An Innocent Abroad Ch. 01

Hi Everyone,

This is my first erotic story, so please enjoy, and please feel free to share your comments and constructive feedback so that I can improve. This is the first of a string of stories, chapters of a potential novel, ideally developed with your help and encouragement.

Thanks.

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An Innocent Abroad

Chapter 1: Red-Eye to Europe

An hour in the air, the red-eye to Europe was smooth and uneventful. Looking out the window, I watched the dusky lights of Boston submit to the dark depth of the Atlantic. Once we reached our cruising altitude, stewardesses passed out dinner trays and poured our drinks -- including wine and alcohol. The stewardesses were all in their 20s or 30s, all very attractive, each wearing a tight beige-and-brown uniform, necklines low-cut to expose a line of cleavage.

I was sitting by the window, enjoying my beef tips in gravy and my glass of French red wine. The two seats beside me were empty. Most of the cabin was empty. The rows both in front and behind me were empty. In the big center section across the aisle, sporadic people sat here and there -- an older man by sitting by himself in the row directly across the aisle, a middle-aged couple a few rows back. The couple seemed to be having a fight. I could hear them snapping at each other in French.

I was happy to have my own semi-private section. I was only 18, traveling by myself for the first time. The whole idea of traveling alone terrified me. But the terror of not knowing what might happen next was also a skin-tingling thrill. Anything could happen at any time. I was still pretty much a kid, still naïve to the ways of the world, so I never knew what to expect.

"Finished with dinner?" asked the strawberry blonde stewardess with the bright white fingernails. Her generous line of cleavage was both fleshy and freckled. Her whole face was smiling. I nodded yes, that I was finished, feeling somewhat tipsy from the wine. As the stewardess leaned forward, reaching for my dinner tray, the soft blonde hairs on her long slender forearm sparkled in the light from the reading lamp above me. Something stirred inside me, something aching for expression.

Once dinner was cleared, the cabin lights were dimmed so passengers could sleep. That's when I went to brush my teeth. I slid out of my row and headed toward the aft lavatories, passing by the French couple a few rows back.

Beneath the bubble of lamp light above them, the French man wore a dark suit, his dark mustache turning gray. He was picking through items in a small bag as the French woman, sitting between him and the aisle, crossed her black-stockinged legs. She glanced up as I approached, then glanced down and up again, smiling as I passed. I walked right by her, pretending not to notice her tight black sweater and tight black knee-length skirt.

Outside the lavatories, a man was already waiting. He was tall with thinning hair that was likely once red. His white button-down shirt was tucked into trousers, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows. After he informed me that both lavs were occupied, after I thanked him and turned away, I could feel his eyes still looking at me, checking me out. My boss back home at the flower shop used to look at me that way, the same way I looked at the strawberry-blonde stewardess as she leaned forward to take my tray, my mind devising all sorts of scenes and scenarios.

When I couldn't keep ignoring his attention, I glanced back at the man, just long enough to confirm that, yes, he was looking at me. As I half-smiled and turned away again, he quickly asked: "Going to Paris?" I glanced back at him again, this time to see if he was serious. We were all going to Paris: the whole plane.

Before I could respond, one of the lavatory doors opened and a kid in pajamas stepped out and started down the aisle toward his seat. The tall man slipped inside, shut the door, and turned the occupied lock. Right then, the other lav opened. This time, a couple stepped out, a guy and a girl, both a bit older and far more tipsy than me, both trying not to laugh as they staggered back to their seats.

Inside the lavatory, I quickly brushed my teeth, sniffing the air now and then to catch the whiff left behind by that giggling couple. There was hardly any space in this claustrophobic water closet. How could people possibly do it? Maybe someone could kneel on the toilet with the seat-top down.

I looked at myself in the mirror. What I saw hardly reflected how I felt inside. Inside, I still felt like a little kid, like a pre-pubescent teen. But I didn't see a little kid in the mirror. Instead, I saw a bushy-haired young man, full-lipped, high-cheeked, gazing at me with deep-set light blue eyes.

