The Extra Mile High free porn video

It’s late. At least you think it is. It’s hard to tell on a plane.

The moving-map video on the screen in front of you says it’s almost midnight. Which wouldn’t be so late if you were still in London, but you’re not. The little plane on the video shows you to be somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, a few hundred kilometres east of the Canadian coastline.

You would watch a movie, but you lost your headphones in the airport and don’t feel like shelling out five bucks for a flimsy set of earbuds you’ll use only once. You would sleep, but the jerk-off behind you kicks your seat just irregularly enough that you don’t feel like confronting him. So you sit, silently, watching the little grey plane on the display move almost imperceptibly across an interminable blue expanse.

You’ve never hated flying. But in your current state of mind, you find yourself wishing you were somewhere else. At a bar maybe, or the dingy apartment you lived in for a few months after moving out of Lisa’s skinny brick house in a London suburb. Somewhere quieter, somewhere you could silence your mind, close your eyes, and melt into a tranquil little puddle. Somewhere with whisky, preferably.

Spiting your desire for peace, you feel your stomach rumble, followed by an insistent pressure in your bowels. Nature calls. You respond with a sigh.

As you walk towards the rear of the plane, you see that most of the passengers are asleep, except, frustratingly, the man behind you. Unlike you, he had no qualms about purchasing the airline’s tin-can earbuds and, judging by the almost frantic way he’s bobbing his head to whatever he’s listening to, seems set on maximizing his investment. You debate telling him to stop kicking your seat, but your resolve flickers at the thought of the awkward conversation that will inevitably follow. You promise yourself without much conviction that you’ll give him a talking-to when you come back. The woman beside him, who you expect he’s also been keeping awake, gives you a sympathetic look. You shrug good-naturedly.

There’s no line at the bathroom. A flight attendant leans against the door, his hands in his pockets, his eyes unfocussed. “Excuse me,” you say, gesturing pointedly at the bathroom door. He starts and stumbles out of the way.

As you open the door, he says, “Sorry sir, the lock’s stuck.” His voice is as listless as his demeanour.

“Is it?” You jiggle it. It doesn’t budge.

He nods. “I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”

You give him a small, polite smile, then close the door.

---

The bathroom is cramped and loud and gross, You weren’t expecting otherwise. You’ve spent a lot of time on planes, having most of your family in Toronto and a now-ex-wife in London, so you’re well aware of the limited comfort offered by airplane bathrooms. But you aren’t there for comfort.

You gingerly open the toilet lid, then tear off a few strips of toilet paper and drape them across the seat. You slide your pants down and sit. The seat feels unpleasant even through your makeshift paper covering.

As you relieve yourself, your mind drifts to Lisa. You wonder what she’s doing. Maybe she’s out with someone. Maybe she’s at home, watching Gossip Girl for the fifth time (two of the five times were with you). Maybe she’s writing that book she always told you she was going to write, the one about the hamster lawyer and her depressed younger sister, who, for absolutely no reason at all, was a duck. It was a terrible idea. You’d told her that more than once.

With a small start, you realize that you know what she’s doing. It’s three in the morning back in London. She’s asleep.

You’re not hung up on Lisa. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway. But you believe it, if not as completely as you might prefer. Your thoughts of her aren’t clouded over with bitterness or grief. In the end, despite what your lawyer wanted you to believe, you know she did right by you, and you think you did right by her.

So then why do you still think about her?

Your dick twitches, answering the question for you.

Lisa was a lot of things: cold, intelligent, ambitious, but more than that, and why you’d fallen for her in the first place – she was beautiful. Tremendously so. She had sleek brown hair with gentle curls that fell perfectly along her sharp shoulders, dark eyes like cold jewels, and soft, full lips that you can almost still taste. You miss those lips. You miss watching them move as she spoke, you miss feeling them brush up against yours, then slide down your neck, your chest, all the way down to your–

Your dick jumps again and you start to feel pinpricks of concern. Now isn’t the best time for a boner. Most of the passengers are asleep, sure, but you’re going to feel like an idiot walking down the aisle with a tent in your pants. But you don’t want to bring yourself out of your reverie just yet.

Your mind’s eye moves past Lisa’s face, undressing her, caressing her silky skin, and as you do, your thoughts grow more carnal. Again you wonder what she’s doing. Maybe she’s fucking someone on the bed you used to share, screaming with pleasure, her hands raking through the faceless man’s hair. Maybe she’s watching porn on the living room TV, one hand pinching a swollen nipple, the other shoving two fingers deep inside her soaking depths. Maybe she’s at her desk writing some degenerate erotic fantasy, her dainty little fingers typing out detailed scenes of lust and filth and angry, pounding, furious sex, sex so awful, so nasty, so animal...

