The Airplane
Kathryn M. Burke
I got to the Philadelphia airport well in time for my night flight to San Francisco.
I can't say I'm fond of red-eye flights, but I don't like wasting a whole day just going from one coast to the other. Anyway, I'm young (twenty-four) and healthy, so I can sacrifice a little sleep every now and then. I was flattered that my tech firm had entrusted me to meet with the execs of our parent company to discuss a new product, so I was going to make the most of the opportunity.
Don't get the idea, just because I work in the tech field, that I'm some kind of geek with glasses thick as a Coke bottle. I don't wear glasses, as a matter of fact. On top of that, I like to think I'm a reasonably good-looking guy. I'm five foot ten, with broad shoulders and good pecs. I've had my share of scrumptious females in the bedroom, even though at the moment I don't have a steady girlfriend. But I am constantly on the lookout.
Not that it was terribly likely I'd find one on an airplane. Even though I was flying first class.
I was in the window seat, and there was only one other seat next to mine on this side of the aisle. Usually I don't pay much attention to my seatmate, since it's pretty unlikely I'd have much in common with them. Anyway, most people sleep on night flights, don't they? I was certainly going to try, since my meeting was at 11 a.m. the next morning.
The lady who sat down in the neighboring seat was probably in her mid-forties, but as an "older woman" she was damn nice to look at. Tall, shapely, with a proud pair of breasts whose outlines were plainly revealed by the thin sweater she was wearing, and swelling hips encased in a wraparound skirt that came down just below her knees. Her face could almost have been called angular, but a better description would be noble, even aristocratic—kind of like some of the great actresses of the 1940s.
It would have been quite a lovely face if she weren't utterly petrified.
She sat down gingerly on the seat, as if it might explode beneath her, and gave me a broken little smile that seemed to have some kind of plea in it. She didn't have any carry-on baggage, just a huge handbag that she clutched to her chest as though it might afford her protection from some inexpressible terror. None of this boded well for my own comfort or repose.
"Hi," I said.
She jerked her head in my direction, her eyes wide. "Hi," she croaked.
I frowned with concern. "Are you all right?" I said.
"No!"
she blurted out. "God, I'm so scared of flying! I haven't flown in, like, twenty years."
"Then why—?"
"It's my mom. She's gotten pretty sick, and I'm the only person who has the time to go out and look after her."
"Is she going to be okay?"
"Oh, I think so—it's not really life-threatening. But someone has to be there at the hospital and hold her hand and stuff. You know how mothers are."
"Sure," I said, even though my own mom wasn't quite as needy as hers. "But you know what they say: you're safer in the air than on the ground."
She looked at me askance. "Yeah, right."
"My name's Andrew," I said, trying to get into a conversation to calm her down.
"Julia," she said, looking straight ahead of her.
Even as she clung to the handbag as if it were a security blanket, Julia's chest rose and fell more and more rapidly. I thought she might be hyperventilating.
I was almost going to call the flight attendant—there was one specifically designated to take care of us first-class folks—to help somehow, when that lady caught sight of my seatmate and stalked over to us.
"Ma'am," she said, "you're going to have to put that bag under the seat in front of you or in the overhead compartment."
"Why?" Julia said mulishly.
"Because we can't have you holding it like that. It's unsafe."
That didn't go over very well with Julia. I could immediately read her thoughts:
Are we going to be unsafe up in the air? Are we going to crash?
Grudgingly, Julia stuffed the handbag in the space under the seat in front, kicking it to make sure it was entirely out of the way. As we began taxiing out toward the runway, I felt the need to do what I could to make her settle down. The last thing I wanted was for her to throw some kind of tantrum that would cause this flight to be delayed or cancelled.
"Hey," I said, stroking her hand as it rested on the armrest between us, "just relax. Everything will be fine. If I can be of any help, just let me know."
She turned her head in my direction and gave me that broken smile again. I almost thought she was going to cry. She put her hand over mine and said, "You're awfully sweet. I'm usually a pretty tough broad, but airplanes just give me the willies."
"I understand," I said. "I'll try my best to make it pleasant for you."
When we took off, Julia again reverted to panic mode and clutched my hand spasmodically—and so tightly that it nearly cut off the circulation. She closed her eyes tightly as we were reaching up to cruising altitude, and only when the plane leveled off did she exhale and let go of my hand. I could see thick beads of perspiration on her forehead.
I guess I'm one of the last men on earth to carry a handkerchief. Of course I don't use it to blow my nose—how disgusting! In fact, I hadn't used this one at all. But I whipped it out now and mopped her brow. "Take it easy, Julia," I said.
