Boarding Pass

Gratefully I sink into my seat.  It is going to be a very long flight. NEWARK, my boarding pass says, but it's just another destination at the end of yet another flight.

I usually prefer to sit on the aisle but none of those seats are available and I feel lucky to even get a window.  True, it's in the very last row of the plane, but at least I don't have to endure the three hours sandwiched into a middle seat between an ex-pro football player and a mother with a screaming infant.  And with any luck the middle seat would stay empty, giving me just that tiny bit of precious space that makes so much of a difference on a long flight.

Gradually the plane fills.  A tiny, older Vietnamese lady settles into the aisle seat.  We exchange smiles then retreat into our respective thoughts.  The last of the passengers file in and it looks more and more like a relatively comfortable flight.  Perhaps I can even get a little work done on the way.

A girl making her way down the aisle catches my eye and I find my gaze lingering.  I notice men -- and even a few women -- glancing at the lithe figure edging by.  She appears to be a college student, athletic and willowy with striking red hair and an elfin face. The sky-blue-trimmed gray hoodie she's wearing loudly proclaims "KISS ME I'M A CUNY," and I blush a little at the unbidden thought that flashes through my mind.  Change just one letter and..

She inches down the aisle scanning the faces of the passengers as if looking for someone. She's wearing a pleated skirt swishing on long lovely legs.  Tan... firm... shapely... The swell of her breasts is accentuated by a hint of cleavage peeking through the open zipper at her throat.  Her movements are fluid, graceful, and more than a little alluring.

Her eyes meet mine and I realize I've been staring.  I quickly feign interest in the activities of the baggage handling crew on the tarmac. Let's just get going and get this journey over with.

"Excuse me, is anyone sitting there?"

The girl has stopped at my row! The elderly Vietnamese lady smiles politely at her and she slips past her bony knees into the middle seat, arranging her skirt and dazzles me with a quick smile revealing even, white teeth.

I'm not even irritated that she chose my row to sit in even though plenty of other empty seats beckon. I catch just the slightest scent of her perfume and the clean smell of her hair as she bends over to slide her tote under the seat in front of her. Perhaps the flight won't be so unpleasant after all, although I harbor little thought that she would welcome the attentions of a middle-aged Indian businessman.

A thump announces the closing of the door and almost immediately the plane begins to push back from the gate.  The flight attendants drone through the same old "in the event of an emergency" routine that I've heard a hundred times before, but this time I pretend to listen intently while I use the distraction to check out my attractive seatmate through the corner of my eye.

She is as lovely as I thought at first glance. The small airline seat seems oversized for her slender frame. Graceful hands clasp a paperback and I strain to read the title - "Plains of Passage."   Hmm.  I seem to have heard of it before. An embracing couple framed by a horse and a wolf adorn the cover. Is this the book I've seen my daughter reading in bed before lights out?

I focus on her profile.  A smattering of pale freckles adorns a small upturned nose above full lips that carry just a hint of mischief.  Her eyes seem unusually large and green, and combined with her slender jaw and slight frame give her a youthful appearance though I guess her to be in her early twenties.

She is dressed casually in clothes that accentuate her features without distracting from her beauty. Her face, framed by reddish-golden tresses, seems to float in the folds of the hoodie.  Even her skirt, unusual for air travel, serves to draw attention to her shapely legs. A single gold locket graces her throat, simple, yet, I perceive, expensive. I am suddenly glad that I wore my dress slacks and best shirt though I must appear drab and unappealing next to such a vision of youth and beauty.

The interminable taxi to the runway comes to an end and the plane pauses while the pilot ramps up engine power then leaps forward in the takeoff run.  The roar of the engines inches from my left ear is deafening as the plane jolts down the concrete straining for airspeed.  There is a particularly rough bump as the plane's nose rotates upwards and the girl gasps and unexpectedly grasps my arm just as the machine leaps into the sky, free from the confines of the earth.  Her fingers cling tightly to my biceps, and through my surprise I am suddenly grateful for that gym membership!

Startled, I turn to face her in time to glimpse the sheepish look in her eyes as her fingers release their grip.

"Sorry!" she says, rolling her eyes up at me sheepishly. "Flying makes me so nervous!" I laugh sympathetically.

"Are you going to New York?" I impulsively ask, then immediately regret the obvious question.

"Yes, I am in graduate school at the City University of New York."  Her turn to be obvious.

