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There are beaches of black sand where he has been. Wherever he has come from, there are hours on the way home over Africa where there is nothing down there. Sometimes it’s nighttime and all you are aware of is perhaps a wave or two of turbulence, a heave from the day’s heat, even at thirty thousand feet.
Sometimes it’s a day flight, clear, and even at thirty thousand feet, you can squint down from the window seat at long intervals and see it there, soft lap after lap of sand, stones, stones in sand, the infinite wreckage not of a city or a civilization but the home that is the earth itself. Sometimes there is a sandstorm down where you can't see, and even thirty thousand feet up the air is opaque. The plane is privately veiled, hidden in sand, buried in space. Nothing is disclosed.
Once this winter he had to take a seat in the economy class because first class was full. At least he had a vacant seat beside him, in the tourist cabin. But at Lisbon, a Portuguese family came aboard and after sulky looks between the two daughters who both wanted to sit with their mother, one of them had to take the seat. So ended his intention to lift the dividing arm and spread himself for sleep.
It was midnight. She was a subdued girl, not pretty or ugly, seemingly plain, sat beside him when the cabin lights were lowered and conversations gave way to the time of day. She had not said good evening, barely looked at him, and resigned to any objections that might be made as she approached the seat. When the flight attendant offered blankets, the young woman opened her thin mouth in a soundless mew of thanks. He was aware that she twisted her body, several times, to look back where mama and sister were sitting some rows away but she couldn’t have been able to see much. He could hear her swallow, and sigh, as if they were in bed together.
He was not comfortable, although he had the advantage of the angle of window and seat to wedge the postage-stamp pillow against; of course she had settled her forearms along the armrests and he could not lean the other way without crowding her. She had the light soft blanket drawn up to her chin and it touched against his left hand lying on his thigh. He pushed it off and as he did, the side of his hand brushed hers, now lying, loosely against her thigh parallel with his. He apologized quietly, as the darkness of the cabin required low voices.
Here in the dark, is where two strangers, without a word or even eye contact, really get to know one another. Here in the dark, a hand lies half-curled against a thigh. The thigh is crossed over another. He’s not sure what made him do it. Or why he even thought it may be a good idea, but he placed his hand on her thigh under the security of her blanket. He anticipated a recoil from the stranger to his side, but she didn’t, so neither did he. His hand moved over the thigh, from the outer side, near the knee somewhere, up and inwards at the same time, and met the parallel lines of the two thighs where, like two soft bolsters or rolls of warm dough, they feel the pressure of their own volume against each other. They are covered with something—stockings, he supposed, he didn't see when she seated herself. He didn’t bother to look.
The plane was quiet, but you could tell not everyone had settled for the night. The flight attendant, with her blonde hair, passed silently down the rows in surveillance and the exchange between them stopped until she had gone, the hand waiting patiently on the thigh. Then, despite the fact that there was still the occasional movement that showed others were still awake, and an old man strolled slowly by on his way to the lavatory, the hand took up the thread of communication.
Under the blanket, away from the eyes of others, the hand found the edge of the very short skirt and there was a pause, quite delicate and patient, until the answer—she lifted her weight just enough to release the material so that he could glide his hand (yes, there were stockings) beneath it and push it up with his wrist as the hand rose.
An inquiry into what kind of flesh this was, to what milieu it belonged: as might have been expected, traveling well-chaperoned with a mother and sister, it was clothed in more than the usual garments for girls of the same age and more independent sophistication. His hand opened a forefinger and hooked it under the stocking-top and touched flesh.
In the cozy dark of other presences, the feel of flesh is experienced anew. The finger went against the grain of fine down and reached the warmth of the two legs pressed together. The skin was tacky, almost damp. It clung to his fingers with a message of excitement and pleasure. He felt how she kept her head absolutely still and knew he was forbidden to look at her face. The finger was in no hurry to broach the question of entry: the thighs must be anticipating that it was coming. Then the fingers curled—she must have felt the tips as she gasped almost silently. The fingers explored and found another ridge of material that gave easily, a crinkly edging round the leg of panties of some tight stretchy weave. She was lying as fully stretched under her blanket as the seat on its reclined position would allow, and his fingers recognized the juncture only by the different texture of the skin, a sudden grainless smoothness, silky and hot.
This time, the question was differently phrased between them without even being spoken, but it must have been understood all the same. The thighs continued to clasp excitedly against nothing. His finger, just his one forefinger again roamed amid the curly hair in no hurry, exploring the new terrain as he felt her body shift ever so slightly at his touch. Although it was he who was stroking movement along this wet and silky lining of her body, he had the impression it was his finger that was being caressed, not the finger that was doing the caressing.
Now and then, quite naturally, he encountered the soundless approval of the little mouth that made no refusal. As the night wore on—oh God knows how long it went on—the finger was able to enter, many times. And many times, she silently shook as she reached climax, mindful of her surroundings, the requirement to remain discreet made each one even more exhilarating and intense.
At first, he was magnificently tense, not only his dick but his whole body and legs, arms, neck, huge in the seat, swollen into unusual awareness of the bounds of himself, but later there were even moments where he must have been so fatigued he dozed, his finger inside her. He woke with amazement: in the tunnel of seat-backs, the dim curving walls, the very faint creaking that was all there was to indicate that the sensation of motionlessness was in fact the nest of extreme speed—just as the extreme intimacy, his hand, finger still inside the body beside him, was the extreme of detachment.
The gradual coming into the light of a morning somewhere did not bring an end. He could not leave her and she could not let him go. The only thing he could not get her to do was touch him; her rather plump and quite womanly hand went limp and stiff-wristed when he tried to carry it over to himself; she would not. Soon it was light, anyway, and he took his weary hand back in good time before the trays of synthetic fruit juice arrived.
The hand smelled of the body it had just left. The girl waited for him to take a plastic cup of juice and then took hers, with the same soundless thank you to the flight attendant. They did not speak; she emptied the cup thirstily blanket aside and went up the aisle. When she returned, she had to stand a moment before taking her seat because someone was blocking the aisle, and he looked up and met her gaze, her pale, thick-skinned face with heavy eyebrows arched; she was prettier than he initially thought. She sat and carefully put back the blanket over herself.
The reluctantly-awakened plane drifted to half-sleep again. The view outside caught his attention and he stared out the window, while he continued to stroke, fondle, dabble, on and on, all the way, caressing her all the way. At Johannesburg, when he handed down a pink coat and her small suitcase, he finally spoke, “You are on holiday?”
She answered that she, her mother, and her sister were coming to visit her uncle. She revealed it was her first time here. Her English was strongly accented but quite intelligible.
He said, “Oh you’ll like it there, in Durban. At the sea.” Her mother, moving with the other daughter along the queue in the aisle, nodded a faint and humble acknowledgement of the help he had given wit her luggage. The young woman gave him a small smile as also offer a humble acknowledgement for his handy work.
If you enjoyed Sex on a Plane, we recommend downloading The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories for more tantalizing tales of couples who seize opportunity on board a plane.
The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Rachel Kramer Bussel’s newest collection, The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories, brings to life the popular fantasy of having sex on an airplane. It tells titillating tales of all case scenarios of this fantasy, from sex on commercial jets to private planes and even aboard Air Force One. Couples and strangers alike manage to find ways to indulge one another while flying the friendly skies. The book features works by Geneva King, Alison Tyler, Thomas S. Roche, Elizabeth Coldwell, Jeremy Edwards, and others.