The Mile High Club (11 page)

If you’ve ever asked yourself that dangerously rhetorical question, you know the answer: very, very bad. I wound up stuck between a drooling older man and a fidgety teenager of indeterminate gender. Though I’d never cheat on Brandon, I’d at least have wished for some eye candy, a hunky man—or, hell, even a curvy, cleavage-baring woman—to keep the edges of my vision occupied. So I turned to what at first seemed like a last resort: I logged on to my computer. The teenager was listening to some very loud music and the old man was nodding off, often with his head collapsing onto my shoulder. As I waited for my laptop to load, I knew that at least I could get lost in the endless offerings of the Internet, which I often do even when I’m supposed to be retouching photos or replying to email. It offers endless distractions and can keep up with my ADD brain much better than even a juicy novel.

The prospect of going online was enough to make me forget about the cramped legroom—did I mention I’m five-eleven?—and lack of food service on a cross-country fight. I went on and immediately checked my email, then logged onto IM, hoping that even though this was a red-eye, one of my friends would be up. Well, one of them was—a very close, personal, sexy friend. There was Brandon, or rather, Randyboy69, as he so often was
when he wasn’t at work. We’re an equal opportunity online addiction household.

Hey sexy,
I typed, shifting in my seat as I pictured him wearing just a pair of gray cotton briefs as he watched the latest episode of “Entourage,” probably with a beer, or perhaps a joint, in hand.

You stuck at the airport?
he wrote back.

No. I’m stuck in the hell that is coach. I’m high. In the sky, that is,
I typed.

I didn’t mean literally, even though he could have, via Skype. That vision might be a bit much to share with my seatmates, plus I wasn’t sure I could handle the prospect of Brandon’s powerful dick right in my face. But I wanted to picture it in all its hard, pounding deliciousness, while he pictured me in my seat, getting nice and wet, just for him. If I’d been in my car, I’d have been tempted to ditch my shoot, turn around, drive home, and jump his bones.

That was unfair. He knew I could never resist a dare, or an order, or even a mere naughty suggestion. That’s just the effect he has on me, which means that since we’ve been together, I’ve wound up fucking him in all sorts of public places, and we’ve gotten caught twice—that I know about. I’ve had to slink out of men’s bathroom stalls with my hair mussed after vigorous
blow jobs, have had my cover nearly blown in the middle of an Alaska winter after a quickie in his parents’ kitchen (the coast had seemed clear), and many more adventures I’d have been way too shy, or at least, wary, to take part in before him.

But Brandon brings out the dirty girl inside me, the girl my straight-
A,
choir and track team member former self could never have imagined. Even now, I retain so much of my good-girl polish, at least on the outside. Before Brandon, I dated guys who would never think of wanting a lady on the streets and a whore in the bedroom. “Whore” probably wasn’t even in their vocabulary, whereas Brandon loved to taunt me with it, whispering it in my ear as I teetered on that perilous, wondrous brink of orgasm, knowing that the prospect of being a woman of the night would send me crashing over the edge.

Where are your panties, young lady?
was blinking on my screen—in red. Next thing I knew, he’d be going to all caps.

Just a sec,
I typed, feeling a rush of wetness soak said item of clothing.

My panties were already skimpy to begin with; I like to travel wearing my sexiest undies to remind me that while I may not have my man with me, I have something to look forward to when I go home. In fact, most of my plain-Jane, boring cotton panties have gone by the wayside in favor of silk, satin, lace, and mesh in a rainbow of colors. Brandon has made his mark all over my body, and in my dresser drawers.

I pondered how best to go about this. Removing my bra in the locker room in college without showing my tits was easier than this maneuver would be. I placed the laptop on the tray in front of me, then undid my seat belt, trying to be as silent as possible so as not to attract attention. I reached into the waistband of my skirt and pushed one edge of my panties down one hip, then did the same with the other.

I had to get them down far enough so that I could wiggle them the rest of the way with my legs. My face was hot, and surely blushing, as he continued to type away, the screen refreshing as I squirmed.
I wish I could see you slithering out of those panties, wish I could see between your legs to what they were covering. Even though I just tasted you this morning, baby, I miss you already. It’s just not the same without you, but I’m trying.

Tell me what you’re doing. I have my panties halfway down my thighs,
I typed back in a flash, grateful for all those years of temping that had gifted me with the ability to type one-hundred words per minute, or one-handed, if need be. I wiggled against the seat, shifting one leg and hip, then the other, as I felt my panties move slowly down my legs.

I’ve got my dick poking out of the waistband of my briefs. I can see the head straining. I wish you were here to lick it. Oh god. I’m getting out the lube now, the one you got us last time, at that store…the one that made you scream when I rubbed it all over you.
Every word he typed brought back memories of us doing it in various places. I’d found the lube at a sex superstore in Austin on my last trip there, and it had come in at just under three ounces, which allowed me to carry it on the plane.

We’d had so much fun with it, we’d quickly gone through that tiny bottle, and had to order a supersized one online. The image he was painting of his cock had me breathing hard. I bit my lip, wishing I had something to put in my mouth. He was setting off every hot button of my oral fixation.

I pushed my panties farther down, my hands on top of them over my skirt, keeping my eyes glued to the screen, as if what I were doing wasn’t completely deliberate. Maybe I could say I had an itch and was scratching it, if anyone noticed. I turned to my left, horrified suddenly when I realized my potential audience didn’t just include the people on either side of me, but those
in the rest of my row as well. Any of them could glance over and see me slipping my hot pink panties down my legs, over my feet, and into the pouch filled with flight safety instructions and the airline’s magazine. It would be a gift to some lucky flight attendant or, if they did a lackluster job of cleaning, a future passenger. But I didn’t care about that; I cared about obeying Brandon’s order.