You feel your hand on your cock. You don’t even remember putting it there. Are you really about to rub one out on an airplane toilet? The thought of it unsettles you on some rational level, but whatever disgust you feel beats fruitlessly against your creeping lustful fervour like waves against a gargantuan primordial sea monster. Your grip on your dick tightens. You haven’t masturbated in days – the only reason being that you haven’t been sober in days, but you’re sober now and holy shit, you’re horny. Fuck it, you think, I’m going for it. You give your cock a firm squeeze, flooding your body with pleasure, then…

A light knock on the bathroom door thrusts you back into reality. How long have you been sitting there? You quickly wipe, stand, and pull your pants up, tucking your still-hard dick into the waistband of your underwear, then use your foot to poke the strips of toilet paper into the toilet. The toilet makes an absurdly loud sucking sound as it flushes. You wash your hands, and as you do, you silently reprimand your reflection (an airplane bathroom, for fuck’s sake).

You tentatively open the door, aware that someone is probably standing directly outside. Your hunch proves correct – the door bumps into the bored flight attendant’s back. He shuffles off to the side, allowing you to open the door all the way and see who knocked: the woman in the row behind you.

Relief washes over you. The woman was sympathetic to you before and doesn’t seem particularly annoyed now. The two of you exchange polite smiles, then you move to the side to let her pass.

As soon as she steps forward, a shudder runs through the plane. She stumbles forward. Instinctively, you reach out to stop her fall. Your arm circles around her waist, but her momentum pulls you back into the bathroom. You grab desperately with your free hand for a handhold and find something cold and metallic. You grip it. It holds for a few seconds, then gives way with a loud snap and you both tumble, her forwards and you backwards. The two of you fall in a heap on the bathroom floor, the door slamming shut behind you with a harsh crash.

In some unoccupied corner of your mind, you hear the ding of the seatbelt sign turning on.

Chapter 2: Strangers on a Plane

“Oh God,” she says in a cut-glass English accent as she pulls herself off of you. “I’m so sorry.” She stands, teetering slightly, and offers you a hand.

“It’s fine.” You politely wave the offered hand away. The turbulence has vanished, but you still feel a bit unsteady. You grab onto the sink and pull yourself up. She’s blushing. You smile at her reassuringly. “Don’t worry about it,” you say, then push the door. It doesn’t move. You look down. The lock handle is gone.

Tonight is not your night.

“You’re not serious,” you say.

“What’s the matter?”

“I…I think I broke the lock.”

“What?”

“The lock – it’s gone. I must have ripped it off. Shit.” You look behind you and sure enough, on the floor beside the toilet, lies the latch. You both stare at it for a second.

She comes to her senses first. She pushes past you, then knocks sharply on the bathroom door. You try to move out of the way, but there’s not really anywhere to move, and so she ends up squishing you awkwardly against the sink. “Hello!” she says loudly.

You hear a shuffling sound outside of the bathroom and the flight attendant drones, “Is everything all right?” Even though he’s raising his voice, you can still barely hear him.

“We’re stuck in here!” she says. You wonder if she’s going to tell the flight attendant how you got stuck. Thankfully, she doesn’t.

So close together, her slim shoulder pressing not uncomfortably against your lower chest, you can’t help but look at her. She’s about your age, it seems, and a half-foot shorter than you. Her sleek brown hair hangs in a medium bob with soft waves, one side swept over her face and the other pulled back to her ear. She’s wearing only a short white sundress dotted with small yellow flowers – she must be freezing, you think.

There’s a brief silence. Then the flight attendant says, “Do you need me to do something?”

She sighs and rolls her wide brown eyes at you. Her eyelashes are surprisingly long. You roll yours back in silent solidarity. “Can you please help us open this door?”

A pause. “What did you say?”

She groans. “Can you open the door?” you yell.

“Sorry,” the flight attendant says, then adds, a touch indignantly, “It’s a bit hard to hear you.” You hear a few noncommittal thumps on the door. “It’s locked,” he says, as though that settles it.

“We’ve figured that out on our own. Is there a key or something you can use to get us out of here?”

“There’s a key, yes. But the lock is stuck. It won’t work.”

“Can you at least try it?”

“Sure, I will,” he says, in a tone that suggests that he most definitely won’t. “Is it alright if you stay there for the time being?”

“It’s–” she trails off and looks to you for confirmation. You shrug. Her eyes linger on yours for a second before she turns back. “–fine. But we’d both like to get out.”

“I’ll do my best,” the flight attendant says. You’re not very reassured.

The woman groans and pulls herself away from you. You still don’t have much space, but it’s a bit better than being squished against the sink. Just a bit, though – you kind of enjoyed having her so close.

“This is awful.” She places one hand on her forehead and another against the wall to steady herself.

“Yeah,” you agree. You struggle with what to say next. Should you engage, or would it be more polite to shut up? It’s already awkward enough as it is. One of the spaghetti straps of her sundress hangs askew, dragging the already fairly low-cut dress halfway down one of her sizable breasts.

She’s astonishingly attractive.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? some cloying part of your mind whispers.

Lisa was closer to a winter’s evening: beautiful, but harsh and cold, much easier to appreciate from a distance. The woman in front of you exudes warmth – her beauty feels inviting, not alienating. Her cheeks are soft, her skin smooth with the occasional freckle, her curves pronounced, but not too sharp, and her face the sort that makes your heart simmer with tender admiration. If this is what you’re going to be looking at for the next little while, it sure beats the moving-map video.

“Do you want to switch?” you finally say, more to dispel the awkwardness than anything else. “You could hold on to the sink–”

“No, I’ll be fine.” Her eyes drop. “I’m so sorry about this.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say, shaking your head.

“It is,” she insists mournfully. “We wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t so clumsy. Or I suppose that I would be here – but you wouldn’t. I’m such an idiot,” she moans, putting her head in her free hand.

“And where would I be?” You gesture towards the door. “Back in my seat, right? Having some guy play the world’s longest and most spastic drum solo on the back of my seat for the next three hours? All things considered, this isn’t so bad.”

She looks at you blankly, then recognition lights up her face. “Oh my God. That guy–”

“I can only imagine what he’s been putting you through.”

“Hell,” she says with conviction. “Pure hell. I have work in six, seven hours and I haven’t slept in – I don’t even know. It’s been a while. I’m exhausted,” she says, smiling weakly. A wave of sympathy passes through you. She seems tired, and, if you’re not mistaken, a bit nervous underneath all the smiling. You get it – trapped in a tiny space with a guy she’s never met. Of course she’s nervous. “I just–I just–” she says, hanging her head miserably.

“Hey,” you say. She looks up at you, her wide eyes moist. “I told you already, this isn’t your fault. None of it is. You couldn’t have known what was about to happen–”

“It’s not just that.” She wipes one of her eyes and adjusts the hanging strap of her dress. Seeing her so forlorn is almost painful.

“Well, whatever’s going on with you, I’m sure you’ll make it through.”

“You don’t know that,” she says in a choked whisper, not angrily, just...sadly.

You think about this for a second. “You’re right. I don’t. But maybe you could tell me.”

The suggestion seems to startle her. “I can’t. I, well, you–”

“I want to listen,” you say gently. “If you want to tell me.”

Her eyes find yours and search them warily, as though testing your concern for validity. Though you’re a touch offended that she seems to think you might be taking advantage of her, you have nothing to hide, so you let her. She sighs. “Okay. Okay. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, completely sure, yes.”

She takes a deep, trembling breath. “Well. There’s a lot happening right now. I’m starting a new job, and moving to Toronto, and there's so much I have to do–oh God, I have to buy furniture. I don’t even know if my room has a bed.”

“That is a lot,” you agree.

“It’s not that I’m not happy about it – I really am. It’s an experience I’ve always wanted, truly, but I’ve just never done something so...monumental. I’ve lived in the same flat for the last ten years – just a couple of blocks down from my parents’ house. Cavendish Lane, Manchester,” she says, almost dreamily. She absently pulls a lock of her hair behind her ear, which immediately flops back to its original position after she lets go. “I’ve lived on Cavendish Lane my entire life. Now I’m moving to a whole new country. And I still can’t believe it’s genuinely happening.”

You nod solemnly. You know how she feels. Four years ago, you moved to London. You remember how stressful it was despite how much Lisa had arranged for you. The process was long and taxing and intricate, and you remember feeling nervous on the flight over. Not at the prospect of a new life – that was exciting. Rather, you were worried that you’d left something behind.

“And I was so ready to go, too,” she continues, shifting from side to side. “But I remembered so much this morning, so much I didn’t do, so many people I didn’t call, and traffic was a mess, and I didn’t have time to change, and I just barely made the flight, and I haven’t eaten, and then I had to sit beside the only guy on this bloody plane who thinks he’s at a bloody rock concert, and I have to be at an office I’ve never been to in six hours, and now this happens –”

You cut in because it looks like she’s about to start sobbing. “Hey,” you say, “Maybe you can make it easier for yourself.”

“Yes,” she says tentatively, “Maybe. But I don’t know how.”

“Can you call your work? Tell them you’re having a rough time moving in, and need a day or two to get settled?”

“I…I suppose I could.”

“I’m sure that wherever you’re working, they’ll be okay with it. They’d probably prefer alive-you to zombie-you, even if it means losing a day or two. Where do you work?”

“I’m a CPA,” she says, the trace of a smile flickering on her lips.

“You’re an accountant? On second thought, they might like zombie-you a bit better.”

She laughs thickly, shaking the tears loose from her eyes. “God, I’m such a mess,” she says, letting go of the wall to wipe her eyes. Almost on cue, the plane shakes again, and she rocks forward. You put a hand against her shoulder, stabilizing her. For two frightening seconds, it looks like she’s going to fall again, but she grabs hold of your arm and clings to it. You stay like this while the plane continues to tremble. When the turbulence abates, you lower your arm, but she continues to hold on to it for a little longer, giving it a small squeeze before letting go.

“Thank you for letting me vent,” she says. Her eyes are warm again, shining lightly at you, but she’s still frowning. “You probably think I’m such a child.”

“I don’t think you’re a child,” you say kindly. “I think you’re someone under a lot of stress who needed someone to talk to. I’m happy I could be that person.”

“I just wish…I didn’t have to tell you here,” she says, looking down. You notice that she’s wobbling even more now. “Like…like this.”