Her openness takes me aback.  In my experience, beautiful girls tend to be a little.. standoffish.  Even conceited.  This girl seems warm and friendly and... and... approachable.  Suddenly, I'm looking forward to the long flight ahead.

"Which school?"  showing off my knowledge of the crazy quilt conglomerate of campuses that are CUNY.

"Hunter.  On 41st Street."

"Then you must be enrolled in the Art School."

Her smile flashes and something thrills inside me.  "Yes, in Studio Art.  Are you from the City?  How do you know so much about CUNY?"

"No, no, I'm from Houston," suddenly aware of my Indian accent, "although I travel to New York frequently. But every educated person knows of Hunter College. I have friends who have gone there, or wished they had. It is an excellent school and only the very best students get in."

Again the smile, grateful this time. She perceives the compliment. "I wish my father thought so. I'm afraid he believes my passion is rather a waste of time and his money!"

"Your passion?"

"Yes, of course -- my photography, you know. He only thinks in terms of practical things and sees no need for me to go to school in New York just to open a studio in Clear Lake to take wedding pictures and family portraits."

"You live in Clear Lake City? I do as well!"

We laugh in wonder at the coincidence. I like her laugh, the way the corners of her mouth curl, and her teeth flash, and her eyes shine, and suddenly I realize how attracted I am to this girl.

"So you are a photographer, eh? I have dabbled a little in that, but I'm strictly an amateur. Of what do you like to take pictures?"

"Many things! I love the multitude of shapes and colors of the city and the fascinating people that live there! People of all types, from millionaire Wall Street traders to traders of another kind that haunt the streets. A good photograph is much more than just a picture of a person or an object. It should capture the essence of your subject -- you know, its soul. I believe everything has a soul. Don't you?"

That embarrasses me a bit. It has never occurred to me that things might have souls, although I suppose people do. "I am in the software business," I say a bit defensively, as if that explains everything.

She smiles warmly and turns to her book.

The roar of the engines has faded to a quiet whisper as the plane reaches cruising altitude. Up here the sun has yet to slip below the horizon and a reddish glow suffuses the cabin with soft radiance. I gallantly reach overhead and push the button to illuminate her reading light and she acknowledges my gesture with that heart-stopping smile.

I clear my throat, unwilling to let the conversation lapse. "I seem to have heard of your book. I believe my daughter may have a copy.  It must be popular."

She looks up in amusement.  "Your daughter?  You do not look old enough to have a daughter that enjoys Jean Auel."

"Jean Auel?"

Her grin widens mischievously.

"Yes, she's the author.  She has written a whole series of books about a prehistoric girl and her adventures.  Some of her writing can be quite graphic, if you know what I mean." She laughs at my discomfort. "It is indeed quite popular - with girls!"

I vow to have a closer look at my daughter's reading material.  Then it occurs to me..

"And you enjoy reading such graphic books?"

She giggles. "Oh, of course the sexy parts are fun, but her stories are much more than that. It's been years since I read this one and it seemed perfect for the plane."

The thought of her enjoying the sexy parts causes a little jolt in my groin and I can feel the sensitive head of my penis expand a bit in my foreskin.

My thoughts idle back to a time in India when I sat close to another beautiful young girl - how intoxicated I was with her! - and again bitterness wells up inside me.  Why had I let her drift away?  Such a fool I was!  As I muse I occasionally scent the girl's fragrance and it reminds me of my lost love.

Minutes pass and the girl stirs restlessly, shifting her position in the seat until her arm rests against mine. My skin tingles at her touch and I will myself not to move lest she pull away. She sighs and closes her book.

"Where will you be staying in New York?" she asks suddenly.

"Oh, I won't be in the City this trip," I replied, thrilled that she again spoke. "I'll be staying in Jersey."  I grasp at a way to keep her talking. "Does your photography ever take you to New Jersey?"

She laughs. Oh, the sound of her laughter! It pleases me like a fine wine.

"Most of my photography is in a studio. Here -- let me show you."

She leans forward to retrieve her tote, giving me the opportunity to again study the side of her face, her graceful neck,   her fragrant flaming hair..

"Here," she says, as she pulls a portfolio from the confines of the tote. "Here is a sample of my work."

She favors brilliant colors and shapes.  A vegetable stand, the scarlet and yellow peppers sectioned between green fruits surreal in the intensity of their hue.  A sidewalk Italian restaurant festooned with brilliant umbrellas and napkins.  A flower box resplendent with daisies and phlox.

