Aerophobia

I always hated flying.  It always seemed deeply, fundamentally wrong to me that something as big and heavy as a jetliner could fly through something as thin and insubstantial as the air.  I was never able to relax on a plane.  I was always waiting for the fatal flaw in the engineering to reveal itself, for gravity to take over, to plunge screaming from on high, to die in an orange fireball.

It wasn’t just the flying either, it was the process: the long lines at the airport, the security checkpoints, the inevitable delays, the rude airline employees, the cramped and crowded cabin.  All these things gave me stress and conspired to keep me safely on the ground.  So it took all of my mother’s powers of guilt and persuasion to convince me to fly out to Seattle for a summer visit.

I showed up at LaGuardia plenty early, sailed through check-in and security, located my gate.  Then I had some time to kill.  Unfortunately the bars weren’t open yet, but I got myself some breakfast and worked on the New York Times crossword puzzle.

An hour later, my flight was still on time.  Boarding went pretty smoothly, and with only minor butterflies in my stomach, I planted myself in my seat, a window near the back of the plane.  A fat, middle-aged businessman was sitting on the aisle.  He courteously got up to let me in.  I could only hope he’d be as obliging two or three hours later when I had to get up and pee.

As the plane filled up, I started to be cautiously optimistic that the middle seat next to me might stay empty.  I almost didn’t dare form the thought in my head, lest I jinx myself.

Sure enough, just before they closed the cabin door and pushed back, one last passenger came hustling up the center aisle, toting an overstuffed backpack and heading inexorably toward the only empty seat I could see in the airplane… the one next to me.

At least he was cute, I thought as he squeezed past the big guy on the aisle and stuffed his backpack underneath the seat in front of him.  He was a skinny white guy, a little young for me, but cute nonetheless, with big hands, disheveled nearly black hair, a long angular face, and a crescent-shaped scar about the size of a nickel just below the hairline of his high forehead.  He apologized for jostling me, and I gave him a quick friendly smile.  I felt bad for the guy; I personally hate sitting in the center seat, and he was pressed up against the overweight businessman who was spilling over the armrests.

The aircraft pushed back from the gate and we got in line to take off.  As always it seemed to take way too long.  I smelled jet fuel and wondered if that were normal.  It was too hot in the cabin.  I started to sweat.  Finally, after about six hours of idling on the runway, the captain announced that we were next in line for take-off.  The big engines spooled up to an impossible roar, I was pressed back into my seat, the nose of the plane seemed to take way too long to raise up and, as usual, I had a rush of panic that this time it wasn’t going to work, that the pilot had forgotten some crucial item on his checklist, that we were going to roll on past the end of the runway, tumble end-over-end, break apart, and die screaming, trapped in a canister of crushed flaming aluminum.

As usual, the plane lifted off from the tarmac, and the landing gear stowed with a clunk, and we climbed steeply up and out of New York.  If I craned my neck, I could catch a glimpse of my apartment building for just an instant before we penetrated the low clouds and were gone.

The plane leveled out, and I allowed myself to unclench a tiny bit.  The beverage cart made it’s way down the center aisle.  Soft drinks were still free, though everything else had a price tag on it.  I had a ginger ale and an $8 tuna sandwich.  The cute white guy next to me had brought his own: it looked to be turkey on a roll.

I could tell that his personal space was getting over run by the bulk of the guy sitting next to him, so I raised up my armrest to give him a little more room.  He gave me a grateful smile.  Definitely cute.  Definitely too young for me.  College boy?

We chatted a little bit.  I told him my name.  He told me his was Ian.  He was headed west for the same reason as me  –family–  but he had to change planes at SeaTac and hop a little puddle-jumper over to Spokane.

I asked him how long he was staying.  “A week or so,” he told me, “I’m flying standby.”

My mom had used guilt as a blunt instrument and bludgeoned me into staying in Seattle two full weeks.

We settled down for a long boring flight across America.  Out the window there was nothing to see but flat grey clouds.  I reclined my seat and plugged into my iPod, trying to relax and hoping that the rest of the flight would pass quickly and uneventfully.

The fat guy on the aisle started to snore.  I could hear his wheezing over the sound of the jet engines, over the music in my ear buds.  I suddenly became acutely aware that the cute guy next to me had his leg pressed up against my own thigh.  I risked a glance over at him; he seemed to be engrossed in a Kerouac novel.

I felt that familiar, maddeningly insatiable tingling sensation between my legs.  What the hell?  I took a chance, and pressed back, my black cotton pants against his blue denim.

He pressed back against me, a little harder.  My nipples stiffened inside my bra.  Downstairs, things would already be getting moist and slippery.

Very tentatively, he let the fingertips of his right hand brush across the top of my thigh.  When I raised no objections, he laid his big hand down just above my knee, squeezing my legs muscles.

He was still holding the Kerouac novel in his left hand, to all appearance engrossed in his reading.  I slid back in my seat, closing my eyes and letting my legs part as much as was decently possible in the confined space.

Up and down my thigh his fingers constantly traveled; now soft as feathers, now strong as iron bars.  He traced his way from my waist to my kneecap and back again, sometimes briefly exploring the softer territory of my inner thigh, never stopping, never staying in one place very long.  This seemed to go on for hours.  My clit felt like it was the size of a basketball, and I had surely soaked through my panties and was wetting the seat underneath me.  I was having a very hard time not moaning and whimpering aloud.

