I will not masturbate under the blanket on this flight
.
I murmur it, under my breath, as I slip my suitcase into the overhead bin.
I will not masturbate under the blanket on this flight
.
Pulling my book from my shoulder bag, I settle into seat 33B. Call me a masochist, but I specifically requested a center seat rather than my usual window. Breaking bad habits always requires a certain amount of discomfort, and it will be that much harder to jam my hand down my pants with a vigilant stranger on either side.
I pick up the plastic-wrapped blanket from my chair and push it under the seat in front of me, well out of temptation’s way. It’ll make for a chilly night, but I can hardly masturbate under the blanket if I have no blanket, can I?
“Excuse me.”
It’s a male voice, obviously the occupant of 33A. I don’t even look his way as I rise and step into the aisle to let him pass. He gives me a nice “Thank you,” but I continue to ignore him, except to notice that he’s tall and sturdy, which means he’ll probably hog the armrest.
My new row mate makes all the requisite motions of unpacking and buckling his seat belt, while I try my best to focus on my book. I can feel him glancing over at me, though, and it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. One vow I’ve had no trouble keeping is to reject overtures from chatty neighbors on long flights, especially men. I do enough coddling of male egos in my work. I’ve recently been promoted to VP of marketing, North America for a power tool company, and my coworkers and customers are virtually all men. Sometimes I need a break from the cordless screwdriver crowd.
My neighbor clears his throat softly, but with obvious intent.
He’s certainly persistent. In spite of myself, I glance over, not at his face, but at his hands resting in his lap.
I do a double take. He’s holding the very same book I have: the new paperback edition of
The View from Castle Rock
. A guy reading Alice Munro?
He says, “It looks like we have something in common.”
I smile. “I didn’t know men were allowed to read fiction by highbrow female Canadian authors.”
“Oh, I’m not reading it. I just bought it for the pictures.”
For the first time I really look at him: dark hair, warm brown eyes, and a smile to melt a glacier. He’s not bad. Not bad at all.
“How’d you get turned on to Alice?” I’m actually curious to know the answer.
“I like her stories in the
New Yorker
and thought I’d check out her latest book. It’s very good.”
I narrow my eyes. “What other authors do you like?”
“Let’s see, John Irving. T. C. Boyle. Vonnegut. Sometimes I venture into Don DeLillo.”
“Good. Those are all Y-chromosome writers. With that talk of Alice Munro, I was thinking you might be a dyke undergoing testosterone therapy in preparation for the Operation.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”
We laugh.
By the time they bring around dinner we’re still talking. Paul tells me he’s a project manager for an open source database company and travels a lot, like me. We have other things in common: crazy bosses, older sisters who just had surprisingly cute kids. He runs 5K races and so do I. Strangest of all, we both just discovered a slow-food bistro in Noe Valley that serves “priest’s collar” pasta. Paul confesses that his Catholic childhood adds a certain kinky enjoyment to the dish. I agree and tell him about my great-aunt, Sister Loyola.
“Maybe we’re twins separated at birth?” I haven’t had anything to drink, but by movie time, I’m feeling tipsy.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Paul replies, “but I hope we’re not.”
His eyes flicker. Okay, so he wants to drill me with his power
tool like all the rest. I have enjoyed the flirting, but sense it’s best to cool things down before he makes any further moves. Letting guys pick me up on airplanes is a habit I gave up for good several years back.
“Well, Paul, it’s been fun, but I’d better get some sleep now or I’ll never get over jet lag.”
“Of course, I should get some sleep, too.” He reaches under the seat in front of him. “Hey, I seem to have an extra blanket—would you like one?”
My stomach tightens.
I will not masturbate under the blanket on this flight
.
Still, it would look strange to refuse his offer, so I take the blanket and tuck it under my arms, leaving my hands exposed and out of mischief. To Paul’s “Sweet dreams,” I smile politely and turn my head toward the neighbor on my right, a silver-haired gentleman who’s already snoozing under his sleep mask.
I close my eyes.
The dreams that await me are definitely not sweet.