"I thought you shot in a studio."  These at least were not.

"Here," she says, taking the sheaf from me.  Her hand brushes mine and again a thrill courses through my body. She shuffles through the sheaf, then presses the stack back into my hands.

It is of a nude woman, brunette, beautiful, a scarlet scarf strategically hiding her private parts.  I blush furiously as she watches enquiringly for my reaction.

"Very nice," I manage to croak.

I hurriedly flip to the next photo. Another nude -- the same woman in a different pose, this time quite naked.

"This is one I like!" She again takes the stack, selects a particular photo and hands it to me.  Another nude, a fiery redhead this time.  Perfect breasts.  A light tuft of gold-red hair at her groin.  An unmistakable invitation in her eyes. Erotically exotic.

It is her.  The girl sitting next to me.

"We had to do a self-portrait, something that would capture our essence. I think this captures mine. What do you think?"

I sit stunned. My penis rampages. "It's, it's beautiful!" I gulp. "You're beautiful!"

She smiles gratefully, seemingly unembarrassed. "Thanks!" She retrieves the pictures and carefully returns them to her tote.

The flight attendant picks that moment to appear. "Would you like something to drink, sir?"

I hurriedly attempt to compose myself.

"Um.  Yes.  Hot tea, please."

"Miss?"

She glances at me approvingly. "I'll have hot tea as well."

She returns to her book.

The nude image of the girl seems imprinted in my mind's eye. The creamy smoothness of her skin, the perfection of her firm breasts tipped by lightly-colored nipples -- had they been erect? The taut tummy and slender hips, the delicate indent of her navel, the neatly trimmed curls between her legs with just a hint of hidden lips, and most of all those eyes. Those sultry, inviting green eyes. My lids close as I savor the image, prick throbbing, fully erect.

"Sir?"

I come to myself with a jolt. The tea is here.

We hurriedly lower our tray tables as the attendant passes the Styrofoam cups filled with hot water and a tea bag. We each steep the bags for a moment.

"Tea comes from India, doesn't it?" she asks suddenly.

"Yes, from Assam, in the northeast part of my country." And I went on to tell her of Dibrugarh on the Brahmaputra, of the great tea plantations planted on the terraced hillsides, the visit I made there in my youth -- of how the dappled sunlight filters through the shade trees and weaves patterns of black and white on the neatly pruned tea-bushes. Of watching the tea-pluckers at work, admiring the deftness of their fingers as they pluck the delicate two leaves and a bud from which the "nectar of the gods" is made.  And looming over all, the Assam Mountains, eastern-most spur of the mighty Himalayas, rising tumbled-shoulder and craggy peak to over 7,000 meters.

She listens enthralled as we sip our tea, and I am stabbed by a pang of sadness for she reminds me acutely of the one who had shared that trip with me, and like a fool I had let her drift away. Long ago I had vowed that never again would I allow such an opportunity to pass by. Never again!

She excuses herself and clambering over the old woman locks herself in the lavatory. Again in my mind's eye I can see her picture and my prick swells anew as I imagine those lips on mine.

But with the swelling of my manhood, another more pressing need makes itself urgently known. My bladder is bursting. I also scramble to the aisle and wait outside the lavatory door and suddenly a flash, a vision of her sitting on the toilet three feet away, her underwear bunched around her thighs, the hiss of her golden stream lost in the rush of air passing the speeding airliner.  My phallus is throbbingly engorged and I discretely ease its position in my trousers.

Abruptly the door opens, and we are face to face.  She smiles demurely and brushes past as I enter the tiny cubicle and lock the door.  Blue liquid still gurgles in the bowl, and again I imagine her sitting there, her knees spread wide, pulling me between them.  I wrestle my stiff member from my fly and will it to soften but as I stand swaying to the motion of the plane I can almost feel her long, slender fingers wrap around my shaft, stroking it, cajoling it.  My own hand stands in place of hers.  It feels so good to stroke myself, to slide my foreskin back and forth over my tumescent head. So good... so good. Images of her posing nude for the camera flash through my fevered mind.  Of her reading "the sexy parts," of her hand reaching between her legs as the characters in the story stoke their own fiery passion. I imagine how moments before she had sat where I now stood as her urine splashed noisily in the bowl.  And I again feel her fingers on my hot erection, her lips on my swollen head, kissing, sucking, stroking...