This might have been a bit "forward" of me, but she seemed so touched and grateful that she stared at me—and then gave me a kiss on the mouth.
She got flustered immediately, blushing crimson. "Oops, I shouldn't have done that."
"I don't mind in the least," I said. And why would I? Who doesn't want to be kissed by a pretty lady?
"My good-for-nothing husband should have come with me, but his
business
was so important that he couldn't be bothered! I don't even think he
likes
my mom very much."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
She was breathing hard again, although this time in anger—presumably thinking about the inconsiderateness of the race of husbands.
The flight attendant now distributed pillows and blankets. The blanket was quite large, and Julia wrapped it around herself like some sort of shield. I wasn't feeling chilly, and wasn't ready to sleep, so I didn't use mine.
I was desperately hoping for a smooth flight so that Julia wouldn't lapse into hysterics—but, just my luck, not more than half an hour into the flight we hit turbulence.
I will say that the turbulence was quite a bit stronger than I'd experienced before. The plane actually shook from side to side, hurling passengers into their neighbors as if we were a bunch of dice being rattled around in a box. You can imagine the effect on Julia.
She uttered a sharp cry, then slapped a hand over her mouth to silence herself. That would have been bad enough, but as the turbulence continued she almost lunged in my direction, burying her face in the crook of my neck and throwing her arms around my neck.
Ordinarily I'd never say no to being embraced by a female, but this woman was so close to losing it that I didn't know what to do. I just sat there, arms barely touching her sides. I mean, she was a stranger, for God's sake! I wasn't about to hug her as if she were my sister or my—
"Please . . ." she said. "Please hold me."
What's a man to do? I first pulled up the armrest so that it wasn't in our way, then wrapped her in my arms. My hands came to rest in the area of her lower back, and she snuggled closer to me, throwing the blanket around both of us so that we looked like a pair of kids at a slumber party. I could feel her trembling all over—even her teeth were chattering.
Gee, I really felt sorry for poor Julia.
But there was no way I could have predicted what followed. With the turbulence continuing unabated, she took one of my hands in hers. I thought that maybe I was holding her too tightly around the waist, but that wasn't it. With her face still buried firmly in my neck, she directed my hand to go under her skirt, clearly encouraging me to slide up her thighs and toward her—
And she whispered in my ear, "I might fall asleep if I . . ." She didn't have to finish; I knew what she couldn't bring herself to say.
If I come.
Well, this was an awkward moment! Although we were concealed under the big blanket, the flight attendant was eyeing us suspiciously. She must have known we were perfect strangers, and yet here we were holding each other like lovers or spouses. And even lovers don't make such a display on an airplane—even in first class! But since she couldn't see that we were doing anything obviously obscene, she eventually turned away from us and tended to other customers.
Meanwhile, with infinite slowness my hand made its slow way up those firm and creamy thighs toward the focus of all male desire. When I touched that area between her legs, I felt a surprising amount of wetness bedewing her thin cotton panties. Maybe fear turned her on!
I pulled the cloth away from her crotch and then touched her sex.
She let out a little sigh and clung to me more tightly. As I continued stroke her—up and down the insides of her labia, rubbing her clitoris, and sometimes sticking two fingers deep into her vagina—she began pasting little kisses on my neck and cheek. That worried me a bit: even if what I was doing with my hand couldn't be seen by that annoying flight attendant, she might well be able to detect the little smooches that Julia was giving me. It was bad enough that we were locked in an embrace under a blanket. I could well imagine her thinking:
What exactly are you two doing under there?
But for my part, there was no way I could stop. This was, without question, the most exciting, unexpected, and lewd thing I'd ever done. I could now feel Julia's breasts pushing up against my chest, and that made me stroke her even harder, sometimes pressing her clitoris against her pelvic bone—which several women had told me they found exquisitely pleasurable. Clearly Julia did, for she started letting out weird little mewing sounds, mercifully muffled by the fact that her lips were still pressed against my neck.
And then it happened. After some choking noises came from deep in her throat, Julia began shuddering all over and holding me even tighter. I continued to stroke her pussy, which was now so wet that I wondered whether she was one of those "squirters" that I'd heard of but had never encountered in the flesh. I don't think she was, but she was certainly getting the maximum pleasure possible out of the orgasm that was washing over her.
After several minutes of this, she kind of collapsed like a balloon with all the air let out of it. Just in time, too: that flight attendant was now glaring venomously at us, not quite able to decide whether to confront us about whatever irregularities were happening under that blanket. I just smiled weakly at her, as if to say:
