Flying High

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Foreword: Sex in Space

  Introduction: Joining the Mile High Club

  34B

  INSTRUMENT FLIGHT RULES

  A BRIEF RESPITE

  GET ON, GET OFF

  THE SCREAM QUEEN

  WILD CHILD

  BERMUDA TRIANGLE

  TOP BANANA

  NASTY LITTLE HABIT

  URGENT MESSAGE

  OBEDIENT

  AISLE SEAT

  GAME IN THE SKY

  WHEN YOUR GIRLFRIEND WEARS A VERY SHORT SKIRT

  PLANES, TRAINS, AND BANANA-SEAT BICYCLES

  FLIGHTS OF FANCY

  THE GIRL MOST LIKELY

  BERT AND BETTY

  WING WALKER

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  FOREWORD:

  SEX IN SPACE

  “One cannot fly into flying.”

  —Nietzche

  Tell me not to do something. Go on. Try it. Say, “Don’t run your finger through that gold, glittering candle flame.” Watch me slide the tip of my pointer through fire. Say, “That ruffled skirt’s far too short. You can’t wear a mini that micro out in public.” And then, oh, what’s this? Am I doing a Marilyn Monroe in the flirtiest skirt of them all? Right in front of that café window, with everyone seeing my scarlet satin knickers?

  Tell me I can’t have sex on an airplane. Go on. Try it. Say, “The Mile High Club is, for many, only a naughty fantasy, a sultry story lovers tell each other when they have both feet firmly on the ground.” And oh, what just happened to you? Did a charcoalhued blanket appear out of nowhere? Did your sinful girlfriend wiggle her hand, her head, her entire sublime body under that soft gray cloud and into your lap? Or did she take you by the hand in the dead of night to the lavatory?

  Click goes the Occupied sign.

  Down goes the girl to her knees.

  Throb goes the beat of your hearts in the tiny, mirrored compartment.

  Or flip the switch—did your man slip his fingers under your deceptively casual, wrinkle-free skirt to find you not only inhibition-free but pantyless, as well? (Yes, planning goes wing-in-wing with airplane sex. Stealth is the perfume of choice.) While your fellow passengers dozed peacefully in the cabin, did he pick you up and hold you against the wall of the tiny bathroom, keeping you airborne 30,000 feet in the air?

  Sex in the air fulfills a multitude of fetishes and fantasies. You can log miles in exhibitionism, public fornication, taboo encounters. Let’s not stop there. Humans crave flight. We dream of engaging in winged adventures, of touching the stars. The writers in this book fly with their words. Sommer Marsden, Kristina Wright, Cheyenne Blue, Donna George Storey, Teresa Noelle Roberts, Thomas S. Roche, and other meteors in the erotic universe are sure to illuminate your milky way.

  Let editor extraordinaire Rachel Kramer Bussel be your pilot. Soar with her through that pink-tinged forever sunset into the great unknown. Unfasten your seatbelt. The pilot has determined it is safe to move about the cabin.

  XXX,

  Alison Tyler

  INTRODUCTION:

  Joining the Mile High Club

  The Mile High Club is, for many, the stuff of legend, but I’m here to tell you that where there’s a will, there’s a way. Flying can bring out so many of our insecurities, fears, and frustrations, that it’s natural we’d want to find a way to relieve all that tension by getting it on. Indeed, several of the stories here deal with sex as a way to conquer a fear of flying.

  Just as I was completing this volume, I got a call from a friend who told me that on the way back from a family vacation, he got it on with a woman he ran into on the plane whom he’d known, but never slept with. They managed to have full-on intercourse (and much more) as the rest of the passengers slept—or so they thought! They found out later that they’d been true exhibitionists, seen by horny voyeurs.

  In these stories, characters are often surprised to find themselves engaging in such risqué behavior midflight. The surprise and naughtiness make what’s happening even hotter. For others, it’s been carefully orchestrated, such as the woman meeting her online pen pal in “34B” or the one putting her arsenal of sex toys to good use in “Obedient.”

