“You’re a woman.”
“Funny, sitting here. Not many women get this privilege. So, what are you doing when you get off work? Are you hiding a bottle of champagne in your flight bag?”
“We weren’t thinking of when, as much as now.” Anthony flicked some buttons above his head and then slid his seat back.
“God, I’ve only interfered once with someone while working. In fact all the dim lights had me thinking of it––”
“Oh you won’t be interfering,” said Henri. He took a small clip-board, scribbled something on it and then he too slid his seat back.
“Sex with husbands at work, doesn’t count.” Anthony waved his finger as if to scold Gillian.
“No, it was a much longer time ago.”
“You’ll have to give us details.” Henri reached out and pushed a stray hair from Gillian’s neck.
“Yes details.” Anthony turned and touched Gillian’s knee.
“Who’s flying this thing anyway?”
“No one for a while.”
“Do you two work as a team?”
“Rarely, but seeing you in the lounge, we started talking and one thing led to another. We had our own little fantasy, compared notes on what it is we love about women and what we love to do, and decided to act on it. This may very well be a first for us.”
“A first for me too.”
“You aren’t a member of the mile high club?”
“No. I’ve tried, desired, yearned, but it just hasn’t happened. And now there isn’t even a lounge to flirt in. I may have to change carriers.”
Anthony slid his fingers along the inside of Gillian’s thigh. She exhaled, a final release. Not able to believe that it was actually going to happen. That a man would touch her like Spokes had so many years ago, and Edgar before that, much too long ago. She thought about her resolve, and responded guiltlessly, feeling herself suddenly energized by the prospect of something physical and maybe even sexual. What had it said on that card the old woman gave her? Mesmerize? Perhaps she still could. “Are all pilots so damn cute? I mean, is that a prerequisite? Look at the two of you. Anthony, you’d look great on a motorcycle with that profile. And Henri, can we talk Chevalier?” Gillian didn’t mention the difference in height between her and the two men. But it was making her feel a bit goddess-like, the idea that two medium height men had their hands on her. But what struck her more was that they wanted nothing more from her than sex. They didn’t want to play power trips, negotiate any terms, they just wanted her and what they saw through the windshield in the first-class lounge.
“Now tell us about the lucky guy you distracted at work.”
“Oh it wasn’t my work––God knows they’re fucking like bunnies there––just his. I was thinking of it because of all the little lights in here. It reminded me of a hospital visit.”
“Hospital sex? You bad girl.” The pilot’s touch became more intense.
“I’d broken my leg. Nothing complicated. I’d been skiing in upstate New York. He was an intern. We necked a bit and then on one of his shifts he came into my room. I mean it wasn’t easy; I was wearing a hip cast.”
“On these long legs? How unfortunate.” Anthony got down on his knees, held Gillian’s knees close to his chest, unstrapped her shoes, tickled the tops of her feet, and then ran his hands gently from Gillian’s calves up the back of her knees to her thighs.
“Yes, well, it healed and there is only a small scar.”
Henri was now at Gillian’s neck, lightly kissing just below her ear.
Anthony continued, “tell us more.”
“I um, oh, he, well, he was––”
“What did he look like? Anthony asked. “Lots of details.”
“He was hairy.”
“Sexy?”
“Yes. Big lips. Good kisser.”
“Big cock? Did he have a big cock?”
“Yes, beautiful and big. I didn’t realize how big until I reached inside his scrubs and it was just waiting to be, you know, used. I swear it was almost too heavy to––
“Did he fuck you? Could you take him? Did you ache to have him inside of you?” At this point Anthony bought his fingers closer up Gillian’s inner thighs. Henri slipped his hand into her blazer.
“Yes, and he massaged my breasts the way Henri is. He slipped his hand in my robe and massaged my breast. I couldn’t imagine though how he would fuck me with my cast on, just as I can’t imagine what we will manage here in your cockpit.” Gillian was dizzy with delight.
“And did he? Did he fuck you there in the hospital room? How could he do such a thing and take such advantage of someone just lying there. We’re you horny? You must have been so horny after days of lying and doing nothing but watching your intern come and go, take your pulse, put his stethoscope on your breast, I mean chest, and massage your shoulders with his big hands while his stethoscope dangled in your face.” At this point Anthony was rocking Gillian gently back and forth, he had pulled her panties towards him, and his fingers were now tickling her. “What did he smell like? Did he smell like a man? Was he nervous? Was he sweating? Were you torturing him? Were you being a cock tease?”
Henri ran his hands up Gillian’s neck and over her chin and she let her mouth open slightly to bite one of his fingers.
“He wanted so badly, so badly to fuck me, you know. Everyday when he came into my room I could see the outline of that massive dick and the big head, there in his scrubs practically down to his knee. And so finally, after days and days and days of this torture––for him as well as me––he locked the door. Then he took off his shirt revealing the hairy body I had imagined, and then he let me untie the drawstring of his scrubs” At this point Gillian was gasping, Henri had brought his hand down to Gillian’s thigh to join Anthony’s and now both men were rocking her gently, their fingers closer and closer to being inside of her––almost fighting to be the first inside of her. The idea of two different men touching her at the same time drove her wild, she imagined their fingers entwined and clutching one another and searching and moving to find her most pleasurable spots. She started to breathe deeply.
“Did his scrubs come off?” She heard Anthony say. “Did they fall to the floor? Did he have to struggle to pull them down, against his raging hard on? Was he in such a hurry to fuck you that he couldn’t get his pants off? Did he stumble and have to crawl on his knees to your bedside to pull himself up off the ground? Did he practically cum with desire before he was able to get to you?”
Gillian fell forward to find Anthony’s lips. She could endure this torture and apprehension no longer. The men’s fingers massaged her inside and out, the men’s fingers now jostling for space, one after the other, over and over, and then Anthony’s mouth found her trembling lips. She felt thrilled and a great sense of release as she admitted to herself that this pleasure wasn’t deserving of any guilt. She had done her time of abstinence and it was now time to make up for the abnormally long dry spell. Was she a slut? Of course not. A saint most likely, to have been as faithful as she had been while the world around her explored every facet of sexual pleasure. In this little space she wanted so much for the men to be rough with her, to grope and grab and writhe with a desire that would explode. And grope they did.
She heard the men’s belts, Henri’s at her side and Anthony in front, as they undid their buckles and opened their zippers. It was Henri’s turn now “Did he fuck you? Tell us. Did he fuck you?”
She whispered back, between breath and Anthony’s succulent mouth, “He did. He had trouble at first, with my cast, but he climbed on the bed and straddled my cast and then––”
“––then?”
“Then he tore open my gown and placed his hands on both my breasts.”
“Oh God. Oh God. Stand when you tell us the rest.”
“He um,” Gillian rose to her feet, crouching over Anthony. Henri slipped down by Anthony, so both men were on their knees at her pussy. “Then he just leaned into me and at first it was so um�
��–”
“––painful?”
“Well, no just unexpected. But then he fucked me. His whole naked hairy body on top of mine. I put my hands on his hairy ass and pushed him into me with all the strength I could muster.” But the two men were silent now. Their fingers slipped from inside her to be replaced by their fighting tongues. The two men moaned and Gillian looked down to see their brows in the dim blue light, rising and falling as they pleasured her with their tongues. “And he fucked me,” she whispered. “He fucked me and fucked me and fucked me, so long and so hard.” Her breath became so short she couldn’t continue to speak. She saw the men’s arms moving almost in unison as they jerked themselves off, taking turns at her and then both at the same time. Gillian felt like a queen. She was dizzy and light and full of a kind of joy. She wanted to say take that, to Edgar. She wanted him to see all that she had been missing and all that she so deserved. But she also just wanted to absorb the sheer pleasure of the moment and the fact that she was pleasing two men at the same time, as they pleased her.
