The Good Boy

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

I handed the plastic tray back to the air stewardess, most of the food untouched. The movie had finished, it would be a few hours before the next meal was served, and the lights in the cabin were being dimmed. I walked my feet up and down on the spot. If the plane did manage to stay up in the sky for the duration of the flight, and I survived this long-haul ordeal, the last thing I wanted was to arrive in Australia and promptly die of a DVT.

Australia had been a lifelong dream and it had taken me until now, until the grand age of 43, to finally pluck up the courage to get on the plane. I wasn’t enjoying it one bit.

“You could try and get some valium,” my friend Susie had suggested. “Or take a dirty book – that always takes my mind off the flight.”

I’d gone for her second suggestion and pulled the book I’d borrowed from Susie out of the seat pocket. This had better work. The drone of the plane’s engines filled my head and every slight change in its sound signaled how close we flew to disaster.

As I reached overhead to switch the reading light on, the young guy in the seat next to me did the same. The backs of our hands brushed each other for a second and we were both illuminated in the blue-white spotlights.

He extracted his book and held it in his hands. I glanced across. I saw a well-read, leather-backed book, and long, slender fingers. Then I read the title: The Bible.

As I looked up I noticed that he had also been checking out my choice of reading. The cover of Master at Midnight featured a picture of a woman, head thrown back, neck exposed, with a man’s hand entwined in her hair. I refused to feel embarrassed. This guy was simply a stranger on a plane, in another eight hours we would arrive in Sydney and I’d never see him again. I opened my book and started to read and he did the same.

I hadn’t even got past chapter one when the plane started falling. It suddenly dropped, bumped us in our seats, and then rose again as we hit what the pilot called “a spot of turbulence”. I clutched my book and squeezed my eyes shut. “Please god,” I muttered.

“Are you praying?” His voice was warm and rounded with an upward, Australian inflection.

I opened my eyes. “I’m scared of flying,” I admitted.

“Do you want to hold my hand?” I nodded and his smooth fingers wrapped around my own. The plane stopped bumping. “Better?”

“Thank you,” I went to draw my hand away but he added his other hand over the top, now clasping mine gently.

“Reading helps,” he said motioning to the discarded books in both our laps. “I’ve done this flight a lot, it’s best to find something to distract you.”

“Thank you,” I repeated and he released my hand. We picked up our books again, he opened his but I just help mine in my lap. He looked serene and calm as he read on through the passages of Corinthians. A theology student? I wondered. He didn’t look much older than 21 or 22 and, even in the unflattering, artificial light of the cabin, I could see he had a handsome yet boyish face.

The plane started lurching again and I automatically grabbed at his hand. He held it tightly and, with his free hand, switched off both our overhead lights. “I know something else that helps,” he told me.

“Anything,” I told him, “oh Lord, just make it stop.”

His free hand worked under the blanket that was covering my lap and I felt his thumb rub firmly over the top of my thigh. “Yes?” he paused and waited for me to respond. “All you need to do is just focus on my hand,” he added.

“Yes. Please, yes,” I responded, pulling my concentration away from the bouncing plane and honing in on the sensation of a stranger’s touch. His thumb moved closer and closer to my groin in tight circles. I was still grasping his other hand and felt an invisible line connecting our bodies. As long as he keeps touching me, we’ll be safe. It was an irrational thought, but it was all I had.

His thumb reached my mound and kept on circling. I shifted in my seat to open my thighs and allow him to continue his journey. The circles moved down, working a path along the length of my pussy lips and back up again. He applied consistent pressure and kept to a steady pace. It was hypnotic.

I wriggled a little further down into my seat and felt his thumb make contact with my clit. The layers of fabric between his touch and my flesh were beginning to annoy me. I wanted him to touch me. As if reading my mind, his fingers worked open the button on my jeans and deftly slid down the zip. Now his fingers walked a path underneath the elastic of my knickers and slipped smoothly into the well of moisture he’d created. He stroked me gently and my clit grew hot and swollen.

He soothed and stroked over and over, up and down, and around and around. Every now and then he dipped a finger inside me – just one slender finger dipping in and stroking up.

He held me in this place of languid bliss, making no effort to hurry me to orgasm.

My entire being was poised under his fingertips as he caressed my clit and lips. I relaxed under his touch while my body responded; I grew harder and slicker.

Another dip inside me, a sweep up and over my clit, and I felt my orgasm begin to release. With each touch my body rose higher and higher until I was flying.

He cupped his hand over me and whispered, “It’s okay now.”

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