Five miles high January 17, 2012
Posted by Leah in Fantasy.10 comments
The flight from Boston to London is half empty. I am in the back of the cabin in a window seat. A man in his early twenties who wears a Patriots sweatshirt sits on the aisle. His long legs claim an extra inch of room this way. We make small talk over airplane food. He was in Vermont over the holidays to visit his dad’s side of the family. He lives in Essex. He asks me why I am traveling to London. I tell him this trip is to see my much missed lovers. After this pronouncement, the two of us flirt outrageously.
When the lights go off, the gallant man offers the unused middle seat between us to me. Seatbelt still fastened, I twist my body and try for sleep.
Slumber doesn’t come to me.
I hardly ever fall asleep on airplanes.
Raising the armrest, I decide to amuse myself.
A blanket covers the man’s legs. My hand reaches beneath. I stroke his thigh. He looks down at me, bemused. I flash him a brilliant smile. My hand shifts up and to the center. I find his cock. The pressure and grasp of fingers brings him to hardness.
The woman across the aisle from us sleeps. The crew are in the galley in front.
“Let me make you come,” I whisper.
He lifts and unfastens his seatbelt. He pulls down his fly. Unfortunately, he is wearing briefs. I cannot suck him dry.
I can only give a handjob. Fingers stroke the shaft through tight cotton, rising from the middle of the erection to the crown. Thumb opposite the other fingers, I perform a twist at the head.
To anyone who notices, we are a couple. My head rests against his thigh and uses it as a pillow. His eyes are closed. His body sinks into the chair, which leans back. The cabin is dark. That my hand vanishes into the blanket is difficult to detect in this dim light.
I add pressure. My fingers slide the underwear against the sides of the shaft as they lift up to the glans. The thumb pushes down over the frenulum. After this, I narrow my grip on the head, shift down again, and repeat.
The circumcised helmet, whose lobes I feel by touch, hops against the maw of the collapsed fingers after a twirl at the crest. Fabric checks the movement. Semen surges through the cotton and coats my hand. I look up at a man whose name I do not know. Eyes laser down at me. I meet his gaze coolly and bring my hand to my mouth, and slowly, I part my lips and scrape my fingertips along the bottom row of teeth to deposit his come onto my tongue. As a hundred people around us sit, I gulp his whiteness down. My tongue laps until I can no longer taste him on my skin.
Having had a draught of a man’s milk, now I can sleep.
~
This is the purest fantasy, of course. Who ever heard of the economy cabin being half empty on a trans-Atlantic flight these days? I squished into a center seat and suffered the airplane food and endured screaming babies and slept for about an hour.
I expect the flight home today will be full as well.
I owe stories of the weekend — Frank on Saturday, Amadeo on Sunday.
Orientation October 1, 2010
Posted by Leah in Fantasy, Masturbation, Public.5 comments
I had a mandatory and completely useless orientation today. I sat in the back row of the auditorium with the laptop dangerously perched on the foldout desk. It was too distracting to read a paper or write with someone talking at me from the front of the room. Starting from the highlights at Fleshbot, I surfed the sex blogs to amuse myself.
A spray of semen against the asshole of a multiorgasmic woman made me wish that sex without condoms happened more frequently in my life. I longed to be fucked in the shower by more fingers than there are on one hand or seduced in the office by a professor, which is a recurring fantasy of mine. The touch of fingers strayed to the seam of my jeans. Reassured that being a slut is ok, I read about Emily’s sexy family. My fingers rubbed harder now.
The row of seats immediately in front had four people grouped before me. My row had six or seven in total. I was quiet about masturbating. From my position at the end of the row and in the corner of the room, only the guy three seats away could see the hand moving between my legs as I scrolled down the web page. Jaw hanging open, he stared at me in disbelief. Meeting his look, I shrugged my shoulders and went on with the business.
An hour and a half into the session, the girl sitting in front passed me the attendance sheet. I signed beside my printed name and handed it along. I noticed the guy scrutinizing the paper, trying to figure out who I was before he signed himself present and sent it over to the next man.
We adjourned for coffee soon after. During the break, I felt his eyes on me from behind. Having signed the sheet, I had no intention of staying for the second half of the morning session.
I am an opportunist. I am shameless. I walked over to him. “I am horny. I could use a fuck. Do you want to get out of here?”
He answered in accented English. The voice had a singsong quality.
His name is Oscar. He is from Stockholm. He fucked me in the basement under the stairs meters below the side exit to the building, which we heard open and close. I slipped off my shoes and out of one of my pant legs. He stood with his jeans pooled at his feet and his boxers about his ankles. Flattening myself against the wall, I raised my thigh against his body, and he held it against his hip. The panties were shifted to one side so that his penis could enter me. He hunched his knees and angled his cock at me from below. The penetration brought me to my toes. The painted brick was unforgiving on my back. I felt its solidity across my shoulders and ass when he speared my vagina. I lifted my arms high above my head. He twigged what I was after and clasped them by the wrists with the hand that wasn’t supporting my leg. I liked the sensation of being taken by someone I had just met, of having my cunt pounded by a man who didn’t know my name, of doing it in the open with the risk of discovery heightening my arousal. Hungry kisses stifled my moans.
Sadly, the last paragraph is a fancy. It could have happened had the man been slightly braver, been named Oscar, and come from Sweden. Instead, I found a toilet and frigged myself. The climax is an anticlimax.
Leah Lays London 