That was a lie, because over the course of our relationship, we’ve ruined countless outfits, not to mention furniture. His come has splattered tabletops, stoves, kitchen tiles, bathtubs, and couches, not to mention every inch of my body. I’ve left wet spots in plenty of places that hotels would be horrified to know about (we do clean up after ourselves, as best we can, but it’s an imperfect science). I never mind if I have to replace a bra or pair of panties if what I gain in return is an explosive orgasm. That seems like a fair trade to me.

Almost,
I managed to type back. The excruciating frustration of not being able to hear his voice, not being able to even whisper his name, let alone run my fingers along my hardened nipples or stroke myself between my legs, was unbearable but also arousing. The furtiveness was part of the turn-on, a complete contrast to his freedom to do whatever he wanted. For a brief moment I wondered if he was going to take a photo of his cock and send it to me, which would leave me no choice but to hastily shut down my laptop and hope I didn’t get reported to the airline authorities.

But Brandon didn’t do that. He relied on describing his delicious dick to me in explosive detail. He told me exactly where his hand was, how hard he was stroking himself. His cockhead
looked
red and ready to burst.
He could feel the come bubbling up. He wanted to taste my panties. Oh wait—he was going through our laundry and fishing out a dirty pair to approximate what he couldn’t have. I was trying to read his text while inching my panties lower and lower. Finally they were poised at my skirt’s edge. I felt them trapping my legs as I widened them just so. Sometimes I hold my panties around my legs when I masturbate, legs up in the air, elastic keeping me in place like some erotic exercise band. I like the way they feel pressing against my skin, the resistance they form as my muscles flex, sending me on my way to climax. Now I looked down below me, as if I were searching for a missing pen, whisked them off and into my hand in what had to be three seconds, and shoved them way down deep in the pocket in front of me, nestled against a barf bag and a magazine.

My heart was pounding, and I’m sure my juices were leaking onto my skirt. I didn’t care anymore if they were visible.
I did it!
I typed, and I got the praise I’d been hoping for.

Very good. I like it when you listen to me, Cindy. I like it when you do whatever I ask you to. That means when you get home you’re going to get a very special reward. A gold star, if you will.
I knew exactly what that meant. That was our code word for the glittery gold butt plug he’d bought me when I got that rave review from the
Times.
I’m not one of those insatiable anal babes who need it up the ass all the time. Getting fucked there is reserved for special occasions, ones that involved sensual bubble baths, oysters hand-fed to me, and me spending a long time across his lap getting spanked and fingered and filled. He prepares my ass so lovingly for the invasion it’s about to take, I practically melt around the plug. This happens maybe twice a year, and I never know when it will occur. It’s another area where I cede control to Brandon, knowing that he knows just how to please me.

As I was drifting off into an anal sex daydream, the captain
came on and said we were going to have to put away all electronic devices. I hadn’t come yet, but I was in that preorgasmic state that is sometimes better than orgasm, where it feels like anything and everything could fill my cunt and I’d still crave more; where my pussy is almost in pain with need. It’s what I like to think of as the female equivalent of blue balls. It was so delicious that I almost forgot about Brandon for a second. I looked at the screen to see he’d told me that he’d poured some lube into his palm and was moving his hand up and down, fast as can be.

He’s let me watch him often enough that I knew exactly what he was doing now. Sometimes he ties me up, wrists bound with red rope behind my back, once in a while a ball gag shoved in my mouth, so I can’t touch myself—or him—and I just observe as he slowly, teasingly, jerks himself off, until by the end his hand and cock are one body part, moving in perfect sync until he spatters me with his come.

I didn’t type anything back, just brought the screen closer to me as he stopped typing and I knew he was coming.
Love you, will call soon,
I typed as I closed my computer and slipped it back into its case. I shut my eyes and settled a blanket over my lap, hoping nobody had seen me.

I learned two things on that trip: coach isn’t so bad after all, if you know how to handle it, and there’s more than one way to join the Mile High Club—you don’t even have to be in the air to do it. I’m looking forward to my next trip, and I’m sure Brandon is, too.

 

 

 

 

 

A
s she waited for the final leg of her flight home, Celia’s cell phone chirped. One text message, three short words:
Are they in?

Yes, Master.
Her hands shook enough that she could hardly type. Or was it her brain shaking, distracted, already slipping into the erotic daze that Dan wanted to find her in when he picked her up at the airport?

Celia tightened her internal muscles to shift the SmartBalls—a one-piece silicon version of ben wa balls she’d slipped into her pussy just minutes ago in the public bathroom—and to bear down on her butt plug. Although it was her smallest, the butt plug already felt huge, and curiously conspicuous, as if everyone in the waiting area must know she had something stuffed into her ass.

And it was squirm-inducingly wonderful. It had been far too long since she’d filled her ass on Dan’s command, and the small toy felt like an extension of him, like his fingers or his cock,
transported to another state to suit his pleasure and her increasingly heated desire.

She couldn’t feel the SmartBalls much, not yet, but long before the plane landed, they’d drive her insane with need.

And she’d do more to herself to make sure she was in an erotic frenzy, dripping and shameless, before the flight touched down and Dan took her home again—home to his ropes, his collar, and his collection of toys for pleasure and pain.

Home where Celia was a beloved slave, both pampered and restrained by her master, trained to obey in every way, although he made sure that, more often than not, obedience was rewarding. It might be frustrating and challenging sometimes, but it was ultimately rewarding—like now, stuffed with toys at his pleasure, ordered not to come, and awaiting a bumpy ride on a small commuter prop plane.

The phone chirped once more. Another text from Dan:
Did you remember everything else?