The Advantage Of Narrow Bodied Jetsbymorethananeyeful©
Where can a man and woman, complete strangers to each other, be forced to spend a night together in close physical proximity in a semi private place? The answer is obvious but had never really occurred to me until recently flying back to Europe from South America. As I walked down the aisle of the plane at we will say Lima- several details are changed to protect anonymity- I saw there was a very attractive woman in the seat next to mine, though no spring chicken, probably, like me, in her forties. The airline had a not so wide body so there were only two seats next to the window.
Within ten minutes of getting the plane I had established three things about Marie-Luz, as I later found out she was called. Firstly she spoke no English (and my Spanish is very poor). Secondly, she had the most gorgeous smile which she seemed willing to bestow on me. Thirdly, full on her face was beautiful from the side- significant if you are sitting next to someone on an aircraft- it was still attractive but compromised a little but deep wrinkles leading to her eyes.
For the first two hours of the flight I needed to work on my laptop, and paid her little overt attention, but the thought of the intimate position we had been forced to share was a constant distraction. Sex wasn't going to happen, but short of that there was so much that could. For the next ten hours, much of it night time, we were partners and her body language suggested she relished the fact as much as I did.
Eventually tiredness and an expired laptop battery overtook me. Conversation with Marie-Luz began. We both found it worth overcoming our linguistic limitations to find out a little about the other. She was going home to provincial Spain to see her 19 year old daughter after a year working in Peru. She couldn't- or wouldn't- tell me what she had done beyond saying she was a temporary worker. She claimed to speak a little French but that moved the conversation along no further than my Spanish. She loved the Beatles but thought they came from London. By a glorious coincidence Strawberry Fields shortly afterwards played on the plane's sound system, which she had on and I didn't. She held one speaker to my ear for the entire track. I have had blow jobs that excited me much less than this did.
We talked some more both apologising repeatedly for our linguistic limitations, though my apologies were the more merited as I was on a flight that started and finished in a country that spoke her language.
As the lights were dimmed and the plane quietened we stopped talking tried to sleep, our bodies, or at least our arms, pushing on each other. The ostensibly innocuous pressure from that aroused me so much that I had, in the interest of decency, to loosely place a blanket over myself. Soon after our legs started touching each other's.
My hand ran over her upper thighs starting on the outside, moving inwards. I knew where it was headed: she did too. She had thin and quite tight trousers on, that anyone taking discreet(ish) glances of the sort I did would leave in no doubt as to the physical nature of her femininity. Sadly before the target was reached she took my hand and gently removed it. I can see her point. Even if- big if- she felt as attracted as I did this was not really private. And she may not have wanted passengers, who might walk down the aisle, watching her vagina being stroked, particularly by a stranger.
I did not return my hand to her leg. I did not know how much she wanted to play this game the way I did, and molester is not my style. The pressure remained from our arms on each other and from the occasional smile and disjointed attempts at conversation.
Fortunately my wandering hand did not seem to have caused her any great offence. We carried on our linguistically challenged conversation. She was the one who suggested swapping emails. We got off the plane together, attempting to hep each other find our respective connections. Writing down what I had been able to glean from the confusing announcement, on her hand was the final act of real physical intimacy: much more so than the predictable kisses on the cheek with which we said goodbye.
As the few readers this will get may already have realised, I write this more for her than them. I hope it will get translated. I could have made it fictional, with my fingers, if nothing else, getting into places where I had fantasised about them going as I was trying to work early on in the flight. It means more to me to relate it as a more or less true story, hence it has to be described as "non-erotic", despite being one of the most erotic experiences of my life.