  Other scenarios are more fanciful, and, unless you’re really lucky, are probably not going to happen to you. Part of the thrill of even thinking about the Mile High Club is that, in such close quarters, someone’s bound to notice the movements, noises, and sensations of sex happening near him or her. Voyeurism and exhibitionism are part and parcel of sex on a plane, even if you never officially get caught.

  I’m sure you are probably picturing getting it on in a tiny airplane bathroom, and yes, that happens here. But there’s more than one way to join the Mile High Club, as the “Wild Child” in the story by Matt Conklin learns when her kinky new friend asks for some extra ice. And in “Bermuda Triangle,” we’re introduced to a threesome that takes edge play to new heights, as a man is blindfolded and instructed to fly, his fear upping the ante for the novel sexual encounter about to take place.

  While this isn’t a how-to manual, I’m sure you can pick up a few tips on the fine art of blanket placement and in-flight discretion from these talented writers. Alas, during the numerous flights I’ve taken in the last year, nothing so risqué has happened to me, but that hasn’t stopped me from fantasizing about what might be going on a few rows over, or wondering, as I stand in the security line, who might try to pick me up. I love that Wi-Fi is the wave of the flying future, as I write about in my story “Urgent Message,” and I’m looking forward to much in-the-air flirting.

  Whether you’re a member of the Mile High Club or just want to be, I hope these stories take you on some exciting trips, and that your next plane ride is just as eventful! Please feel free to share your story or keep up with what’s new in plane sex at my blog at http://flyinghighbook.tumblr.com/.

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  New York City

  34B

  Bill Kte’pi

  SWF seeks adventure. 34, attractive, strong, professional, healthy, happy. Seeking that missing piece and a man to take control. Tell me what you have to offer.

  Every time the car hit one of those speed bumps on Airline Highway, you think about turning around. This is thrilling, yes—but stupid, too. Stupid to spend this kind of money over a man you’ve never met.

  Nancy—be on the flight from Baltimore to Portland: I’ve pasted the itinerary at the bottom of this email. Buy a ticket for seat 34B. I’ll reserve 34C. I’m buying two tickets; I’ll leave C empty until it’s time.

  Waiting in line for your ticket, waiting to board, you look at the men around you, even though you know he isn’t one of them. He’ll board the second flight, when you switch planes in Baltimore. You don’t know where he’s from. He doesn’t know where you’re from.

  As you go through security, you half hope you’re stopped for something, that the emery board in your purse disqualifies you from air travel, that overzealous air marshals decide you’re a threat to national security—and you get sent home to your matching plates and new stereo and warm safe bed.

  You fidget on the plane to Baltimore, unable to concentrate on the paperback you brought in your purse. You glance down at your lap to see if anyone can tell you’re not wearing panties. Baltimore is a forty-seven-minute layover that seems to stretch on for hours.

  You board the second plane.

  34B—it sounds like a bra size. You don’t even know his name. You gave yours—your real name, though he may assume otherwise—but he never offered his and you didn’t want to ask and have him say no. You didn’t want to establish his right to tell you no that quickly.
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  This is stupid. But it’s safe, isn’t it?

  He pointed that out when you hinted at your uncertainty a month ago: It’s an airplane. What is it you think I can do without you letting me do it?

  34C is empty, as he said it would be. You steel yourself, don’t look at the men on the plane. You don’t want to seem eager or desperate or stupid. Maybe he’s up front in first class, or maybe he’s watching you right now. Maybe he’s changing his mind. It’s 3:00 A.M. Eastern Time, and scattered passengers are asleep or reading. Most of them were here when you boarded. You didn’t think to check where the plane was coming from. Maybe from where he lives. Florida? Alabama?

  You wait for the captain to turn the seat belt light off, and a piece of you hopes for turbulence, hopes the light will stay on and on and on until you disembark in Portland. You’ll promise to reschedule but of course you won’t, and—the seat belt light clicks off. He’s free to move about the plane.