So, what’ll it be? Masturbate now and get it over with or futilely resist the inevitable for another half an hour and then do it?
I squeeze my eyes tighter. I made a vow. I’m too old for this. I’m a responsible executive. Playing with myself in public is a nasty habit and I have to stop.
Come on, you know that cute guy got you so worked up, you won’t get a wink of sleep if you don’t diddle yourself
.
I curl my hands into chaste fists. I have to think of something—anything—besides sex. What about Alice Munro? A great writer, so controlled in her prose.
She’d
never masturbate on an airplane. Then again, her stories are always full of sexual yearning. I flash on a scene in her latest work about a young man who’s troubled by the urge to stroke the velvety skin of his
sister-in-law’s birthmark. It was slightly perverse, but the idea made me a little warm and tingly inside.
Now I’m very warm and tingly.
In desperation, I turn back toward Paul, hoping some pleasant conversation might rescue me from my own troubling urges. Unfortunately, he’s already asleep, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, his lips slightly parted. I study his face, the thick eyelashes and kissable mouth. His hand is even more appealing—he is indeed hogging the armrest—with long, sturdy fingers and a tracery of veins on the back that reminds me of a hard cock. My left arm prickles from the warmth of his body. We’re close enough that we could be in bed together, dozing after a satisfying fuck.
I sigh and turn away. I fly often enough for business that it should be a bore, but airplane travel still arouses me in some primal way. The moment I arrive at an airport and get that first whiff of jet fuel on the breeze, my blood starts to race with the promise of adventure and escape. That pulse still throbs now,
down there
, between my legs.
My fingers twitch.
The throbbing quickens, fueled by the drone of the jet’s engines.
All right, there’s no use fighting it. I
am
going to masturbate under the blanket on this flight.
With careful nonchalance, I slide my hands under the blanket and rest them on my thighs. Over the years, my nasty little habit has evolved into a careful system to bring myself off with a minimal chance of exposure. I close my eyes and fantasize like hell while I squeeze my secret muscles, sometimes lingeringly slow, sometimes as quick as hummingbird wings. I do this until I get myself so hot it takes just a minute or two of direct stimulation to come. Then I lift my hands slightly and clasp my right wrist
with my left hand, forming a tent that lets my pussy finger wiggle away unseen until I achieve the desired result. After that comes the extra bonus: sweet, untroubled sleep straight til breakfast.
I don’t need to search far for my fantasy today. My lewd mind steals Paul’s large, tanned hand and copies it three-fold, one for each breast, the third to rest over my mons like some avant-garde artist’s vision of a fleshly bikini. On cue, the hands cupping my breasts begin to pleasure me, expertly tweaking and palming my nipples, which really do stiffen and rise under my shirt. Down below, the middle finger of Paul’s extra hand slithers into my cleft to tease my clit with a soft, circling motion.
Meanwhile I work my cunt muscles—squeeze, release, squeeze, release—until I’m almost squirming in my seat. Before long, it’s time to ease my hand under the elastic of my yoga pants and finish up the job.
As a final precaution, I take a quick peek at the old guy, who’s snoring softly. Stealthily, I roll my head to check on my second companion.
Only to find myself staring straight into Paul’s lovely—and wide-awake—brown eyes.
I freeze.
He smiles, with just a hint of mischief, and bends close to whisper, “I’d like to help, if I can.”
I wince, as if someone’s poured a glass of ice water between my legs. Of course, the only proper reply is a huffy “Whatever do you mean, sir?” But as he continues to gaze at me with that knowing look, the chill in my secret place melts back into a pulsing warmth. Paul’s obviously guessed what I’m up to. And since I so brazenly borrowed his fantasy hands for my pleasure, why not see what the real one can do for me?
I nod, just once, but Paul needs no further encouragement. With admirable smoothness, he raises the armrest between us
and slides his hand under my blanket. Flashing me one last bad-boy grin, he closes his eyes to assume a mask of innocent slumber. Except, under the blanket, his hand is massaging my leg in a most indecent way.
Instinctively, my knees ease open.
His fingers wander higher, to the crease of my thigh, which he strokes lightly through my pants.