“He fucked me, and then he came and I know he came because his hairy body went taut and he bit my lips.” The men’s vibration increased and they moaned louder now, the sound crescendo’d until they were almost yelling their pleasure. The sound shook Gillian, her face stung, her scalp turned to pins and needles and a feeling of pleasure rocked her to the point that her knees almost gave out and she nearly fell to the floor. The men let out one last long “Ahhhhhhhhhh,” as they came on the floor of the cabin, and recoiled gasping to catch their breath. Gillian could barely contain the absolute pleasure and release she felt. She took a breath, sat on the jump seat, slowly collected herself, and pulled up her panties.
“He almost got stuck inside of me.” Gillian said. “My cast had shifted, but he got his cock out.” The men laughed, wiped the sweat from their faces and tucked their full flaccid cocks back into their pants.
“Henri got to his feet. “You’ll have to tell us when you are back this way again, tell us another story––it makes the time pass.”
“Yes, it makes the time pass.” Gillian agreed. “I might even feel like a little nap now. Let me know if you see my husband.”
The men laughed again. Gillian patted her hair into place, gave a small tug to her skirt and left the cockpit.
Chapter Five – Room Service at the Mandarin Oriental
The remainder of the flight was uneventful but extremely relaxing for Gillian, as if some weight she had been carrying for ages was now gone. She felt as though she had been welcomed back into the real world––not her world of fairy tale romances and waiting years for one particular prince who was never going to come. She closed her eyes and thought of the two men above her in the cockpit. When she opened her eyes again she heard their voices announcing the beginning of their approach into JFK. JFK, so easy to get to Brooklyn and see family, but Edgar insisted on downtown Manhattan. The luxury of a five-diamond hotel had lost its allure––although staying at her family home could be fraught with discomfort, mostly the emotional kind, and the broken dreams of a life that could-have-been, weighed against what had become her reality.
At JFK she waited for Edgar at the end of the walkway from the aircraft, no Edgar. She searched above the sea of heads at customs. No Edgar. She looked for him at the luggage carousel. No Edgar. No Edgar’s luggage. She finally decided to take her query to the customer service. “I seem to have lost my husband. Edgar Pritchard. He got on the plane. I know that much.”
“I’ll have them check the plane,” said an obliging gnomish male agent. “Would you care to wait in the lounge Ms Pritchard?”
“I suppose. It is late though, isn’t it?”
“Just before midnight. But it won’t take long, I assure you.”
Gillian wandered up to the lounge, her luggage in tow. She had packed lightly since New York was a two-day stop before heading to the Caribbean. She’d learned that the best way to pack lightly was to have a few wash-and-wear things that flattered a fit and beautiful body (although she had to muster some strength to believe she was in possession of these qualities). A few sexy flimsy dresses and that was it. Shoes were her only weakness.
The lounge was quiet. Someone was cleaning the bar, another vacuuming a distant corner. The TV was tuned to a local news station, and headlines rolled by: Winter storms, feel good stories, Santa scandals, car accident statistics. There was nothing about a lost husband on a plane.
Gillian looked out at the lights of a distant plane, landing, and wondered if the entire twenty years had been a figment of her imagination and that she had been dreaming, or living two lives. Some of it had seemed too good to be true: living in a home at Marble Arch, the estate in Cherry Hill, and the fact that she liked to work for a living, even though she didn’t have to. In fact it had taken her mind off the long dry season her private life had been experiencing. And it fulfilled her desire to entertain at such places as the Ivy or Inigo Jones, or lunch at Baku or Bulgari, which, in and of themselves could turn into a full day thing.
And it seemed Edgar had encouraged the presence of friends and co-workers and co-workers wives at other dinners. They both knew it functioned as a buffer to what had come between them. But Gillian had taken to them. For the most part, the women were nice enough. Some could be snobs, but even they found her American ways refreshing and an excuse to step outside of themselves and their formal ways.
“Ma’am?” Gillian’s reverie was broken. “Ma’am, we’ve done a thorough search of the plane and there is absolutely no sign of your husband.”
“That’s impossible.”
