Flight 1573

It's an American flight on the way to Ireland, by way of Heathrow. One of those big 7-something-7's with the two seats, five seats, two seats pattern all across the steerage area. Actually, they're pretty comfortable, roomy seats. They'd have to be for a 10-12 hour trip, or people would go mad. And, as always, I've booked enough ahead to get into one of the two seat rows where I won't have to climb over 3 people just to sit down. I notice with pleasure that it's very empty and wonder how they can even afford to fly. The latest magenta alert has probably led people to cancel. Oh well, more room for me. I sigh happily and stretch in my cotton sundress. It's one of those 50's halter things that doesn't wrinkle much and always manages to look good. I've already kicked off my sandals and have my bare feet tucked up on the arm of the neighboring chair. Hey, maybe I'll even get to spread out into the seat next to me. But no. Someone is coming down the aisle. Fuck. I get my feet back on the floor and look up. Oh. It's you. The cute older guy from Political Science 101 who should be a major. The one who does the info tech stuff for the university (Hey, I told you in a vain attempt at recruiting, as a political scientist you might even make as much as some philosophers). One of the few A's. Oh well, then. That's not so bad. Really, that's not bad at all. You look as surprised as I was. We swap stories. They're sending you to some fancy weeklong conference in London as a bribe to keep you from going into private industry and making twice as much. I'm going to Ireland for a less fancy academic conference. We start talking politics and it turns out we're in total agreement -- something that we suspected from the class. I tell you to call me Emma. It's not like you're 18, for god's sake. We lower our voices when the lights are lowered and everyone who wants to remain awake plugs themselves into the movie, but we're far enough away from everyone not to bother them.

The drinks cart comes around. I usually never order alcohol on planes, especially because I'm a teaspoon drunk, but you talk me into it. In about half an hour I'm feeling just a little lit and very happy. And you're looking more and more attractive in the dim light. We've already pushed the chair arm that's between us up, and our seat belts are off. I'm happy to see that you're getting less respectful. I make a joke at your expense and you pretend to swat me, and then pause and push my hair out of my face.

"Your eyes are blue, right?" you ask, peering in the dim light.

"Gray," I say, moving closer. "They look blue or green when I wear blue and green, but they're really gray."

Our faces are only inches apart.

The kissing just happens, it's not clear who started it at all. Both of us probably. And it's really good, completely sexy, kissing with... Oh dear. How did your hand get inside the top of my dress? Oh god. That feels way, way too good. Jesus. I'm a professor. This is a public place. I struggle upright from my semi-recumbant position (and how did that happen?) vainly trying to smooth my dress down and peering over the top of the seat to make sure no one saw us.

"John.. John. We're on a plane for god's sake. John. Oh god. That's -- No. No. Stop it. You're my student. Really. I'm sorry if I led you on. You caught me by surprise. Really. We can't."

You give me the look. The one you sometimes gave me in class. I'm not sure what it means but it always did something to me then and it's doing more to me now. I'm still babbling when you take my face in both your hands and kiss me. I feel your tongue in my mouth and I don't even remember what I was saying. Your hand is back on my breast and the sensation is so intense, it would kill me to stop it. You push me back a little against the wall and you hand slips under my skirt. I realize what's going to happen. I realize I'm absolutely incapable of stopping myself. It's kind of liberating in a completely terrifying way. I'm going to fuck someone on a plane. A populated plane with flight attendants and passengers and, my god, what if we get arrested or something? And yet my body is, as they say, on board with the idea.

"Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb," I mutter, turning off the reading lights and getting the blanket out from under the seat.

"In for a penny."

I drape it over our laps. And I move in. I love the way your erection feels through your pants. It's such a nice thing to stroke. I put my head on your shoulder as if I were napping when the flight attendant passes us, and I continue running my hand along your thighs and cock. Soon I'm reaching for the zipper. You, meanwhile, have taken advantage of the blanket to reach into my panties and begin stroking as well. It feels wonderful. It feels perfect. I sink lower in my seat, keeping an eye out, and duck under the blanket. I kiss your cock. The tip, the side, down near the base. I run my tongue along the shaft and then take all of you in my mouth. I hear a muffled exclamation from above and now your fingers are inside me. Trying to keep my movements minimal (a heaving blanket would surely give the game away to a passerby, I think, vainly trying to remember whether our remote seat is in between someone else's seat and the bathroom) I move your cock in and out of my mouth. But sucking involves less lateral motion. Mmmm. OK. That works. I suck, pretending you're one of those nice, long, hard, gigantic pieces of stick candy.

It's a little frustrating -- the needing to keep still. I can only keep up the suction on part of the length. Though you don't seem to be experiencing my logistics problem as something to object to. All to the good. I come up for air, peering past you lap into the aisle. No one. Good. You take me by the shoulder and kiss me.

"Bathroom," you murmur. "Down there."

I feel like I'm high, not just tipsy. I start to giggle watching you. In fact, I'm giggling uncontrollably at the sight of your trying to fit your erection back into the pants from whence it came.

"Like one of those evil inflatable rafts that opens in a small space," I sputter, trying to get a hold of myself.

You give me a look that says I will pay, and take me by the arm, having achieved a very tight and uncomfortable accommodation. We pass a few sleeping people, and a couple watching television. No one looks at us. The restroom sign is ahead. None are taken. We slip into a cubicle. Oh, thank god. It doesn't smell, and it's clean. I'd been worried. I didn't think I could have coped otherwise. It's rather like being in a largeish solid plastic phone booth. We face each other and you kiss me. I feel myself melting. My knees are, literally, weak. There's a small counter, rather high, and you lift me up to sit on it, pushing my skirt above my waist. I've already lowered my panties and flick them off my foot as you liberate the problematic erection, which appears to me to have taken on the guise of a heat seeking missile. Well, then, there's only one place for it to go. And it does. It takes a while to figure out where and how to brace myself, but then I can concentrate on the feel of your cock pushing into me. First the tip. Then a little deeper. Then turbulence or enthusiasm or both makes you lunge and I almost shout at the painful, wonderful bigness of it stretching me out, filling me up. You brace yourself against the door and one wall and begin to pump, picking up speed as my breath begins to come in gasps and my legs wrap around your waist. Then you lift me and turn to sit on the closed toilet seat, me in your lap, legs on the floor this time for a little traction. Now I begin to move, throwing my arms around your back and forth, grinding into you until I can feel the orgasm crashing over me as your mouth muffles my scream. And now it's you coming, your arms tightening around me like a vise, both of us shuddering in the aftershock, both of us still out of control.