Fifty-three-year-old oil and gas engineer Steve Channing sighed as he waved his wife and two daughters through the departure gate at Singapore airport. The family were returning from a two-year secondment in Sydney, the aircraft stopping at Singapore to refuel. The news that the airline had oversold his economy class ticket for the Singapore to London leg angered him until he was told that his wife and kids could go on ahead and the airline would bump him up to first-class on the next available flight as compensation for the inconvenience. He smiled to himself, anticipating twelve hours of luxury travel in solitary peace (he had flown Business Class before, but only ever heard whispers from senior executives of the delights offered by first class).
Walking across the crowded airport concourse, Steve found his way to the first-class lounge, and was soon ensconced in a massive leather armchair, with a drink in hand, and a plate of mouthwatering dim sum on a table next to him. His shoes and socks were off, and his trousers rolled up to the knee, whilst a pretty young Singaporean girl, her shapely thighs exposed by the side splits of her figure-hugging scarlet 'chong-sang' silk dress, knelt to administer a calf and foot massage. Steve felt the stresses and strains of the cramped economy class leg from Sydney ebbing away with every press of her delicate but deceptively strong fingers.
"You like happy ending, Mister?" he imagined the girl whispering, but she merely smiled and diligently continued with her work.
He looked around at the other travelers, few and dotted at a distance from each other around the capacious lounge. Despite being a dedicated family man, Steve was not unadventurous on business trips, and as an older man with a good figure, handsome features framed by a full head of hair, he did not go unnoticed. As a result, Steve would always assess any gathering for eligible women, often almost subconsciously, and tonight was no exception.
A thick set thirty something year old with short cropped dyed blonde hair, wearing loose track suit trousers and baggy cardigan? No.
Two smartly dressed brunettes of a certain age, well beyond the cusp of their beauty but still desirable, talking fast and loud in broad Australian accents whilst liberally swigging champagne? A threesome? God no, the noise of their babbling alone would dampen even the most red-blooded of Englishman's ardour, Steve smirked to himself.
A stern and matronly looking woman, perhaps late fifties, early sixties, with grey hair piled high, horn-rimmed glasses, heavy makeup, a high collared white blouse straining to cover full breasts, a tight two-piece lame suit, and high heels discarded next to her stockinged feet. Hmmm... looks interesting, Steve thought, imagining the woman might enjoy administering discipline, but no... too old, and that was anyway probably just the way she dressed, nothing of the dominatrix intended. She'd likely be as needy as the rest.
The remaining travelers were all middle-aged businessmen, so assuming the cupboard was bare, even for fantasies, Steve had resorted to considering which in-flight movies to watch, when the lounge doors slid silently open to reveal a striking young vision. Tall and willowy in figure, she wore black leather thigh boots, sheer tights, a short tartan pleated kilt, and a leather 'biker' type jacket covering a white singlet with "Tank Girl" written in pink letters on the front. Steve watched her prettily pert breasts moving under the singlet as she walked, realising by the lack of visible straps or cup shadows underneath, that the girl wore no bra. As she bent down at the door-side desk to show the duty steward her first-class credentials, he regarded the muscles of her beautiful thighs, straight and taut, lithe hips supporting the right-angle of her narrow waist and torso. Steve noticed her black tights were alluringly back seamed, and felt himself partially erect to the girl. His eyes rose to her sparkling red hair, which was tied in a ponytail, and then to her full lipped mouth, made up with dark, glossy, pink lipstick, the whole effect evoking a young teenager, even though this divine creature was clearly at least in her early twenties.
"Shirleen Carter," he overheard the steward say as the girl nodded, ponytail dancing as if to beckon him, Steve found himself thinking.
"Is she on my flight?" Steve's now racing thoughts whispered. "Oh God, make it so."
The air was thick with anticipation as Steve settled into his plush first-class seat, the scent of fine leather and the faint hum of the aircraft engines a stark contrast to the chaos of the overbooked economy cabin he'd just escaped. His eyes traced the curving lines of the empty seats, guarded by hinged barrier screens capable of rendering each pair invisible to the rest, the soft glow of the reading lights casting shadows that danced with the occasional tremor of the plane's metal frame. The whispers of his few fellow passengers in the exclusive upper deck of the 747 faded into a lulling symphony of white noise, the perfect soundtrack for his unexpected upgrade.
Shirleen's arrival was a jolt of electricity through the cabin's somnolent atmosphere. Her youthful vitality seemed to defy the gravity that tugged at the hems of everyone else's clothes, and her eyes, a piercing shade of emerald, sparkled with mischief as she scanned the rows. When she claimed the seat beside him, Steve felt his heart skip a beat. Her lithe form, wrapped in the tight embrace of the black leather jacket and thigh boots, was a siren's call to his weary soul.