I grit my teeth. The hot, tickling sensation radiates through my vulva and my cunt muscles contract deliciously.
The fingers shift to the right, circling my mons with a steady .pressure. I rock my hips discreetly up into his hand. It’s so forbidden and exciting, I probably could come this way, but suddenly I crave his touch on my naked flesh. I ease down my waistband and Paul takes his cue to burrow inside. His middle finger immediately finds my clit, which probably isn’t too difficult, given how hard and swollen it gets when I’m this turned on.
He begins to strum.
Each stroke of his finger sends sparks sizzling through my pussy. My cheeks burn and I’m trying so hard not to moan, my ribs ache. I squeeze Paul’s wrist to steady myself but—devilishly—he only quickens the pace. There’s no turning back now, because I’m a slave to that jiggling finger. I’m a horny slut who wants it so bad, she’ll let a stranger finger her twat on an airplane, yes, she’ll let him rub her wet, swollen pussy until she comes, which is just what I’m doing right now, yes, I’m coming all over Paul’s hand. I grit my teeth to hold back the scream rising from my belly, ricocheting through my body, as my ass jerks rhythmically into the cushion.
When I open my eyes, Paul’s watching me, a faint smile playing at his lips.
I smile back. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
He squeezes my hand sweetly before he retreats to his own blanket, and I’m considering ways I might safely return the favor when suddenly he stands. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
I blink in confusion. Where’s he going? To take a leak at a time like this? But I’m too befuddled by that rocketing orgasm to think clearly and before I know it, Paul’s back beside me, giving my hand another squeeze. “And now I have to thank you.”
“For what? I didn’t get a chance to do anything.”
“Believe me, you did. I think we’re both going to sleep well now.”
That’s when I finally get it. Paul and I might not know each other well, but he’s clearly on intimate terms with my nasty little habit.
So we
do
have something in common.
Breakfast could have been strained, but we’re too busy talking for any awkward moments. Paul seems genuinely sorry I’m flying on to Frankfurt, and when they announce our descent into Heathrow, he pulls out a business card and writes a number on the back. “This is my personal cell number. I’ll be back in San Francisco on the twelfth and I hope you’ll consider giving me a call.”
I slip the card in my purse with a noncommittal smile, but after he’s gone I take it out again and hold it to my nose to see if I can catch the lingering scent of his hand on the paper.
Yes, it’s my rule not to sleep with men I meet on airplanes, but I might make an exception for Paul. After all, he helped me keep my vow not to masturbate under the blanket—and every manager knows that delegating a task is not the same as doing it yourself. Besides, thanks to him, I’ve learned another valuable lesson as well.
Sometimes breaking a nasty habit can be very nice indeed.
URGENT MESSAGE
Rachel Kramer Bussel
T
he fact that I have to travel a lot for my job as a fashion photographer has always been a sore spot with my boyfriend, Brandon. He works the day shift at a French restaurant, and in many ways is more of a homebody than I am. I like a fast-paced lifestyle, which is why I moved to New York in the first place, but even though he thrives on the energy at the restaurant, he’s happy to veg out in front of the TV or just explore the city. Still, we fell hard for each other and weren’t going to split up simply because sometimes I have to hop on a plane. The chemistry between us was strong right from the beginning, and hasn’t let up, so we’ve learned how to deal with my traveling with frequent phone calls and hours of hot sex when I return. We balance our nights out with ones cuddled in front of our fire-place (yes, we have one in our apartment), watching movies or having luxurious sex on our shag carpet.
When I have to go out of town, though, he practically sulks. Or at least he did until we devised a high-tech, ultramodern, yet
perfectly dirty way of dealing with my absences. I had heard on the news that several airlines were now offering in-flight instant message and Internet services. What better way to keep in touch with my man than by sharing every X-rated thought I had, while on a plane filled with strangers?
Usually I try to fly first class, where I indulge in champagne and ice cream sundaes and generally pretend I’m on vacation, rather than heading off to work. But since I’d had to book a last-minute flight, I’d been stuck with the only seat left—a middle seat in coach.
Oh well, how bad could it be?
I thought.