  You do what he told you to do.

  You unbuckle your seat belt and drape the flimsy airline blanket over your lap. There’s no one in 34A, and you wonder if he bought that ticket, too. You push your armrests up. There are only the three seats on this side of the aisle: across the aisle an old man has fallen asleep reading the in-flight magazine. The flight attendant turns his light off as she passes.

  You sit and wait.

  You’re wearing what he asked you to wear: the red blouse you’d told him you liked, the one that’s comfortable and sexy at the same time; an underwire bra with no shoulder straps; a black skirt, short (but not too short), cut wide and loose. No stockings. No panties.

  What should you be doing? Looking casual? Reading your book? Looking around? Ten minutes pass…fifteen…thirty. You wonder if you should give up, and what exactly “giving up” would entail. You wonder what you’ll do when he—Someone is sitting down next to you.

  You look at him, doing your best not to look nervous. He’s tall, but not impressively tall, just taller than you, tall enough for that moment of awkwardness when he maneuvers his head beneath the luggage compartment to sit. Nice hands (no ring, but you don’t know if it would matter). Dark blue eyes, and black wire-rimmed glasses. Light brown hair rumpled in a professorial way. Tasteful suit. No tie.

  You smile, and he nods to you with an expression you can’t read. You start to say something but he holds a finger to his lips and nods behind him: a businessman is sleeping in 35B. Maybe that’s for the best: you have no idea what to say.

  Nothing happens, for the longest time. You keep looking at him even though you don’t know if you should. You don’t want to seem impatient or…or you don’t know what. Stupid. You don’t want to seem stupid. You don’t want to seem like a girl—but you want to be treated like one. Maybe.

  His fingers brush your leg through the blanket. It would seem innocent if you didn’t know it wasn’t, like he’d just forgotten what close quarters airplanes have. You move your leg a little closer and his hand slides over it, under the blanket. He has a warm hand, with long fingers that squeeze your leg firmly, which you know is the signal.

  Under the blanket you pull your skirt up, eyes studiously down; no one glancing this way could tell what you were doing.

  You pull his hand between your thighs. You want him to feel that you’re not wearing panties. That you shaved for him. That you did what he said.

  He leans toward you, as if just getting comfortable. He pushes your thighs farther apart, and his middle fingers stroke you open, stroke you wet. You push forward, feeling the rough upholstered seat through your thin skirt. Your hand beneath the blanket caresses his for a moment.

  But you pull your hand away because you don’t think a caress is what he wants. You push against his hand until his finger slips into you, and when you hear the whimper in your throat as your head presses back against the seat you can’t believe the sound came from you. You’re not the kind of woman who makes such a noise.

  Straight ahead you can see the flight attendant in that space just behind first class. You can’t believe you’re thousands of feet in the air with a stranger’s fingers inside you and a flight attendant a few away. You could talk to her, she’s that close. You could remark what an unusual thing it is for you to be sitting here with this man’s fingers deep in your cunt while his palm rocks against your clit; you could explain that this really isn’t an everyday thing for you, and ask, does she see it often? Is there a whole subculture of anonymous airplane sex, or is the Mile High Club couples only?

  You realize suddenly that he’s going to make you come, and you’re struck by how ridiculous it is. And then you stop thinking at all; you focus on not groaning, closing your eyes and imagining him fucking you, imagining taking him to a hotel room in Portland and letting him fuck you—even though you promised yourself you wouldn’t. You’re imagining it all the same, imagining the hotel sheets against your knees, imagining raising yourself for him with your head in the pillows, so muffled you almost can’t breathe. You imagine him pounding away at you with one hand on your breast and one in your hair. You imagine his hands on your ass, too, pulling you into his thrusts and grinding his hips in just the perfect way, right there, right there, right there…

  His thumb is working circles against your clit. He has three fingers in you—there have never been three fingers in there before except your own—but he has three fingers in you, or maybe four, you can’t tell anymore, you only know you’re going to leave a wet spot on the seat.