The sight of that young man got my inner kid excited. With one hand, I reached up and felt a nipple harden beneath my T-shirt. With my other hand, I slowly popped the buttons of my jeans. Then, reaching into my shorts, the guy in the mirror pulled out his hefty cock.

It was hot watching that guy in the mirror pull out his heavy cock. It was hot as he stared straight at me, me staring at him, both of us starting to stroke ourselves.

Normally, right before bed, I'd take some time to lightly stroke my swollen cock and balls, enjoying the twitches as my cock got hard, then gently jerking off till it spurt a stream of goo across my sheets. I wasn't about to jack off here, not in this tight quarter. I'd have to hold it overnight. So instead, I took quick a piss, packed my cock back in my pants, then headed back to my seat through the dimly lit cabin, the loud engine hum soothing all the passengers to sleep.

Back at my seat, I kicked off my shoes; buckled my seatbelt, keeping it loose; then looked around the cabin to see how others had settled in. The older man across the aisle had laid across the four seats of his center-section row. Behind me, the French couple sat reading in their pool of lamp lights. When the woman's dark eyes flit up from her book, I quickly turned away.

As for sleeping, I decided to simply lean against the window. I could have laid across all three seats, but I'd have to curl up and that felt weird: Either my head would be right by the aisle, right by every passing sound; or my butt would be turned toward the aisle, and that just felt too vulnerable. Instead, I popped the buttons of my jeans, adjusted my cock so it wouldn't get scrunched, spread out the airline blanket over my lap, then rested my head against the pillow that was pressed against the window.

Right as I was closing my eyes, the French woman walked past my row, heading for the front lavatories. As she passed, she didn't look over at me, almost as if ignoring me, same as I had done to her. Once she stepped into the lav, I looked back behind me. The reading lamps were both switched off. The French man leaned back in his seat, a black sleep mask over his eyes.

Making a final few adjustments, I rested my head against the pillow's softness and closed my tired eyes. Right away, my mind drifted back to that man outside the lavatory, to the way he stared down at me, the same way my simpering flower-shop boss used to do, the same way I stared and that pretty-boy hunk in the lavatory mirror. I felt my cock start to stir in my jeans.

Then I heard, "Pardonnez-moi."

I opened my eyes. The French woman was standing at the aisle. She quickly looked back toward her husband, who I presumed was still masked and trying to sleep. Then, turning back to me, she asked, "Puis-je m'assoir?"

I didn't understand what she was saying.

"No Français," I told her.

She responded by sitting in the aisle seat, saying something else in French, speaking in a very soft and very intimate tone.

I told her again, "No Français."

After another glance at her husband, she lifted the armrest and slid into the center seat beside me.

I tried to sit up, to back away from her, but the seatbelt held me snug.

"C'est bon," she said, reaching out to touch my arm. "Se détendre. Je ne te mordrai pas."

I had no idea what she was saying.

Her eyes were soft and brown and gentle, calming even. But I couldn't look directly at them. I was too embarrassed, too ashamed she'd see how skittish I was. So I glanced down, my eyes following the thin gold chain she wore around her neck, to the small gold cross dangling against her black sweater, dangling between her small bulbous breasts. Afraid she'd see me staring at her breast, I quickly looked up again. Her skin was so smooth. Her lips shimmered in the dim light. Wisps of hair fell past her small gold earrings.

"Quel âge as-tu?" she asked.

Again, I didn't respond.

She could tell it was pointless to talk to me, but she kept looking at me. As she took a deep breath, I watched her breasts rise and fall. I could see she wasn't wearing a bra. Her nipples were hard and poking through the soft black fabric of her sweater.

"Aimez-vous mes seins?" she asked. "Aimeriez-vous les toucher?"