The words hang in the air for a moment. Suddenly, it hits you. She didn’t come to the bathroom to spill her guts to a stranger. She came here to –

“Wait,” you say. She looks back up at you. “Do you need to –” you nod at the toilet.

Instantly, her cheeks flush, and she shakes her head. “No. I can...hold it. How long until we land?”

“Um…a few hours, I think.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh God. Shit. Shit.”

You try the door again, hoping that by some miracle it fixed itself when you weren’t looking. Of course, it hasn’t. Your head spins as you try to come up with something, some contraption you can use to fix the lock, but all you have at your disposal is toilet paper, a broken latch, soap, and a distressed woman. You turn back to face her. “Look, um, we’re not getting out of here. So…if you have to, I can just –” you can feel the blood rushing to your face as you say it “– look the other way for as long as it takes you to…you know.”

She stares at you, horrified. You can almost feel her goodwill plunging into the open toilet. “I can’t. I can’t do that. That’s too much.”

You nod, feeling like an idiot. “I understand. And I’m not saying that you have to, I’m just saying that if you need to, I swear on my life I won’t make a big thing out of it. I get it. We all have to take care of business. I’m not going to hold that against you.”

“I’ve never…done that in front of someone,” she whispers, still shocked that you’d even suggest it.

“Well technically, you’d be behind me,” you say. “Which I think makes it a little better.”

“That’s…still…”

“I’ve never been in this situation either.” You shrug. “But what else can we – sorry, you, do?”

“I…” There’s a strange look on her face, a mixture of pain and desperation and uncertainty and...something else. Something that stirs something in you. Something dangerous.

“Look,” you say, shoving the thought from your head. “You don’t have to make up your mind right away –”

“Okay,” she cuts in with sudden finality.

“Okay?”

“I’m going to do it,” she says, like she’s trying to convince herself. You stare at her for a second. Her shock has transferred over to you. She makes a curt gesture with her head, clearly meaning turn around.

“Oh,” you say. “Right. Sorry.”

As you turn, you become intensely aware of what’s about to happen. A woman you’ve just met, a woman who happens to be an absolute babe, is about to relieve herself a few feet behind you. That dangerous part of you stirs again, like a lion sniffing out an injured deer, and you try desperately to shut it off. But you can’t help it. It all feels so intimate.

You hear the shuffle of fabric and the creak of the toilet seat opening.

And then she starts to pee.

For the first few seconds, you can’t believe it. You think you’re hearing something else. There’s no way that she’d actually do it. But the sound of a stream of liquid hitting the walls of the plastic basin is unmistakable. Unless she was hiding a water-filled ketchup bottle under her dress, there’s no way around it. She’s pissing.

The sound floods your senses. Though you know you won’t, you’re intoxicated by how easy it would be to turn around and look at her. You imagine what you’d see if you did. She’d be sitting on the toilet, her dress lifted to her hips, her panties bunched around her white trainers, her pussy exposed, spraying into the basin below her. She’d stare at you, maybe with fear, maybe disgust.

Maybe…lust.

You feel your dick start to rise, pressing insistently against the fabric of your sweats. You imagine taking it from your pants and presenting it to her in all its hard, veiny glory. She’d stare at you hesitantly, but would obediently spread her legs and open her soft lips, her pussy dripping with arousal and urine, and then you’d…

The extremely loud flush of the toilet explodes your perverted fantasy, leaving you flustered, ashamed, and painfully erect. You hear her stand, then reach beside you and turn the water on. “I’m done,” she says, a bit nervously.

Chapter 3: Divorce, Jellybeans, and Intimacy

You look down. Your boner is still standing tall and expectant. Go away, you silently hiss at it.

It twitches contentedly.

“That was…” she says. “Nice, I suppose.”

Nice?

She quickly adds, still flustered, “Not nice like...nice, you know? But you were very decent about it. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” you say, and your dick nods in agreement. Thankfully, it seems to be going down. But you can’t turn around just yet.

“You don’t need to keep facing the door,” she tells you as she turns off the sink. “I’m decent now.”

Deciding that you’ve gone down enough that she won’t see it, you turn around. Her eyes immediately drop, widen, then just as quickly zip back up to meet yours. She smiles at you – more confidently now, it seems. “I don’t think this can get any more awkward so do you mind if I–”

She reaches out with a hand, circling your back.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just a lot more stable than holding on to this wall – not that there’s anything to hold on to in the first place. And I don’t want to be so close to the toilet, either.”

“Go ahead,” you say. “But if I fall, I’m taking us both down.”

She rests her hand on your lower back. She’s much closer to you now. “Then don’t fall,” she says softly.

“I won’t,” you say.

You stay like this for some time, standing beside each other, her head bouncing lightly against your shoulder. Finally, she speaks: “You’ve been so decent. All I’ve done is make a mess of things–”

“You haven’t–”

“Oh God, I know. I know what you’re going to bloody say – that I haven’t made a mess, that I’m decent too, that none of this is my fault. And I do appreciate it, I really do, but the fact is, you’ve been so good to me and I don’t know a single thing about you.”

“Well, what’s to know?”

“Hmmm...you asked me what was happening in my life. So I’ll ask you the same thing.”

