I have just taken my assigned right aisle seat in first class and opened the latest issue of "Newsweek" and begun to read a story about Terrorism in Iraq and suddenly - you walk through the entrance to the seating section of the Boeing 747. There is a certain air about you as you enter; every male in the front passenger area is staring at you. You seize the moment and demand the attention, perhaps not intentionally, but your presence shows how secure you are with your personal image and your sexuality.
You are wearing a white silk blouse above a black pleated silk skirt that stops just above your knees. The blouse is puffy in the arms and loose all over but it is evident you are not wearing a bra for your nipples are visible and standing erect from the smoothness of the silk against them.
You walk past the galley to your seat and search for an empty space for your carry on bag in the overhead compartment. Finding a spot you stand on your toes to reach over the top of another carry on bag. With this maneuver your gorgeous legs are emphasized and attract my eyes, not only because you are not wearing any stockings, but also because the muscles in your legs are stressed and your calves were spectacular to see, My God, you have long legs! – Sharon Stone legs.
Fortunately for me your seat is across the aisle from mine. Other men on the plane have to stretch to watch you put away your carry on bag then try to watch you sit in the middle seat of a set of three seats against the left bulkhead. For me, I am sitting with a perfect and unobstructed view, a view that I will have for the next eight hours or so.
The aisle becomes busier as the tourist class passengers begin to board and my view of you is obstructed most of the time. I become interested in my reading and postpone looking at you again until the view becomes clearer. As we start to taxi out for our take off I notice that two lucky guys are assigned to sit with you and are like bookends on both sides of your luscious body.
Your pleated skirt is hiked up quite high on your thighs as you sit reading a magazine; I don't know what magazine it is but I remember thinking that I bet it's not "Good Housekeeping." I can not help but notice that your bookends keep glancing down at your thighs quite frequently. You either ignore them or you sense their attention and let them play with the vision in their minds of what must be up your sexy skirt. Every male on that plane who has spotted you is having that vision play within his imagination.
All during the takeoff and climb to cruising altitude I keep glancing over at your legs. Their length, their shape, their curves, is driving me absolutely wild. I am sure I am not the only one for whom your legs are stimulating ideas. I can almost smell the lust for you in that compartment and I hear some low guttural sounds that other males were emitting in their conversations; I am certain they are for you.
The top three buttons of your blouse are not buttoned, they had been when you boarded; I noticed. The neckline suddenly opens as you twist to find a more comfortable position in your leather seat. The man to your left, next to the window, glances over at the man to your right. The one to your right looks down at your opened neckline and can hardly restrain his hands from the temptation to unbutton you further. The amount of cleavage that you are showing is incredibly tempting for me, even at my distance from you. I envy and hate your bookends for being assigned to sit next to you.
The flight attendant comes through the compartment asking if anyone would like to have some champagne. You meet her eyes with yours and signal to her with a "yes." When you receive the glass, you sip on it so slowly. All of us men with a view watch as you kiss the side of the glass to allow the bubbles to enter your mouth and let the satin liquid trickle down your throat. Oh how we wish we were those bubbles.
After dinner with a choice of cocktails, wine, aperitif, or all of the above the main lights inside the compartment have been turned off and the sun has set. The only lights left on are the overhead reading lights that sprinkle a bit of light through the passenger seating area.
The man to your right, accidentally (on purpose I am presuming) brushes your right thigh with his left hand. Your leg responds to his touch by rising a little from the seat and your knees spread ever so slightly. You continued to sip your after-dinner liqueur and as he brings another magazine from the seat pocket in front of him he grazes your thigh again. And again you respond by spreading your legs just a bit further apart.
The man to your left wants to get into the act and he leans forward and asks the man to your right if he was through with the magazine he just put into the seat pocket; right affirms that he is. With that right reaches forward, slips the magazine from the seat pocket and, reaches across your body to hand it to left. As he returns his hand his suit sleeve grazes across your breasts and they respond by becoming erect; the nipples are plainly visible through your silk blouse.
He says, "Oh I am so sorry. I didn't mean anything by my coat sleeve touching you, it was my fault and I apologize."
You smile, look him in the eye and say, "It was no bother. In fact I rather enjoyed the attention that they received. In fact I wouldn't mind some more."
His eyes light up, and he does not hesitate to take your suggestion; very lightly he places his open right hand upon your silk blouse over your left breast. You lay your head back into the leather seat and smile. You press the lever for your seat to lie back into a near prone position and the foot rest comes up to capture those fantastic legs.
As you lay nearly horizontal in your seat, right then unbuttons your next few buttons of your sheer silk blouse to reveal your lovely cleavage even more to many of the men in the compartment. He spreads apart the front of your blouse to now expose your lovely bare breasts to the chilled air of the overhead ventilation fan; your nipples stand at attention from the kiss of the chilled air on them.