When I didn't respond, she reached over, gently took my hand, and placed it on her breast. I was shocked -- so suddenly stunned I just froze. I couldn't pull my hand away. Her breast was warm and heavy through her sweater, warm and alive as she took another breath. My thumb moved and felt her nipple, hard and small under her sweater. I felt that stirring again in my pants.

"Tu aimes?" she asked.

She was looking right at me, looking directly into me, her brown eyes entering me, leaving me nowhere to hide. Her lips parted and she spoke again in French, asking, "Voulez-vous que je vous touche?"

I didn't know what to say. Thrilled, excited, I just sat there, frozen, my hand still holding her breast.

She responded by laying her hand across the blanket covering my lap, laying her palm on my bulge, her fingers gently squeezing me.

Her lips parted into a smile. "Un si grand garçon américain."

She gave another quick glance back at her husband who hadn't moved, who still appeared to be sleeping. Turning back to me, she put her hand on my chest, pushed me back a bit and said, "Laisse moi te voir." Then she pulled aside the blanket where my button fly was already open.

No one had ever done this before. No one had ever so assertively presented themself, hitting on me so quickly, with such determination. It both scared and excited me, thrilling me with mystery.

"Rien à craindre, mon ange," she said, slipping my cock out of my pants. My cock, already big, was getting bigger with every beat of my heart, which were now coming faster and faster.

"La tour Eiffel," she giggled, placing her warm palms around my shaft, lightly stroking her thumbs along the edge and just under the head of my cock. That got me instantly hard. Her palms also stroked me, slowly and tenderly, the warmth they emitted feeling as smooth as silky lube on my shaft. I wanted to close my eyes, to just fall back into the arms of this crazy moment, but I was way too afraid a stewardess or someone else might see.

"Puis-je te goûter?" she asked.

I still didn't know what it was she was whispering. But I knew enough to say, "Oui."

That's when she scooted back a bit, leaned forward, and placed her face in my lap. I couldn't see what she was doing, not with all her wispy hair spread out everywhere. But I felt her mouth engulf the top of my cock, her lips pressing down around its girth. She gently sucked as her slippery tongue massaged the tender upper underside on my cock.

No one had ever put their mouth on my cock. Despite last year's growth spurt, I was still a technical virgin. All my time in high school, I was small and mostly invisible to girls, except as a friend, so nothing much had ever happened, just a few embarrassing moments now and then.

As the woman kept sucking and pressing her slippery tongue against me, her palms kept stroking me, squeezing very gently now and then. Just the thought of what she was doing -- this strange older woman who had sat down beside me, her husband asleep a few rows back as she now sucked on my cock -- teased something deep inside me.

This was exactly why I quit my job at the flower shop. This is why I had bought a ticket to Europe. I was ready for something to happen. And now, happening faster and faster, the French woman sucked and rubbed and pressed that sensitive spot on my cock.

She knew what she was doing. Not a minute passed when she raised her head and covered the tip of my pulsing cock with her hand. Right then, I shot a thick stream of hot-body cum into her waiting fingers, then another thick stream after that. Both spurts exploded something inside, something that kept quivering, something down by the back of my balls.

"Goûte," she said, raising her fingers up to my face, slipping them into my mouth, forcing my own salty cum all over my lips and tongue.

"Mon adorable petit garçon," she whispered, leaning in to kiss my cheek.

Then, quickly sliding back, she stood up from our seats. Once in the aisle, without looking back at me, she very calmly, quite innocently, smoothed out her sweater with her hands, then started walking back toward the aft lavatories. As she passed by her own empty seat, she ignored her husband, who was now sitting up, smoking a cigarette, his sleep mask pushed up over his forehead, a thin line of gray smoke rising into a cloud above him.

The strawberry-blonde stewardess, passing by my row, tossed a handful of paper napkins into the aisle seat.

"Welcome aboard," she said with a grin, proceeding back toward the aft lavatories.

I was 18. I was still a virgin.

But I was on my way to Europe, where so much more was bound to happen.