“I’m moving from London to Toronto, same as you. Moving back in with my parents for a bit.”

“Why are you moving? London too dreary for you?” She gives you a coy little look.

You laugh. “Better dreary than frigid. But no, I’m actually moving back to Toronto. I lived there most of my life – moved to London a few years ago to be with my wife.”

“Your wife?” she says, and despite the nonchalant way she says it you can feel her stiffen. Her hand retracts slightly from your back. “Is she with you?”

“No,” you say. “We’re divorced circa–” you think about it for a second “–about a week and a half ago. But we’ve been separated for a few months now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, her hand returning to your back. You note that she doesn’t sound especially sorry.

“Don’t be. We’re both fine with how things turned out. Once we wrapped up the divorce, she had no reason to keep me there and I had no reason to stay. Very neat, very clean – decent enough that I might even recommend it.”

Though you thought the joke was fairly funny, she doesn’t react to it. She seems set on some course, though you’re not yet sure what that course is. “So would you consider yourself…single?”

Odd question. Kind of forward. Then again, she just pissed right behind you. “Sure, I guess. But I’m not really looking for anything. I’m happy to go it on my own for a while.”

“Really? No girlfriends? No hookups? It has been a few months, hasn’t it?”

“It’s been a few months since we separated, yes, not since we’ve divorced. I’ve only been legally single for about a week. And honestly, I just don’t think it’s worth it.”

“Girlfriends?”

“Relationships.”

She gasps and turns to face you, her eyes wide. You’re surprised at how shocked she looks.

“How can you say that?” she says. She sounds genuinely hurt.

Deciding that a throwaway one-liner won’t cut it, you give it some thought. “Have you ever had those jellybeans?”

She looks at you blankly. “I’ve had jellybeans.”

“Not regular jellybeans. Those are fine. I’m talking about those mystery packs with the really shitty flavours. The ones where you don’t know what you’ll get. Like a green jellybean could be pear-flavoured, or booger-flavoured.”

She scrunches up her nose in disgust. Dear Lord, you think. She’s cute as hell. “Why would anyone have those?”

You nod. “That’s exactly my point. Even though there’s the possibility that things could go well, there’s also the possibility that they could go terribly wrong. You put yourself out there expecting something great, and end up with a booger-flavoured jellybean.”

“Was your ex-wife a booger-flavoured jellybean?”

You laugh. “No. Maybe we both were. But whatever she was, I was no better. The main thing is, though, I just don’t feel like running that risk anymore.”

“But you’re missing out on so much,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Like, say, intimacy.” She says it like it’s supposed to be obvious.

“Like sex?”

She blushes but recovers fast, rolling her eyes. “Of course you think that. Typical man.”

“Sorry,” you say, grinning.

“Don’t apologize,” she says. “It’s–” she sighs mockingly, and you swear she puffs out her chest slightly “–understandable. But in all seriousness, intimacy is important. Maybe you don’t think so. But you at least have to agree that it’s nice.”

“I guess,” you say. You feel her hand move briefly on your back in a way that feels oddly like a caress. Maybe you imagined it.

“You guess?” she says. “Maybe you’re just starved of it. You’ve forgotten how much you need it.”

You shake your head. “I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on up here,” you point at your head, “a bit better than you do.”

“Maybe.” She looks away from you, her brow furrowing. She stays like this for a few moments, silent, thinking, then she looks back at you, her expression hard, but not cold. “Do you want me to let go of you?”

“What? I mean, you can if you want–”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean given the choice between me letting go of you and me continuing to hold on to you, what would you pick?”

Tiny crackles of excitement simmer in your head. “You can keep holding on to me.”

“But do you want me to?”

You decide not to let her have it so easy. “Do you want to let go of me?”

Her eyes glint and her hand moves slowly across your back. This time you’re certain – she’s definitely caressing you. A mischievous spark rises and falls in her eyes. “I think you want me to keep holding on.”

“And I think you don’t want to let go,” you say.

“Perhaps,” she says in a tone that gives nothing away. “Do you want me to come closer? I can touch your hand. If you want me to, I mean.”

You nod, careful not to seem too enthusiastic.

She drapes her hand on top of yours. She’s right below you now, her body only a few inches away from yours. Her head is so close that you could very easily rest your chin on top of it. She’s caressing your hand, giving it gentle squeezes and running her thumb back and forth along your wrist. The scent of her hair, fresh and fruity like sliced tangerines, drifts through your senses. That animal part of you whispers its desires in your head, compelling you to wrap your arms around her, to pull her in, to hold her. Calm down, you tell yourself.

“Isn’t this nice?” she says. “Being close.”

“Yeah,” you say. Then a thought comes to you. “But this isn’t intimacy, is it? We’re only touching.”

She looks up at you, her face inches from yours. Her eyes, framed perfectly by her long eyelashes, are soft, hypnotizing, and as you fall into them, you almost miss what she says. “Physical intimacy is still intimacy, no? Weren’t you the one who said all intimacy is is sex?”

“Did I say that?” You genuinely don’t know.

“Something along those lines,” she says. Her hand, the one on yours, begins to move. It glides past your wrist, along your arm, resting on your shoulder. “Is this intimate enough for you?”

“Maybe,” you say.

Her hand reaches up further, slowly sliding over your neck. She gently pulls you in until your lips are an inch apart.

“How about this?” she says, her voice low and sultry. Her eyes flutter and close. She leans in.

Chapter 4: Going the Extra Mile High

Your lips meet with a freshness akin to the delight of jumping in a pool on a hot summer’s day. As you kiss, you wrap your arms around her back, pulling her closer, sandwiching her body against yours, feeling her breasts squish up against your chest. It becomes almost difficult for you to keep your eyes closed – you want to see her in all her beauty: her flawless skin, her lustrous brown hair, her stunning face. But the strength of the kiss, the power of the moment, holds your eyelids down. Eventually, she pulls back.

“Is that enough intimacy for you? Or will you be wanting more?” she says coyly.

“I could stand for a little more,” you say. “But only because you’re offering.”

She sighs sarcastically. “I really wish you’d be honest with me.” She slides a hand down your front and presses her palm against your once-again stiff cock. “Is he acting independently, or are you both –” She leans in, gives your ear a quick nibble, then whispers into it “– needy little boys?”

It’s extremely hot. But you’re not going to let her get away with it.

“Oh, you –” You push her against the wall with one hand, grabbing both of her wrists and pinning them above her head. Her hair falls over her face and she tries fruitlessly to blow it away. Keeping her hands held up, you kiss her again, this time more forcefully. Your tongue pushes into her mouth and she makes a muted moan before meeting it with hers, playing with it, dancing over and under it, wrapping it, drenching it. She’s responding to your aggression with her own, which excites you even more. You feel wanted in a way you’ve never felt before. You press your crotch into her stomach, eliciting another muted moan.

“I’m needy?” You say, pulling away, keeping hold of her hands.

“Yes,” she says, breathing heavily. Her eyes are burning with passion now – you wonder what she’d do to you if you let her go.

“I told you,” you say sternly. “Girlfriends. Relationships. Intimacy. Fucking. It’s just not worth it to me. I don’t need any of it.”

An almost panicked expression appears on her face. “No, you do, you need this –”

She lifts a knee slowly towards your crotch. You gently slap it back down, shake your head, then reach up and caress her cheek “I don’t. But you do, don’t you?”

“I–“

“You’re about to start a whole new life with nobody there to support you. Maybe you need a little intimacy yourself.”

She grimaces but offers no rebuttal.

“Just tell me that you need it and I’ll give it to you,” you say. “If you don’t, well, I don’t see the point.”

You’re bluffing, of course. You’re the most aroused you’ve been in months. But either she’s playing along or her lust has so completely fried her mind that she can’t think straight. She keeps her mouth shut, her eyes fixed on yours.

“Not talking, hm?” you say. “Maybe I should check.”

“What?” Her eyes widen as she realizes what you’re about to do. You grab the hem of her dress and lift it, exposing soft, shapely thighs terminating in sleek black panties.

You cluck disappointedly. “Black? Those don’t give much away. I’ll have to dig a little deeper.”

She squirms unconvincingly and pouts at you. “My pussy won’t sell me out,” she says. “It’s loyal.”

“That I don’t doubt. Except for the fact that I totally do.”

You slide your hand into her panties, feeling a small shock of wispy bush, then, as you were expecting –

You pull your hand out. You wave your glistening fingers in front of her face like a lawyer presenting damning evidence to the court. “What’s this then?”

“That’s…oh, I don’t know. It’s humid.”

“It’s humid? You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“It is humid–“

Tell me what it is,” you command.

She flushes. “It’s my…arousal.”

“Very good,” you say, smiling. “It’s your arousal. And what is it telling me?”

Right before it seems like she’s about to tell you, the mischievous spark appears again in her eyes, this time much weaker than before, like the embers of a dying fire. “You can’t make me say it.”

“Really?” You trace a finger along her thigh, leaving a trail of her wetness in your wake. “I don’t need you to. Your pussy takes after you.”

“How?” she says, confused.

“It’s an accountant, just like you. And like a good accountant, it’s told me everything I need to know. But it seems you need a bit more encouragement before you’re ready to own up to it.”

“I…no…”

“No? Do you want me to stop?”

She shakes her head.

Your hand slides back into her panties and you press two fingers against her now sopping pussy. Her eyes widen and she moans again. She looks so desperate, so wild for you that you almost feel sympathetic. But you continue to hold her there. “Tell me,” you say.

“No,” she says, her voice high-pitched, almost singsongy.

You begin to massage her pussy, moving your thumb slowly against the bump of her clitoris, and sliding two fingers inside her, pumping gently, relishing the way her pussy grips you. With each careful, tender movement, she twitches, her legs shake, her arms go limp, her eyes fill to bursting with lust. She’s so warm and so wet – you resist the urge to pull your fingers out of her pussy and taste them.

“Tell me,” you growl.

“I…I…” She moans again, loud enough that it fills the room. You wonder if the flight attendant’s still outside. You wonder if he’s listening.

“Tell me.” You pick up the pace, thumbing her clit with more intensity, pumping in and out of her more vigorously. Her pussy is so tight, so perfect. You release her arms and they drop to her sides. Her hands claw against the smooth wall behind her, floundering for something to grab onto, something to ground her pleasure.

“I want this,” she says. “I want this. Please.”

“You want this?” you say.

“God,” she says, a trace of exasperation appearing in her face. Then it’s gone, and she’s the same lustful, trembling mess she was a few seconds earlier. I need this,” she moans. “I need you. I need you right now.”

You kiss her, continuing to rub her still faster, coating your hand in her love. “How badly do you need me?” you whisper into her ear.

“So bad,” she whispers back, pressing her cheek to yours. “So fucking bad. I’ve needed you all day. I’ve needed someone as good as you, as fucking hot as you, someone to make a mess out of me, someone to press me up against a wall and…ah…just fuck me. Someone to treat my pussy like a fucking hole. Someone to just–ahhh–fuck me, to make me a whore, to use me, to make me theirs. And when I saw you, I knew you’d do that to me. I knew you’d make me yours. I knew it, I knew it–” You can feel her clenching on your fingers, see her legs tensing up. She’s getting close.

“You needed someone like me?”

“Not like you. I need you. You’re what I need.”

Your heart leaps. “And so you have me,” you say. I’m yours.”

She climaxes as you kiss her again. Her pussy throbs on your fingers. She screams into your mouth as the orgasm surges through her, a scream so passionate, so careless, that you’re almost sure that someone heard it. But you don’t care.

She sags down to the floor, landing on her knees. For a second, she says nothing, just breathes heavily, her head bumping lightly against the wall behind her. Then she speaks: “Dear God, that was amazing. I really did need that.”

“My pleasure,” you say. You lift your fluid-coated hand, meaning to stabilize yourself against the sink – your head is spinning slightly – but she catches it and brings it to her mouth. She licks and sucks each finger in turn, loving them with her tongue, cleaning your hand of every drop of her wetness.

Eventually, she finishes and smiles at you. She nods pointedly at your still-bulging erection. “Your pleasure? Clearly not yet.”

In a single motion, she hooks both hands underneath your waistband and yanks your sweats and boxers down to the floor. Your cock springs free. She examines it, poking it, wiggling it, breathing it in. You feel apprehensive. Are you too small? You wonder. Lisa always said you had a good-sized dick, but then again, you were only her third boyfriend (and only husband). Maybe she had a thing for poorly endowed men.

Eventually, she concludes her examination and grins at you. “This is the most perfect penis I’ve ever seen,” she says.

“What? Really?” You wonder if you’re blushing. You look at the mirror. You’re blushing.

“I’m serious,” she says, putting her face against it. “It’s so beautiful. So big. So wide. But not ridiculous, either.”

“I’m glad you–”

“Shhhh,” she says, watching your cock dangle in front of her nose. “I’d like to treasure this moment. I expect I won’t be seeing him for a little while.”

You’re confused. “Where’s he going?”

She sighs, then kisses the base of your cock. “A dark place,” she says, kissing about midway up the shaft, “a wet place,” she says, kissing just below the head, “but a place I’m sure he’ll enjoy very much,” she says, planting a big wet kiss on the tip.

With a mock-sad expression on her face, she turns up to you. “Ready to say goodbye?”

You’ve caught on, and, quite frankly, can’t wait. “Goodbye, dick.”

She sighs. “He prefers Richard.” Then she opens her mouth and envelops your cock.

Her starting approach is slow and tentative, focused primarily on your upper half. She takes her time, lifting one hand and fondling your balls as she lightly, almost contemplatively sucks on the tip. After about a minute of this, she proceeds to the main course. Her movements become faster, more aggressive, taking more of you into her ravenous mouth.

Through waves of pleasure that almost drown out all thought, you notice that she alternates between two styles: slow and deep, and vigorous and shallow, switching with just enough randomness to keep you in a constant state of anticipation. Sometimes she’ll force herself so deep that her eyes water. Sometimes she’ll pause on the head of your cock and suck it with such resolve that you think she means to castrate you.

As she bobs up and down, her face remains clean – she’s messy, but not sloppy. Small gurgles and moans emerge from her with each plunge down your length, some of them choked, others lustful and languorous. You feel her tongue tracing each vein and indent along your shaft, dancing around your hood, slipping into your cockslit and dissolving every drop of precum.

Her technique is remarkable. But most remarkably, no matter how deep she goes – and she goes very deep – her beautiful eyes remain locked on yours.

You’re struck by how little you know about her. You’re boats passing – no, colliding in the night. She seems so comfortable at your feet, going to town on a stranger’s dick, and nowhere is that comfort better expressed than in those eyes. They stare at you, wide and brown, without a trace of shame or restraint in their loving depths.

“How am I doing?” she says, slipping under your cock and nuzzling your balls.

“Incredible.”

“Incredible?” She gives you a mock pout. “Then why haven’t you cum yet?”

