Sunday, February 26, 2012

The Friendly Skies

By Lisabet Sarai

He was the one. She knew it, the first time she felt him slide into her. Everything was right. Perfect fit, glorious fullness without pain. Every movement woke new nerves, sent new sensations shimmering through her. Bent over the seat, digging her nails into the faux leather covering the armrests as her body shook with his thrusts, she couldn't see his face. She didn't need to see him; she knew what he was thinking, knew what he wanted.

She arched her back, letting him bury his flesh more deeply in hers. She clenched her inner muscles around his hardness, wanting to swallow him, to make him part of her. He rammed his cock into her again and again, one hand over her mouth to stifle her cries. She writhed against him, each stroke a shuddering, prolonged delight that nudged her closer to the ultimate pleasure.

He was not gentle like the men she had dreamed about before she knew him. He was not tender. Still, she had no doubts that he was meant for her. In the darkened cabin, he read her body like Braille. He knew how to tease every nuance of pleasure out of her wet and open flesh. While one hand held her gagged, the other toyed with her nipples through her blouse, twisting and squeezing the swollen nubs. She worried briefly that he'd tear the fabric, until the seething flood of sensation washed her worries away.

Above the sussurations of the passengers shifting in their seats, the coughs and the snores and the faint babble of movie sound tracks, she could hear the slap of his balls against her bare thighs and his open-mouthed panting. The steamy jungle smell of her cunt rose around them. She was sure that someone would notice, would turn around to check the empty rows toward the back of the section. His palm smothered her moans. Then the pulse of his come inside her swept her into a whirling climax. The engine whined in her ears. Gravity released her. She floated weightless, shaken by spasms of pleasure so intense that they practically stripped her of consciousness.

When she came to herself, she was on her knees, her face buried in the cushion, the seat belt buckle digging into her cheek. There was no trace of him, save for the burning in her cunt and the used condom she found under the seat. She pulled herself to her feet, smoothed her uniform down over her torn pantyhose, slipped back into her sensible pumps. She was still shaking.

She peered through the dimness toward the front of the plane. There was a man's head there in 16B, silhouetted by the lighted No Smoking sign on the cabin wall. He leaned against the headrest, seemingly asleep. She could almost believe it had been a dream. But her thighs were sticky with her own juices, and when she pressed them together, delicious echos of her climax sparked through her.

Later, an hour before landing when she came down the aisle with drinks, he had grinned and slipped a card into her hand. "Email me," he had said. "If you want, that is." His expression made it clear that he had no doubts about her decision.

~ From "Red Eye" by Lisabet Sarai
In Too Much Boogie: Erotic Remixes of the Dirty Blues, edited by Cole Riley


  1. (It is a wonderful blog)

    The mile high club! You beat me to it.


  2. This showed up on Yahoo news? Pure luck!

    But thanks for visiting! I hope you come back.

  3. Hi, Garce,

    Somehow I imagine your take on the mile high club would be different from mine!

  4. I'm behind on commenting... but that just gave me an excuse to read this piece again. Loved it (twice).


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