Frustrated on a Plane

"When we fly first class, we dress like we belong there," he said with a smile. "I'll be wearing a sport's coat with an open collar, and a pair of slacks. I suggest you wear a skirt of some kind."

It's not that I had never been on an airplane before, but I had never flown first class. More importantly, I had never flown with him. It's not that he was demanding. He didn't give orders, but he was exacting. He knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to say so. And for this trip he wanted me in a skirt.

At 25, I was well out of college, but in some ways I felt much too young for his 45 years. Sometimes when he looked at me, I felt like such a little girl hungry for his approval. Truth be told, the feeling made me quiver; it's a good part of why I found myself drawn to him. He would look at me, and instantly I would transform into his willing little doll where all I wanted was his touch and a kind word.

It wasn't healthy, I know, but it made me so wet, I just couldn't help myself.

So there I was, dressing as he requested and eager to do so. When I flew by myself, I'd throw on jeans and a t-shirt, with a big comfy college sweatshirt over the top because planes were always cold. But now I pulled on knee length, pale-pink, flared skirt and a white blouse.

Appraising my look in the mirror I realized with a few modifications I'd give off the air of a 50's bobby soxer, and it seemed like a good idea to pursue it. So I pulled my dark tresses back into a tight pony tail and tied it off with a silk scarf that matched my skirt. Batting my big brown eyes at myself playfully in the mirror, I wondered if it was too much. But I looked cute, dammit, so I was going with it. Besides, it's not like I had slipped on saddle shoes or anything, it was just a scarf and a pony tail.

When he slipped back in the room, his 5'10 frame looking dapper in his grey sports coat matching the speckled hair at his temples, I knew he liked what I had done by the smile that crept across his face.

I twirled and let the skirt and my pony tail flare up as I did.

"You like?" I asked coyly.

"Very much," he said. "Might I suggest a very bold red lipstick?"

I smiled, "If you like..." and I went to my make up on my dresser and found a particularly bright shade. I knew he was thinking of my lips now, and I was thinking about taking him in my mouth. My thighs dampened, but there wasn't time. We had a plane to catch after all.

"A look like that," he began, "And some people might think you're my daughter."

I grinned wickedly, "Then they'll be very shocked when they hear me begging you to fuck me at the top of my lungs."

He moved up behind me and wrapped his strong arms around my petite waist as I leaned forward and finished applying the lipstick. He kissed my neck left bare by my hairstyle and a shiver ran down my spine.

His lips found my sensitive earlobe as his hands ran up and cupped my breasts through my blouse. A slight whimper escaped my lips as I lost track of what I was doing. I managed to set the lipstick down before dropping it and placed my hands palm down on the vanity for support.

Pressing my ass back into him and could tell he was already getting hard as he began to grind into me. It was then, however, that we both heard the honking horn of the cab as it pulled into his driveway. He broke away from me with a deep sigh and said simply but with an edge, "To be continued," as he grabbed our luggage and made his way down the stairs to the front door.

Catching my own breath, the brief episode combined with the mere thought of dressing for him had left my panties uncomfortably damp, so I slid them off and threw them in the hamper. But before I could find a new pair to slide on, he was back, leaning in the doorway to the bedroom.

"Come on," he insisted, "We are going to be late." So I followed him downstairs, leaving thoughts of panties behind.

The trip to the airport was uneventful. While I was all too aware of my pantie-less condition, he seemed preoccupied with the time and the traffic. He hated being late for anything and the trip to the airport was beginning to wear on his nerves.

Meanwhile, every movement, every bump in the road, sent a shiver through me. Was I really going to fly all the way to Spain with no underwear? I had come a long way from the shy girl raised in a conservative home, not allowed to even date until I was 17.

After freeing myself from my conservative upbringing in college, I managed more than my fair share of lovers, gaining quite the reputation as a blow job artist. But it wasn't until I met him that I really understood what I was looking for. What I needed.

The first time I tried to go down on him, I made the mistake of thinking he was just another boy eager to get off in my mouth, but as I tried to take him between my lips, his hand wrapped forcefully in my hair and stopped me, my lips inches from his already hard and exposed cock.

"I'm sorry," he said condescendingly, "I don't remember you asking permission to suck my cock, slut."

No one had ever called me "slut" before, at least, not when I was about to take a cock in my mouth. The word stung as much as the tight grip he had on my hair, but it also made my heart skip a beat. This was no boy just happy to have a mouth on his cock. No, this was a man who knew what he wanted, and more importantly, knew what I wanted. He knew, no matter what pleasure my mouth would give him, sucking him off would give me far more.

So I did the only thing I could think to do; I asked permission to suck his cock.

I could almost hear him smile as he guided my mouth down onto him. Mostly he relaxed his grip in my hair and let me do what I knew how, but whenever I did something he didn't like - Sucked too hard, let my jaws close a little too much - he would reassert his grip and pull me from him, leaving me gasping and hungry.

In the cab, the memory flooded my mind and my bare sex. As the signs directing the cab through the airport came into view, I felt myself get wetter as I remember how he was the first man to hold my mouth down on his cock as he came deep in my throat, forcing me to swallow. I thought, "God, why am I thinking about that now?" It was the last thing I needed.

As we exited the cab and made our way through ticketing and security, he seemed preoccupied with schedules and timing. But with every step I reinforced the growing desire as my thighs applied pressure that made me constantly aware of my overheated state.

When we arrived at the gate he finally turned to me and gave me a good look. "Are you ok?" he asked. "You seem a bit flushed."

If anything I blushed even harder, "I'm fine... just a little..."

He looked at me sternly waiting for me to come out with it. He often did this. Even though it seemed like he knew my thoughts before I did, he always insisted that I be the one to say it. He wanted me to say it. He wanted to see that my desire would overcome my shyness, that my need would overcome my embarrassment.

"Go on," he insisted.

I leaned in, worried the older couple sitting across from us in the gate waiting area might be paying too close attention. "You left me a little... wet." I whispered in his ear.

He grinned with a bit of self-satisfaction.

"Well," he placed his hand on my knee slightly under the hem of my skirt, "we'll see if we can make some use of that."

He gave my knee a slight squeeze and my thighs parted ever so slightly almost involuntarily. "Make use of it?" I thought. "On a plane? But planes are so cramped, with so many people." I found myself between anxiety and wanton desire.

Sensing my thoughts, he leaned over and kissed my cheek before whispering in my ear. "Remember, you're mine, and I'll have you wherever I want."

Oh god. I melted.

I was in a daze as we boarded and took our seats. He ushered me to the window and took the aisle for himself. As he sat he placed his hand on my knee and slid it up under the hem of my skirt, much higher than it had been at the gate, but not nearly high enough. Every nerve ending on me was electrified and it was all I could do not to slink down in my seat and try desperately to grind against his hand.

Of course, he'd likely just move it. And god, what a sight I would be for the steady stream of coach passengers filing past us: me, grinding like a whore against his unseen hand. But that image alone turned me on even more. I couldn't think straight. Even when I tried to chastise myself, I wound up becoming more heated.

When the flight attendant came to us to ask if we wanted anything before take off, I looked at her with a blank stare, as if she were speaking a foreign language.

"Whaaa?" I asked listlessly as she met my eyes. She was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties. Blonde with a good figure and expertly applied makeup and hair.

She glanced down into my lap and saw that his hand was under my skirt. Looking back into my eyes she gave only the subtlest of smirks.

"She'll have a glass of red wine," he said, taking charge of the situation but refusing to move his hand, "And all have a scotch on the rocks, please."

"Absolutely sir," she said a little too friendly for my taste, her eyes appraising him with a look that said she was impressed by both his demeanor and his command of me.

She returned quickly, placing our drinks on the trays in front of us, but also noting that his hand kept its place under my skirt.

"If you need anything," she said with a coy little smile, "I'm Savannah. Just ring for me."

He smiled back at her in a way that I didn't completely like, and said simply, "Thank you."

The plane taxied down the runway preparing for take off. I sipped my wine and regained a bit of composure. His hand was still riding high on my thigh, but the sensation of its presence had dulled a bit and my natural anxiety about flying started to kick in as we taxied into position.

