I can't remember where we were flying this first time. I remember being excited, and I think I had a swimsuit packed. I remember holding your hand through the airport because I tend to get lost in crowds. I remember asking, "Have you joined the mile high club?" and before you could answer telling you, "I haven't, and I want to so badly."
I would sit in the aisle seat so you could look out the window, because that's important to you, and shoulder room is important to me. I could ask the flight attendant for a blanket, and I would throw it over both of us. I hope it isn't too warm on the plane, but I do want to be discrete.
We would put up the armrest so I could lean into you. You could snake your arm around me, I would lean my head on your shoulder, turning my face into you and breathing you in deep. When I thought the moment was opportune, I'd put a hand on your increasingly stubbly cheek and steal a kiss from your lips or nuzzle my nose into your neck so you could feel my breath.
Under the blanket I'd put a hand just above your knee and give you a squeeze so I could see the smile bloom across your face. You would kiss my head, and lean your face against my forehead, so no one else could see the smile and the blush that was reserved just for me. I would turn my face so my lips were against you and close my eyes as if I slept that way but sleep would be so far from my mind.
I'd slide my hand up your thigh using the blanket as cover. My breathing would get heavy while warmth spreads from my pussy to my nipples and I can feel myself being wet when I shift my hips and rub my legs together. I can feel your cock, increasingly hard under the terrible fabric of your pants. I'd whisper how much I want you in your ear but the roar of the plane would drown me out anyway. Instead I'll brush my lips against your ear, and push myself against you so you know I want you. I can tell you want me, I can feel it. I can feel eight inches of you wanting me throbbing on the other side of the fabric of your jeans.
I'd slip out from under the blanket and put one finger in the air, and you'd know to follow me in a minute. I'd walk on wobbly legs to the back of the plane, my hips bumping into chairs on occasion and quietly apologizing to the sleeping passenger I disturbed. It's a long flight, most people took sleeping pills anyway.
The bathroom is impossibly small and lit like a hospital, but it doesn't matter. I put the seat down on the toilet and slide off my black tights and purple high-cut panties. Before I sit down I'd smooth out my dress in the back so I would sit on the fabric, and I wait for you, one hand squeezing my breast, the other beginning to make slow circles around my clit. I tease myself thinking of you, feeling myself get wetter and wetter. It is the longest minute I have ever waited.