Somewhere over Montana, I could take no more.  The guy in the aisle seat was still snoring rhythmically, and only an occasional person made their way past us to the bathroom.  I stopped his roaming hand with a press and a squeeze, piled my fleece jacket onto my lap, and lowered the meal tray to provide at least some modicum of a screen from passing eyes.  Then, as casually as possible, I unsnapped and unzipped my pants, and skootched them halfway down my legs.  My panties were crawling up my ass, and I wanted them off in a bad way, but I couldn’t think of a discrete way to pull them down.

He finally put down his book and leaned over toward me.  I thought he was going to whisper something to me, but he just traced the outside of my ear with the tip of his tongue, and bit down on my earlobe, hard.  I felt his eyes on my tits, and I really wanted to pull my shirt off over my head, unsnap my bra, and feel his mouth on my nipples, his tongue exploring, his lips sucking, his teeth nibbling and pulling… but of course I couldn’t.

Bolder now, his hand found it’s way under the piled-up green fleece on my lap, and wormed it’s way down the front of my panties.  I was absolutely soaking wet.  When his probing middle finger finally found my hyper-excited sex, I arched my back and let out a subsonic moan, and, forgetting all about modesty and decorum, I lifted my ass and spread my legs as wide apart as humanly possible in the confined space, one knee crammed up against the bulkhead, the other practically in his lap.

He penetrated me with that long finger, and it was nearly enough to set me off all by itself.  He withdrew his hand and presented it to me for my inspection.  It was thoroughly coated in my come.  With a very naughty smirk, he licked the finger clean, and then slid it back down my panties where it belonged.

Across western Montana, Idaho, and most of eastern Washington, he finger fucked my drooling pussy.  It was exquisite torture.  My hungry cunt gobbled up his finger and wanted more.  He was tormenting me on purpose, slowly sliding his finger in and out, never quite enough to push me over the edge.  I was pretty sure I’d never been so wet in my entire life.  I thought I might just die of pleasure.

I felt the plane shift and turn as air traffic control started to vector us down into SeaTac.  Soon the stewardesses would be coming through, checking seatbacks and tray tables in the upright and locked position.  I felt a wave of horny desperation.  It was now or never.  I reached down between my legs, knocking the green fleece onto the floor, and grabbed his hand by the wrist, guiding him.

With his long middle finger deep inside my cunt, I held on to his wrist and violently, spasmodically ground the flat of his hand against my screaming, distended clit.  I felt another finger slip inside me, stretching my pussy, and another fingertip brush against my asshole.  Grinding his big strong hand into my clitoris, the orgasm racked my body, over and over, waves of pent-up pleasure and glorious release, leaving me shaking and breathless.

When I was finally done coming, I quickly pulled up my pants and tidied myself up as much as possible.  I had bit down on my own arm when I came, leaving a neat set of teeth-shaped bruises that Mom would force me to come up with some explanation for that she wouldn’t believe.

The seatbelts light had come on, and the plane was losing altitude fast, but I was still in a happy daze.  I looked longingly at the very promising lump in the front of his jeans, but there was no time, no time.  The stewardesses were already coming down the aisle, checking all the passengers, and our rotund neighbor had finally woken up.

Landing is usually the worst part for me.  This time, my sweaty fingers entwined in his sticky ones, I barely even noticed the final approach and the thunk as the wheels touched down.

The flight was a little late from waiting so long on the tarmac at LaGuardia, so when we got to the gate, they let the passengers with connecting flights off first.

Getting off the plane, one of the stewardesses, a blonde lady with leathery skin, grinned at me and winked lasciviously.  I blushed guiltily.

I had hoped that he’d waited, that I could drag him off into some semi-private corner of the airport and give him a really quick but world-class blowjob; but he was nowhere to be seen.  I headed down toward the luggage carousels, kicking myself for not getting his phone number and dreading two weeks in close proximity to my family.  I was already looking forward to the return flight.

END

6 Comments »

  1. ElsieFanny said

    I love this. I is very close to a long-time fantasy of mine from the male perspective. Every time I get seated next to a pretty woman on a long flight, I spend most of the trip fantasizing and reminding myself to behave.

  2. Kaptain said

    I agree – great story. Who hasn’t wanted this while flying?
    The continuation of this could be fascinating – he’s waiting for her out front with a Taxi, or is on her return flight to joing the 30,000 foot club, cliche, but fun.

    • elsiewrites said

      Thank you! I actually considered expanding the story to include a return flight, where they once again happened to be on the same plane, and she asks to change her seat in order to sit next to him; BUT I think in the end it was a better choice to stop where I did. I like leaving things hanging at the end, leaving the reader wanting -and imagining- more. This is part of the reason I don’t do sequels or multi-part stories. I like each piece to stand on it’s own.

  3. aprilinside said

    great story Elsie, thank you. I’m travelling again, and have been on so many planes these last two weeks and would have loved something like this. I love your writing x

  4. Sue said

    You oughtta know by now that its is the possessive and it’s is a contraction of it is.

    Love,

    Susie

    • elsiewrites said

      Sue,
      Thanks for pointing out the typo. I’ve re-read the story, and I still can’t locate the improper use of “its”. I guess I’m just being dense. Could you be more specific?
      Thanks
      Elsie

RSS feed for comments on this post · TrackBack URI

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: