The driver opened the door, and the smell of aviation fuel flooded into the limo. With practiced ease she swivelled her legs on the leather seat to get out. As she did so, the skirt of the pale cream Chanel suit rode up just a fraction, and she smiled inwardly as the driver caught a glimpse of her stocking tops through the slit at the side of the skirt. She could have prevented it of course, but she loved the feeling of power. Men are so easily manipulated. A flash of thigh or a hint of cleavage and they lose all sense of proportion. Well, most men did anyway. But in her profession (or was it professions?) you get to know the little tricks that will grab the attention of even the most reluctant man.
Sara thanked the driver who summoned a porter to take her luggage. The doors slid open and she flicked the Ray Bans so they perched like a tiara on the top of her head. With a few confident, measured strides, her four inch heels (Gucci, matching cream of course) clicking out a steady rhythm on the shiny floor, she made a bee line for the first class passenger check-in.
The male check-in attendant was practically salivating by the time she crossed the 20 meters from the door to his desk. His female colleague at the next desk also had a few thoughts she'd rather not reveal to her boyfriend.
"Sara Devonshire, for Riyadh."
The attendant smiled, asked for her passport and as he typed in the name a red alert came up on his screen. She was flagged as a priority passenger – he probably saw this kind of alert once a week. She was clearly a very important passenger. With only a couple of sideways glances at her cleavage, he unconsciously licked his lips and allocated her the seat she requested. He knew she was way out of his league – almost certainly connected to the royal family, or some very senior politician, maybe a high class professional hooker one of the Royal Family had in tow.
Sara registered the licked lips, but she knew she had him before that – maybe it was the stalks his eyes were attached to, or the three furtive glances he had made at her breasts. After the second one she decided to give him a little reward, and leaned forward slightly. God, men really are so easy to influence!
Her priority passenger status saw she was whisked through immigration and passport control. The rather unkempt looking immigration officer had taken a few seconds to study her passport and compare the photograph to the spectacularly good looking woman in front of him. For him, this was a pleasant change from the steady stream of drab business men, or former rock stars that normally filed past him in this channel. Her blonde hair rolled lazily down her cheeks in gentle waves, and rested effortlessly on her shoulder. Her cool, blue eyes and her lips, which were glossed to match her outfit, both had the merest hint of a smile. Her passport said 1.59 metres, though because of the heels she looked taller. She was just starting to get impatient, and about to use one of her techniques to speed him up a bit, when he smiled, handed the well used passport back, and wished her a pleasant trip. She in turn smiled and nodded her head, and as she did so, there was a flash of gold and diamond earring from within the blonde waves of hair. As she walked away from him she left behind the intoxicating fragrance of her expensive perfume.
There are times when it's cool to be late, and times when it's cool to be early. International air travel definitely fits into the latter category. It's very hard to look stylish and dignified if you're scrabbling around trying to wave a passport at someone while dashing to the gate with your hand baggage falling apart behind you. In the First Class Passenger lounge she had time to relax, read (she had brought Vogue, The New Scientist and the FT), and watch people, which as a psychology graduate, is what she really enjoyed.
Passenger Lounges were always a good place for people watching. And Sara loved people watching! Besides, in her profession, it's also quite important. Over there is a woman who is desperately trying to look cool, calm and collected but in reality is scared shitless at the prospect of the journey she's about to undertake. Her medium length dark hair is getting increasingly unkempt, and she has enough pills in front of her to open a pharmacy. Of course, Sara knew that most people who fear flying are actually control freaks, and their fear comes from not being in control.
And there, in the corner is a businessman and his secretary. Well, let's face it, you don't have to be a rocket scientist to read that body language. From the travel guide she's looking at they are off to Singapore – conference no doubt. Aha, just a hint of a touch there. Whoa, just look at that eye contact; they aren't even going to make it to the hotel! The mile high club looks like it's got a couple of potential members there.
Oh and look at him, poor bloke, frantically sweating over his presentation. Now he's on the phone for last minute figures for his proposal. Funny, there's another guy in the same position – making last minute changes for a big deal or a proposal. But he's just the opposite. Same frantic activity, but he loves it, being on the edge - because secretly he knows he's got it all under control.
By the time she'd got back to Vogue she had summed up half the passengers in the lounge. She needed to decide on the dress for the BAFTA award ceremony that Richard would be taking her to next week. She liked Richard. In fact, she liked most of her regulars – nothing kinky with Richard, not that that was a problem – but he was considerate, always paid her well, and never baulked at the price of her clothes. And at the end of the day, he knew it was just business, and that he was just another name in her book. But the reason she was so good at her job, and was paid so well, was because she knew how to make men not think about that when they were with her.
The dress was still unselected when a soft voice, almost as if it didn't want to disturb the passengers, came over the tannoy and announced that her flight was ready to be boarded. She was relieved to see there was only a handful of First Class passengers headed for Riyadh. In addition to the over anxious businessman, the petrified woman, who by the glazed expression she wore was now severely drugged up on Valium, and a man in Arab dress, there was a man who in his youth would have been handsome enough to star in Hollywood movies. Even now at, what was he? Fifty seven? He was still better looking than many men half his age. As they walked off toward the gate, Sara noticed his long, easy strides and knew he looked after himself too. Hmm, this might not be too bad after all.
To the extent that you sit next to anyone in first class, Sara was next to him. She smiled at him, and as the Air Hostie stowed her carry on baggage, she held the eye contact just long enough. Then as she eased herself into the large first class seat/bed she let her skirt ride up just enough to keep his attention. He smiled back and said something about the weather in Riyadh as he retrieved his laptop from his bag. But his eyes kept coming back to her legs. She kept up the pressure by flicking off the Gucci heels. She saw him swallow, and then drag his eyes back to his laptop. Enough for now – the hook had been baited.
Once at cruising altitude, the first class cabin settled down into a smooth routine. The flight attendants moved effortlessly around and seemed to anticipate their clients' every whim. The man with the laptop had started to do some work. The man in Arab dress was watching a movie and psycho-woman was in a drug induced sleep. Sara sat and looked at New Scientist and waited for the right moment. Laptop man, who she had overheard being called Mr Kaminski, stretched out. This was the moment, Sara glanced at her watch.
Sara stood up; the legs were enough to catch his eye.
"Excuse me, but I think I need a little help". She smiled, and then turning away from him started down the wide aisle. After a couple of steps she turned back and held out her hand for him to follow. He started to mumble something about putting away his laptop, but with a "you can't be serious" kind of look, she stepped towards him and took his hand.
Almost reluctantly, he put down his still humming laptop and followed her to the first class section washroom. Whilst larger than those in Economy, there still wasn't a huge amount of space; but enough for what she needed. Once inside she unbuttoned the jacket of the Chanel suit, the only clothing underneath was a low cut, very sexy bra. Without saying a word, she put her arms round his neck, and her mouth and tongue attacked his in a kiss of frantic intensity. He responded with equal aggression and started to tear at her bra which he lifted over her breasts and his mouth turned its attention to her nipples. Sara threw her head back and let out a series of gasps and moans.
After a very short while, she made a smooth movement and started to undo his belt. He stopped and looked at her, and let out his own gasp as with a single smooth movement, she pushed down his trousers and boxers. With a smile she dropped to her knees and took him into her mouth.
Sara was experienced enough to know he wouldn't last long, but a glance at her watch in the mirror reassured her that she wasn't in trouble. So she slowly stood up and turned away from him. Looking back over her shoulder, with what she knew to be her most mischievous look, she inched the skirt higher. Past her hold up stocking tops, over the roundness of her near perfect buttocks, to her waist. She then parted her legs, leaned over, reached round and moved her lacy black thong to the side.
He gripped her waist and she had a sharp intake of breath as he entered her. As she predicted, he didn't last long and with a stifled cry, he held himself in her. She had faked enough orgasms to have got very good at it; he would never realise it hadn't been real.
They cleaned up and he was gentleman enough to leave first to give herself some extra time. She kissed him and thanked him. As he left, she looked at her watch – 14 minutes, no problem. It was an expensive laptop – probably a 250GB drive. That would take slightly under 10 minutes to copy, as long as her accomplice did his job. Or was it her job?
She returned to her seat, and Mr Kaminski looked up and smiled at her. She returned the smile and put the seat into its sleeping position and drifted off to sleep. Safely on the ground in Riyadh, the First Class cabin emptied, and as she walked into the air conditioned airport building, Sara wondered who was the MI5 agent that she had assisted. She had narrowed it down to two, when her people watching skills made her realise that neither the Arab gentlemen, nor the Air Hostess was her partner as she'd thought.
Striding surprisingly confidently and looking very alert for a fear of flying basket case who has been on drugs for several hours, the dark haired woman went straight to the Diplomatic Passport queue and away. Obviously she hadn't been the only good actress on board.