"UUUUGGGHHHH," I groan as spurt after spurt of white, viscous semen splat into the bowl, my hand a blur of motion.  In a moment it is over and I slump, leaning on the wall breathing hard.  The image had been so real that for a moment I am surprised to find myself alone in the lavatory.  Quickly recovering I empty my bladder and clean my prick of all traces of my ejaculation before washing my hands and exiting.

As I open the door I am embarrassed to see a small knot of people impatiently waiting their turn.  How long have I been in there?

She glances up at me and smiles as I crawl awkwardly over her knees and sink into my seat.  It is late now and the plane drones mindlessly on somewhere over the Midwest.

"That was a beautiful story," she said sleepily. "It made me feel as if I was really there. I could hear the rustle of the green tea leaves in the cool breeze from the mountains and hear the chatter of the women as they carried their laden baskets from the fields." She touches my nerveless hand. "You're an artist, too."

She wraps herself in a blanket that had appeared while I was in the lavatory and snuggles against my shoulder, her slender arms hugging mine. Soft hair brushes my face and I inhale deeply of its fragrance.  If the plane crashes right now my life is complete - fulfilled.  I float out of time and space in that place between wakefulness and dreams.

I come to myself to find her hand in my lap, her breath soft and even as she slumbers.  My dick springs instantly to life under her touch!  Frantically I will it to go down yet am reluctant to move her hand, fearful that I will wake her into embarrassment at her position. My treacherous member has a will of its own, though, and soon I can feel it swell to its full proportions.  Her hand rests easily on the sensitive head, sparks of electricity jolting my loins.  Suddenly the air seems thin and I gasp for bits of oxygen, thrusting my hips ever so slightly into her touch, mortified that she might wake up yet unable to stop myself.  Then, to my immense delight -- and ultimate horror -- she stirs in her sleep and firmly grasps my turgid shaft in her delicate hand and gives a contented sigh.

I am in an agony of pleasure and embarrassment.   I struggle mightily to keep my rising lust in check but images of her pale nipples puckered in arousal flash through my imagination in kaleidoscopic fury.  My mind glimpses again her intimate folds through the down at her groin -- seated on the toilet, my prick in her mouth -- pleasuring herself as she reads of sexual passion and lust

.

And as if she senses my torment I feel her cover my lap with her blanket.  Her hand seeks the zipper of my fly and tugs it down.  Is this a dream?  Has the plane crashed?  Am I dead and in heaven? Her fingers enter, seeking, and I stifle a cry as her cool fingers touch the fiery furnace of my engorged shaft.  Her eyes closed, nestled on my shoulder, by all appearances sound asleep she nevertheless wrestles my penis through the open fly and I feel immediate relief as it springs free into her hand.

I am beyond wonderment at what is happening. There is only my throbbing prick, a soft hand, and fragrant hair in my nostrils. Lightly she toys with me, gently rolling my foreskin back and forth over my head.   I grit my teeth as I strive for restraint.  I do not need it soft and light.  I crave pressure.  I will her to stroke me, harder.. and harder..

Once again she senses my need and her fist suddenly tightens as she squeezes my head fiercely, wrenching a groan from deep in my throat.  With her first stroke, I know I am lost.  My restraint crumbles and I give myself to her.  My head lolls back one eye half open for watchers, but all is quiet.  Her hand pumps forcefully up and down, up and down, up and down, maddeningly, relentlessly, remorselessly.   I thrust up on each downstroke, trying to be discrete but surely failing.

Faster she strokes, the pad of her thumb at the junction of my furrow.  I feel the slickness, the wetness seeping from me.   Her merciless thumb is heedless of my agony.  My prick swells impossibly and I suddenly fear that the skin will split from the pressure!

I feel it now.  The tingling inside me, the pressure as my sperm gathers deep in my body.  I squeeze my bottom together and thrust myself deep into her hand.   The feeling wells up now... higher... higher...  I struggle to last, to hold back, to postpone my release.  But it can't be denied.  No dam can hold it back.  The pressure grows unbearable until suddenly the dam bursts!    With a quiet gasp I come... And come... And COMEEEEE!   Spurt after spurt slops wetly on her pistoning hand.  It seems like pints and quarts erupt from my body.  Three!  Four! And finally with the fifth eruption I slump, spent, too drained to even move.