  You open your eyes and see the flight attendant again, talking to another attendant—and you make eye contact with her. She smiles, you smile back and do your best to make it innocuous. You’re managing to be friendly while 34C fucks you with his hand, fills you, does your clit just right and Oh!—there it is, and you close your eyes again, trying not to squinch them, gulping down groans, shuddering. God, he knows you’re coming! His thumb leaves your blood-engorged clit but his fingers spread you against the tightening of your muscles. Jesus god…

  Everything’s fuzzy for a while, and then, as you come back to yourself, you remember his rules.

  You don’t know how you’re going to manage this. You don’t look at him—you just reach over, spreading a blanket over his lap. As he pulls his hand away from you, leaving a wet trail along your thigh, you unzip his pants. He’s hard and hot to the touch.

  You stroke him awkwardly because you’re using your wrong hand—until you twist, hoping the flight attendant will assume this is a man you’re with, a man you know and love, and that you’re just leaning against him affectionately. You slide your good hand under the blanket and grasp him, pulling him upward from the base, watching his lap, not his face, feeling the vein throb against your palm and listening to his breath deepen and hitch.

  You grind your thighs together as you jack him off. When he’s close, you dart your eyes around. No one’s looking.

  You pull the blanket away and drop your head. No one can see you as you take him in your mouth.

  You keep your lips tightly together, forcing yourself down his shaft and up again. You keep your fingers tight around him. You stroke again, tasting the salt of him, feeling his hand twist into your hair. You rub his cockhead against the inside of your cheek and caress it with the underside of your tongue. You suck harder, panicking at the occasional wet sound your mouth makes…and then he comes. You push your face down, letting him coat the roof of your mouth and your lapping tongue.

  You swallow every drop of him.

  You zip him up, replace the blanket and right yourself, unable to keep from looking at him this time. He actually licks his lips.

  Now you remember all the other things the two of you talked about—what you could do in the bathroom, the reason you wore the underwire bra, and that if you lean toward 34A he can play with your ass—and the seat belt light comes on. You’re on approach to Portland. It’s over.

  Neither of you says anything.

  In the airport he squeezes your hand and walks away.
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  You wonder if his next flight includes another woman, if he does this all the time, if he flies around the country, fucking women in 34B.

  You arrive back home at midday. His email is waiting for you.

  Nancy—I’m so very sorry we didn’t connect! My flight to Baltimore was delayed. Your plane left an hour before I arrived. Email me soon—let’s make new arrangements. I’ll reimburse you for the ticket if you like.

  INSTRUMENT FLIGHT RULES

  Zach Lindley

  I should have spent my vacation yodeling across the Alps. I had ten glorious days to take in the clean mountain air, removed from everything that lay in ruin back in the States.

  Instead, I went to the little Gasthaus in Zweibrücken where we met when I was stationed in Germany. I listened to the native banter that I couldn’t understand back then, but could now after years of marriage to a German woman. I looked deep into the room at the table where she had sat when I first saw her: long bright blonde hair framing her triangular face, vibrant blue eyes penetrating the curling billows of smoke.

  The table was empty now.

  I came to the Gasthaus from the Zweibrücken Air Force Base, which was now closed, having been decommissioned just a few years before, in 1991.

  Another cold reality.

  I ordered another Park Bier and listened to the beautiful song of guttural German speech before I settled in for the night at the Erika Hotel. The room transported me back to the night we first made love; how I peeled away her clothes to reveal her voluptuous body and released the scent of expensive floral French perfume.

  I drew a nice warm bath and coiled my hand tight to my cock, closed my eyes and saw Friederike’s clear peaches-and-cream skin and vibrant V of gold pubic hair. I lingered in the tub, stroking to the edge of orgasm, then pulling back until my tortured cock burned red. I thought how I should be someplace I’d never been, clearing my head instead of stuffing it with memories. Of course, I returned to the thoughts of Friederike. A stubborn hot torrent exploded over my stomach, defying the water that had long since gone cold.