I don't love flying. Airports feel like temples to discomfort--long lines, invasive security, strangers packed together with too many elbows and far too little grace. But if you must suffer through a metal tube in the sky, the trick is to dress comfortably, breathe deeply, and carry a proper offering to the gods of distraction.
Comfort was easy: a soft pink zip-top I could toy with when I got restless, a faded pleated denim mini that barely covered my ass when I moved just right, ankle socks and sneakers. No bra. No apologies. Just a sliver of pink thong nestled where it counted. My body was already humming with anticipation--because I knew exactly what I looked like, and I wanted people to look.
I'd filled my phone with lust. Porn clips, smutty audio, erotic stories I'd read before and loved to reread. Some women meditate to calm themselves. I read about fucking.
Security wasn't terrible. A few slow stares. One lecherous old man who pretended to be looking at his shoes. Then a male TSA agent "randomly" pulled me aside for a pat-down. I smiled. I'd seen this show before. Technically, a female officer should've been assigned, but he made do with firm, exploring hands. His fingers skimmed the waistband of my skirt, brushing my lower back, ghosting over my thighs. After the story I'd just finished reading--something about a college girl caught masturbating in a campus library--I welcomed the attention.
His fingers brushed just under my skirt. Not quite high enough to be obscene. But enough. Just enough.
By the time I reached my gate, my thong was damp and my pulse was pounding low and deep. A red-eye flight, half-full, and I was already worked up. Delicious.
When my group was finally called, I stepped forward with a little sway in my hips--not exaggerated, just... rhythmic. Intentional. I knew how to draw a gaze. A man three rows back looked up from his phone and followed my ass all the way through the boarding lane. I didn't even pretend not to notice. Let him watch. Let him want.
The gate agent scanned my pass without a word, and I crossed the jet bridge like a priestess stepping into a holy place. The air shifted--cooler, tighter, buzzing with the hush of late-night departure.
A flight attendant stood at the cabin door. Young. Pretty. Her lipstick immaculate. Our eyes met, and I saw the flicker--just a second too long. She was curious. Maybe even hungry. Her smile sent a thrill through me.
I murmured, "Hi," and pulled my zipper down just a little.
The aisle was narrow, and the throbbing of the plane made it easy to stumble, to shift, to accidentally show too much. I adjusted my skirt as I walked, giving a glimpse of hip here, a flash of bare lower back there. I passed a man flipping through a magazine, and I saw his eyes catch on my thighs, wide and unashamed.
My row was near the back. Middle seat. Of course. But the aisle seat was still empty, and the man at the window looked promising. Mid-forties, maybe, with tailored sleeves and a jawline that hinted at discipline. Business class overflow, probably. Clean-shaven, neat. But something about the way he stared out the window, still and silent, told me he had thoughts worth disturbing.
I smiled and imagined the possibilities.
This flight might be fun after all.
My carry-on was small and light--barely more than a purse--but I made a show of it anyway.
As I stepped into my row, I turned my back to the man at the window seat. He looked like the kind who tried not to look, which only made it more fun. I slid my right knee onto my middle seat and slowly bent forward to stow the bag, arching my back like a dancer mid-bow.
The denim skirt rode up with barely a nudge, and I didn't stop it. I pretended to fumble with the strap. Wiggled. Shifted. Nudged it a little farther in. Gave him a view of my thighs, soft and bare, the pink band of my thong hugging my hips.
It wasn't about teasing him. Not exactly. It was about offering something real--something holy. Not exhibitionism. Revelation. A sacred unveiling. The female form as altar. My body as scripture. And when someone looked--really looked--I could feel their worship.
I glanced back.
He was looking.
At first he fought it. Pretended to read the safety card. Adjusted his cuffs. But his eyes were drawn--magnetized. When he finally gave in, he drank me in with helpless hunger. His gaze locked on the pink thong, the soft curves beneath it. I held the pose longer than necessary. Let him see. Let him want.
Could he see more? I wondered. Could he glimpse the slickness already gathering between my thighs? The flush of my skin, the pulse at my temple?
Our eyes met.
He froze.
Caught between reverence and shame, he jerked his gaze away and turned to the window, his face flushed a beautiful, guilty red.
I smiled. That particular shade of blush? That was the color of confession.
This flight was going to be fun.
I took my seat, letting my skirt fall down just enough to be polite--barely. I buckled my belt slowly, deliberately, brushing my fingers along my thighs as I shifted. I turned to him and offered a soft, knowing smile.
He tried to return it, but it faltered. Still red. Still shaken. He looked away again, like a penitent in the presence of something too divine to meet directly.
I didn't blame him.
After all, revelation is overwhelming.
The attendants moved through their pre-flight routine--oxygen masks, exits, flotation devices. The usual pantomime. One of them, another pretty brunette with a practiced smile and flawless lipstick, stood a few rows ahead of me, miming safety with her hands like a bored magician. I watched her for a moment. She was beautiful, but her energy was dim. Routine dulled the sacred.
I needed something to stir me again.
My fingers drifted to the little zipper at the front of my top. It was such a simple thing. A toy. A trigger. A key to unlock attention.
I glanced sideways.
My window-seat stranger was pretending to read the emergency card again. So dutiful. So polite. But his eyes kept flicking toward me--never for long, just enough to feed his hunger one small sip at a time.
He was starving, and I was about to feed him.
I started slow. A lazy tug of the zipper--down an inch. Up again. Down. Just enough to hint. The cool metal slid smooth under my fingers. My breath slowed. My blood didn't.
Down a little farther now. The pink top loosened. The soft upper swell of my breasts came into view. No bra, of course. I didn't believe in barriers between beauty and the worshiper.
I shifted in my seat, stretching just enough to make the zipper ride a little lower.
I felt my nipples stiffen with the cool air and the heat of the moment.
Zip-zip. Down, then up. A little peek. A little retreat. The ancient dance of reveal and conceal. I looked down at myself. My breasts were small, firm, and flushed now--little gifts, aching to be unwrapped. I brushed a finger over one nipple, just to feel it tighten.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him looking again.
This time he lingered.
He thought he was being subtle, but I knew how eyes move when they're driven by need. His gaze trembled, caught between fear and fascination, and settled on my chest.
I didn't look at him. Not yet. I just smiled softly, as if thinking of a secret. I stretched again, arms up just enough to pull my shirt tight across my chest. The zipper slid another inch downward. I was bare to just above my nipples now, the curve of each breast an invitation waiting to be accepted.
I turned and caught him.
Eyes wide. Lips parted. Caught red-handed in the act of worship.
This time, I didn't pretend not to notice. I locked eyes with him.
His face flushed instantly. He glanced away, but not before I saw the flicker in his pupils. Lust. Shame. Thrill. Awe. It was all there, written across his face in a single second of surrender.
The plane began to move--rolling backward from the gate. The soft rumble of engines waking up beneath us. I leaned back in my seat and let the zipper stay down.
I wasn't covering up.
Let him look.
Let him feel that impossible ache behind his zipper, the one that begged him to act while warning him not to.
I turned my head and spoke, my voice low, amused.