As the plane reached its take off position; however, I felt his hand slide higher on my thigh, and when my legs, still somewhat properly together, proved a barrier to his hand going high, I felt a slight tap on the inside of my thigh, and like a well-trained pet, I spread my knees wider apart, letting his hand slide all the way up my leg.

Despite my eagerness for his touch, I was nervously looking around, wondering if anyone was watching, feeling like everyone on the plane knew that the girl in the pink skirt and pony tail had no panties on and was about to be finger fucked by the man sitting next to her.

My eyes shot wide and then slowly closed as I felt his hand cover my smooth sex while his finger parted the well wet folds of my flesh. The plane accelerated down the runway, and the force of it pushed my back in my chair as he sunk a finger inside me.

The pane tilted up, aiming toward the sky, and my hands gripped the arm rests of the chair as he alternated between running circles over my clit and plunging a finger as deep as he could inside me. I slid my ass forward in the seat and angled my hips to give him better access as we climbed into the clouds.

I'm sure what was happening was obvious to anyone who could see us, but I couldn't bring myself to care even as the thought of my lewd exhibition nagged at me. Instead I grinded my hips into his hand and felt my long overdue orgasm begin to build. Closer and closer it came. I wasn't sure I could be quiet. Would the noise of the plane cover up any moans and cries, or would everyone know. Everyone I was trapped with for the next 8 hours. They'd walk by and know I was that little slut who couldn't keep from cumming in public. His little slut. Fuck. His willing little...

And then the plane leveled off and he pulled his hand away. My hips moved against empty air and I almost cried to be teased so. I had scooted so far forward in my seat I was almost laying down when I opened my eyes and looked up at him, pleading, almost begging.

But he wasn't even looking at me. He had his eyes firmly placed on a book in one hand and his other hand, the hand that he'd so cruelly removed from my thighs at the last possible moment. That hand placed its middle finger, wet with my juices into his drink and stirred his scotch, before he took it to his mouth and sucked it clean. His eyes never leaving the page of his book.

I sat back up and leaned into him, growling into his ear, "You can't be serious. You can't leave me like this. Please..."

But he just smiled and, without looking at me said, "Patience, it's a long flight. We have lots of time."

I groaned in frustration and thought about excusing myself to the restroom to finish. I need to cum so badly by now that it almost hurt.

Just then Savannah came by, "Are you two doing okay?" she asked with a smile that wasn't quite friendly, more mischievous and knowing.

I started to say something. I wanted to anyway. I wanted to say something clever, but no words came out so I nodded dumbly.

She looked at him, placed her hand on his shoulder and said again, "Well if you need anything, just ask." Then she looked at me, noting my flushed cheeks and desperate expression. "That goes for you too, of course." She turned to walk away but stopped and turned back toward us.

"Just so you two know," she said with a smile, "This is an overnight flight, so we'll be dimming the lights soon." She looked directly at me and gave me a little wink. "Just thought you might be looking forward to that."

When she was gone he turned to me and smiled wickedly, "She seems nice."

Between my own state of unfulfilled need and his shameless flirting with our flight attendant, I was ready to scream. But I took a deep breath and tried very hard to not think about every time he ever fucked me to orgasm. Tried very hard not to think about him fucking Savannah to orgasm. Tried very hard not to think about fucking or orgasms at all. But it was about all I could think of.

So it was with a great deal of agitation and ache that turned my attention first to the clouds outside our window, and then to a book that I tried to read in vain. Every time I shifted I felt the dampness between my legs and was made painfully aware of my lack of panties. I tried crossing my legs, and then uncrossing them. But both just made matters worse.

My head began to fill with sexual visions. Being fucked, taking him in my mouth. Nothing consistent, no narrative, just a jumbled pool of swirling images that grew larger and larger absorbing more of my mind and my surroundings.

I glanced around the cabin and saw the attractive flight attendant. I stared at her with what must have been a hungry look with glazed over eyes. What would she look like sucking a cock? Her mouth was small it seemed. Would she struggle to stretch her jaw wide enough?

