who’s tracked you down and is taking you back to face justice. Hence the handcuffs. I want to make sure you can’t go anywhere without my say-so.”

  I was impressed. Sam had clearly been thinking about this in some detail, and with his floppy dark hair, stubbled chin, and crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, he looked as though h
e could be the kind of world-weary detective who was prepared to dispense his own unique brand of justice.

  “But what if I have to go to the bathroom?” I said.

  “I told you, you don’t go anywhere without my say-so. I could make you wait till we land. Or I could accompany you into the cubicle. But I might be a gentleman and decide not to watch.” Sam grinned a feral, sexy grin that made my pussy tingle. “But that’s not your immediate problem. You see, I know you’ve still got some of the jewelry from your last heist stashed away somewhere very secret, and I’m going to use this flight as an opportunity to find it.”

  I wanted to ask him what exactly he meant by that, but at that moment the plane began to thunder down the runway, accelerating off the tarmac and up into the sky. I’ve never been a nervous flyer, but at that moment I was strangely twitchy, anxious for the aircraft to pass through the low clouds and settle at its cruising height so the game could begin properly.

  Sam, however, was prepared to wait until the attendants stopped fussing around before he made his move. He accepted a gin and tonic for each of us, but declined the chilled, plastic-wrapped cheese rolls that passed for catering on such a short flight. If the redhead serving us wondered why I made no move to reach for my own drink, or why I needed a straw with it, she said nothing. I had to admit it felt deliciously naughty to be sitting there, exchanging banal pleasantries with a woman who had no idea that my hands were restrained.

  My husband placed the glass in front of me, and I bent my head low to take a sip through the straw. I had never dreamed that one day I would have my movements restricted in public, and I was dying to tell Sam just how excited I was by it. He ignored my efforts to engage him in conversation, and simply drank his gin and flipped through the in-flight magazine. Finally, he looked up from the article on the Dutch bulb fields he’d been studying as though it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever read, clearly amused by my growing impatience.

  He glanced round at our fellow passengers. The few who were sitting near us were either reading or trying to doze. The empty glasses and sandwich wrappers had been cleared away and the flight attendants were more than likely busy in the galley. The plane was quiet apart from the low, constant whine of the engines and the rumbling snores of a man in the seat behind me. No one was paying us the slightest attention.

  “So how does it feel to be a naughty little jewel thief?” he asked.“Enjoying being in captivity?”

  I nodded in reply, feeling a little trickle of dampness in my knickers as I grasped just how aroused I was.

  “Good, because it’s time for me to look for those valuables you’ve been hiding away.” My husband leaned closer. “You see, I had a tip-off that you like to store things you don’t want anyone to find in your underwear.”

  I shivered. Surely he wasn’t going to start searching around in my clothing for some nonexistent piece of jewelry? Not that I would be able to do anything about it if he did, of course.

  I had my answer when Sam’s hands closed around my breasts, squeezing gently. Even through my blouse and bra, I could feel his thumbs rubbing my nipples, stimulating them, and my breath caught in my throat. I loved it when Sam played with my tits in this way, but if I gave vent to my moan of pleasure, I was certain someone would be alerted to what we were doing.

  “Nope, I can’t feel anything,” Sam said. “I suppose I’m just going to have to make my search a little more thorough.” As he spoke, he briskly popped open the top few buttons of my blouse.

  “Please, don’t,” I begged, unsure whether I was pleading on behalf of myself or the jewel thief in Sam’s kinky game, who would have been just as embarrassed by the thought of being undressed in public as I was. My husband’s big body was shielding mine from view, but if anyone had been looking at me directly they would have seen the exposed cups of my lacy white bra and my breasts heaving with undeniable excitement.

  “Mm, what a luscious little hiding place,” Sam murmured, as he began stroking my nipples again. They were hard now, and pushing against the fabric of my bra. I squirmed in my seat, eyes closed, thankful that Sam’s jacket was preventing the handcuffs from rattling against the armrest. When he gave one of my aching buds a gentle pinch, I couldn’t help groaning, more loudly than I would have liked.

  “Is everything all right?” a deep voice enquired.

  My eyes snapped open and I saw the male flight attendant, a tall, strapping blond with a cute Dutch accent who had given me a flirtatious wink as he’d welcomed me aboard the plane.

  “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 t
he 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.

  WHEN YOUR GIRLFRIEND WEARS A VERY SHORT SKIRT

  Thomas S. Roche

  In 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.