“We do follow a search protocol in these situations. We don’t take them lightly. And we have a special crew to do a thorough search. Our headcount shows that there were some inconsistencies, but we didn’t think they were with first class.”
“So. What do I do?”
“Normally we report it to the authorities, both here and in the country of origin.”
“Can you call me a cab?”
“Of course.”
At the Mandarin Oriental Gillian looked down where the lights of the city gave way to the darkness of Central Park. Christmas lights lined Sixtieth Street and various windows here and there. So odd to have come from the London Streets where all the beauty was contained in the first few floors of any building, and now she was surveying the heights of New York and a different kind of majesty that relied more on lines reaching to the heavens. She had left reports with both the NYPD and Scotland Yard and now all she could do was wait. Strange this occurrence. Edgar was a self-made man, not prone to disappearing at random. Gillian sighed. Tried not to think of whether it was a stroke of luck or a curse. Just think: Edgar was probably being hijacked to some compound in Antarctica while she was enjoying having her pussy tongue-massaged by two gorgeous British Airways pilots. What could she do? She was exhausted but she was on holiday, so she ordered chilled sake, a plate of sashimi, and drew herself a hot bath. She had worked on her feet, taken jobs in bars and pubs, right up to that first meeting with Edgar, and a little beyond, and she had always appreciated certain luxuries that she more or less identified as basic human rights––a nourishing and satisfying meal, the time to eat it, and a hot bath.
She got undressed and put on one of her silken robes, a pale peach and pink subtle floral print, that doubled as a wrap in the tropics. There was a knock at the door, and a subdued voice saying “room service.”
“Please come in,” she called, and then turned off the bath. The knock came again, she went to the door, and opened it. “Sorry, I thought in this day and age you’d have a master key.” She turned and led the waiter into the room. “Can I add a tip to the bill? I don’t have any American money with me. I’m sorry I know what a pain that is.” She looked up at a face that had barely changed in the twenty odd years since she’d left Brooklyn. “Good God. It’s you!”
Clear blue eyes under curly brown hair looked quizzically back at her. There were a few fine lines
around the eyes, but the skin was still smooth as a baby’s. There was the slightest hint of grey at his temples.
“It’s me! Gillian! Gillian Sheridan, well, Pritchard now.”
“Brooklyn Irish? Is it you?”
“It is I, for damn sure! That voice! A dead giveaway. I hope you’re still acting.”
“Sure, what the hell. What the fuck are you doing staying in a dump like this?”
“Me? Look at you. You lucked out. Tips must be decent! Bob Mason. Or is it Robert Mason? And how is the acting going? Mister Robert Mason. Didn’t you leave Paddies for a TV pilot?”
“It’s great. It’s going great, despite this. Well this is a big money maker so I can’t scoff. Especially around Christmas. Who cares? I can come and go as I please as long as I let the supervisor suck my dick! I start rehearsals Off Broadway in January for a limited run and then, get this, I’m in a fucking Broadway play by that new English playwright, rehearsals start in April.”
“Congratulations.”
“It’s a small part but they needed at least one American when it transferred.”
“There are no small parts, especially from what I remember––
“Gillian looked at Robert and couldn’t help but think of the times behind the bar when he’d drop something, or pretend to, and then get down behind the bar and gnaw at her leg.
“Are you still––”
“Married? Nope.”
“No I just meant are you still a total animal. Do you remember behind the bar?”
“Man I have had a hard-on for you for the past twenty years, pardon my French. Pardon my hard-on.”
“Do you still wear no underwear?”
“Oh come on. I wasn’t that obvious.”
“Of course you were. You were like the pub pervert. Why didn’t we ever do it?”
“You were dating that guy you’d met at Nathan’s.”
“Oh yeah, actually I wasn’t. I lied about that. You scared me. You were too damn horny. I didn’t know how I’d control the reins, you know. I mean shit, if what you did to my calves and knees was any example, you’d be wild. Are all actors that bad?”
Sexual Solstice (First Class Woman) Page 6