I saw an attractive male passenger a few rows up. A man in his mid-30s, already occupied with what looked to be the latest Bond film on his personal video screen. Does he have a large cock? I imagined the flight attendant offering him a beverage, and him confidently requesting a blow job instead. In my minds eye, I saw her smile accommodatingly and drop to her knees as though this was a routine part of her job.

Absent mindedly, my hands gripped the hem of my skirt as if that would keep them from slipping beneath it. I slid my clenched knuckles back and forth over the tops of my knees as my thoughts spiraled out of control.

I now found other passengers and imagined them fucking and sucking each other, making appropriate pairings in my head. I wondered how many cocks had been inside the mouth of the older woman across the aisle from us. She looked about 60. Had she been a slut when she was younger? Did she let anonymous men take her mouth in restroom stalls during the heyday of 70s disco?

The thought of all the flight attendants crawling through the first class cabin on hands and knees flooded my mind, they wore nothing but corsets and heels, offering themselves to everyone, men or women. I imagined being such a flight attendant. Being used over and over by a string of passengers who couldn't care less who I was other than a hole to get off with.

The captain announced something I didn't quite catch but then the lights turned down so it was hard to see except the occasional glow of a television screen. Almost instinctively, I let go of the hem of my skirt and trailed my fingers on the lowest part of the inside of my thighs.

I was so wet. I felt electric.

With my jumbled images of a debauched plane ride floating through my head, I ran my hands a little higher, pushing my skirt up. I glanced around as clandestinely as possible, making sure no one, not even he was watching.

I wriggled in my seat, grinding against it without conscious thought. Was I whimpering? The noise of the plane's engines drowned out so much, I doubt even he heard me if I was.

My skirt pushed further up and my chest rose and fell with a breathlessness when suddenly his hand gripped my wrist firmly in the dark.

My eyes shot to him, wide and fearful, like a child who had been caught stealing a cookie. He stared back at me with a look of icy control.

"Didn't I tell you to be patient?" He said firmly through gritted teeth.

My eyes fell to my lap, "I'm sorry, Sir." I almost whispered. Even as I did I felt myself moisten even more knowing that calling him Sir was a signal of both what I needed and how I wanted to be treated.

With his hand firmly on my wrist, he pulled it into his lap and pressed my palm against his crotch. He wasn't entirely hard, and that surprised me. I was soaked thinking about him, ready to explode at the slightest opportunity, and it seemed he hadn't been thinking the same.

I was truly his little slut.

The thought filled me with the kind of shame that made me shiver in debauched delight. And even though he held my hand in place by my wrist, he didn't need to. I began to massage him through his pants, feeling his cock grow under the material. I wanted it hard, I wanted to tease him, leave him eager and unsatisfied just like I was. I doubted I could elicit that, but I would try and the new focus kept my own needs at bay.

The rows on the plane were slightly staggered leaving us slightly ahead of one row across the aisle, and slightly behind the other. This combined with the darkness gave us just enough privacy to make me bold enough to undo the button on his pants and lower the zipper.

For a second I figured he might stop me, but he only looked over at me and held my big brown eyes in his as I looked up at him trying my best to give him a look that said I was there for his use.

He released my wrist and relaxed into his seat, sliding his hip forward a little, letting the length of his now erect cock stand free as my petite fingers wrapped around it.

I began to slowly stroke him, running my fist up and down the smooth, elongated flesh. He kept his eyes on me, and it gave me a thrill to know that he saw me, his own little slut, as his cock grew in my hand. I felt him twitch as my pace grew, and he bit his lower lip but kept his eyes on mine and I smiled.

Or, at least, I thought I was holding his eyes. But as my own pace quickened, I saw his eyes turn down ever so slightly. No, not my eyes, not anymore, I realized, now he was fixating on my mouth! Oh that red lipstick does do wonders to draw attention. Devilishly I licked my lips and as I did he smiled and let out a little groan.

I had him now, he was... well, he was far from putty in my hand. His cock was a hard as a steel rod and I slowed my strokes in order to make him suffer a little. He raised his hips, trying to fuck himself into my closed fist, but when he did, I released my grip.

He gave me a very stern look, but the desire was in his eyes, he wanted me now. Wanted me to make him cum, but I was going to pay him back for every moment to that point that kept me unsatisfied.