"G'day", she said, smiling. "I'm Shirleen."
"Steve", he gulped in reply.
"D'you mind, I er... just need to get rid of these before I sit." She lifted an exquisite limb, placed one foot on the arm rest of the empty seat across the aisle, and unzipped her boot, sliding it slowly off, then smoothing her nylon clad leg from toe to thigh. Steve felt his cock agonisingly bulge as her long, green painted nails ran across the sheer fabric. Then the same ritual with the other leg.
"Oh, fucking shit," she cried out, as a nail caught the nylon, resulting in a ladder. "Right up to the elastic as well, and these were new on." She raised the hem of her kilt, and Steve saw that the run did indeed reach her waist. These were the kind of tights with no welt, just sheer nylon going all the way to the top, and he shuddered at the sight, almost certain Shirleen wore no panties underneath. She opened the overhead locker and reached up, her breasts almost in Steve's face as she did so.
"'Scuse me, just got to..." Shirleen groaned, stretching on tiptoe to insert the boots, before slamming the locker door. "That's it," she sighed, and slipped on a pair of ballet pumps from her handbag before squeezing past Steve, arms in the air, legs brushing his.
"This is a bit cramped for first-class, isn't it?" she laughed, settling down in the seat, kilt riding up over legs that tantilisingly curled up beside her. "First time for me. Bumped up I was. Some dingbat at the airline sold my seat." She laughed again, looking around at the sumptuous cabin. "Mind you, reckon I owe that guy a blow job..." She covered her mouth, and blushed. "Oops, filthy language, and now I said that, it sounded so crude. I'm really not that kind of girl."
"I can see you're not that kind of girl, quite the lady, in fact." Shirleen blushed further, the rose hue of her cheeks sending warm shivers down Steve's already aroused spine. "And hash tag me too, as they say," he added. "Bumped up from an economy seat, supposed to be on the afternoon flight." Shirleen smiled as Steve patted a control panel on his arm rests. "But I think we can recline these seats fully once we reach cruising altitude. More room, and a flat bed to sleep if we want."
"Plenty of time to sleep when we're dead." She giggled.
"Now we both know that's from a James Bond movie, Shirleen," Steve admonished, as she giggled again while an immaculately coiffured and uniformed blonde stewardess brought pre-take off glasses of champagne. Steve raised his glass. "Cheers."
"No worries, mate." Her green eyes sparkled. "Now make eye contact as we drink, or it's seven years bad sex."
"That's where I've been going wrong," laughed Steve. They both grinned and sipped, then sat back waiting for take-off, as the stewardess collected the empty glasses and the plane taxied. They felt the rush and increasing whine of engine acceleration along the runway, the slight lift of the plane as the ascent started, the creak of retracting landing gear. The two exchanged glances as the Jumbo Jet rose, the lights of Singapore, initially to be seen glittering from the cabin window, fading as the aircraft continued into the night sky.
"Up into another world, a free limbo, where everything can happen and nothing matters," Shirleen whispered dreamily, almost to herself. "The spell only broken when we land, I-"
"We're expecting turbulence," interrupted the bass tomes of the head steward across the cabin speakers. "So, I'm afraid seats must remain upright and tray tables stowed. We also can't start our meal service until the captain switches off the seatbelt signs."
The blonde stewardess then reappeared, as Steve felt the plane levelling out.
"Sir, Madam, some drinks?"
"I thought you weren't serving drinks, because of the turbulence, right?
"Oh no, Madam. We always serve beverages in first."
"Whiskies then," said Shirleen, looking at Steve with a twinkle. "Extra-large ones, no ice, and make it four of 'em, would you." The stewardess duly returned with four crystal tumblers, each almost filled to the brim with warming, amber liquid. She also brought a tray bearing lobster claws, fois gras, a tin of beluga caviar, various condiments, brioche toasts, butter curls in water, fine bone china plates, pristine linen napkins, and solid silver cutlery. The tray was ceremonially placed on a small rack between Steve's and Shirleen's seats.
"I'm afraid we can't serve hot food for some time yet, as the turbulence will last for a few hours, but I've prepared a cold plate for the two of you. Hope that's alright?"
"More than alright, eh Steve?" said Shirleen, licking her lips in delightfully lazy slow motion. The stewardess also handed them two large, and almost unnaturally soft, black Kashmir rugs.
"For if you need to sleep. I can't give you proper bedding or pyjamas unless the seatbelt signs are off."
"Could get up to anything under this," Shirleen said, mischievously holding a rug up to cover her body and face up to just below the eyes. It was the stewardess's turn to blush.