“Do you want me to?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you’ll be up for more,” she says. She lets one of your balls fall into her mouth and gives it a single, aggressive suck, which almost makes you double over, before releasing it with a loud pop. “I’ll be disappointed if I don’t get to fuck this gorgeous cock.”

As much as you’d like for her to continue the blowjob, you doubt you’d be up for multiple rounds. You’re running on empty and so is she. The only thing keeping you both from collapsing is sexual adrenaline, and you’re not sure how long it’ll last. Looks like it’s time to move on.

You reach out and caress the back of her head. “Would you like to fuck it right now?”

A playful smile blooms on her face. “Yes please.”

As she stands, the plane rocks again. This time, she falls into you without hesitation, your lips crashing together. She keeps her mouth shut, likely to spare you the indignity of tasting your own dick, but even if she didn’t, you doubt you’d mind. You slip a hand around her back and grab her pillowy ass, squeezing it like a toy.

A tingle of pleasure flows through you as her fingers meet your dick. She pulls out of the kiss. “Are we doing this?”

“Why wouldn’t we?”

“Well,” she blushes, “Are you…well, clean?”

It’s a concern so obvious that you’re surprised it didn’t occur to you. “Yes, I’m clean.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” you say, holding up your hand, little finger outstretched. “Pinky promise.”

She giggles and locks your pinky with her other hand. The hand stroking your dick runs its thumb along your tip. “I’m clean too,” she adds drily, “you know, just in case you have any concerns at all about your sexual health.”

“I didn’t think you’d initiate if you weren’t,” you protest.

“I don’t think you thought at all.” She grins at you and kisses your neck. “Condom?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Neither do I,” she says thoughtfully. Her brow furrows.

“Are you on birth control?”

“That’s a bit forward, don’t you think?” she says, “But no, I’m not.”

“So then…” you look into her eyes. They look back at you, tentative, but determined.

“Do you trust me?”

You shouldn’t. You don’t even know her name. “I do.”

You kiss again, briefly, then pull her around so that she’s facing the mirror above the sink. Positioning yourself behind her takes a bit of work. With your knees bent slightly, you angle your cock directly behind where you think the entrance to her pussy must be. As you do, she pulls down her panties, letting them hang at her knees. She gives you a look in the mirror, a look of pure excitement.

“Go on then,” she purrs. “Expose me.”

You’re only too happy to oblige. You reach under her dress and lift it over her back. Her ass is a perfect peach, expanding out from her thin waist, soft and round and so incredibly pleasing to look at that your cock grows somehow even harder. You can’t stop yourself. You lift a hand and bring it down hard on her ass, sending a shockwave through her flesh. She yelps.

“Did you just–” she gasps as you shove two fingers into her dripping slit. You push your thumb against her asshole, but she pulls away slightly. The insinuation is clear – her asshole is off-limits. Which you’re fine with. You have no intention of pushing her farther than she wants to go. You move the offending hand to the side, placing it on her asscheek while you continue to fingerfuck her.

Between moans, she squeaks, “Haven’t…you…done that already?”

“Not from this angle.”

“Can’t you just…fuck me?”

You smile at her in the mirror. “Of course I can. Just testing the water.”

She rolls her eyes at you. “Oh…you probably think…you’re so fucking clever–AHH”

You take the opportunity to thrust your cock into her. She rises up on her tiptoes, her hands giving way, and teeters towards the mirror. You wrap an arm around her chest before she can fall.

“This is the last time I catch you,” you say, slowly retracting your cock.

“What will you do next time? Let me–” Again, you cut her off with a thrust, this time not as hard, but enough to derail her train of thought. You slow down, extending your thrusts, sliding in and out of her with less force. Her pussy feels incredible, like a warm, wet little massage for your dick. With the arm wrapped around her chest, you fondle her tits over her dress, massaging each soft, pliant mound in turn.

Her breathing becomes heavier as you start to pick up the pace. Each new thrust, deeper and faster, earns a louder and longer moan until her perverted cries blend into a single, drawn-out song of pure pleasure. You go even faster, pressing into her tight wet slit, slapping your pelvis against her ass. Her tits bounce in your hand. Pressure builds in your balls and you slow slightly, not wanting this to end so soon.

Though you look at her face in the mirror as you fuck her, she has eyes only for herself. Like you, she’s no doubt mesmerized by the expression on her face. Her once-bright eyes are glazed, her once-carefully styled hair is strewn about her face, her once-dainty little mouth hangs open, tongue lolling. All she’s capable of expressing is her lust. Any trace of intelligent thought has been wiped out.

You lift your hand from her breasts and present her with two fingers, which she dutifully takes in her mouth and sucks the same way she sucked your dick.

“Good girl,” you say.

“Mhm,” she murmurs, her mouth full of finger.

“You’re a top-tier cocksucker,” you say. “I don’t know why you became an accountant.”

She laughs at this, letting your fingers fall out of your mouth briefly before bending her neck and sliding them back in her mouth.

“Am I…better than…your wife?” she garbles.

Your wife? You were married?

What a disturbing thought.

You thrust into her with so much force that you literally lift her off her feet. Your hands drop below her hips and keep her suspended, her feet dangling above the ground. Her panties slide down to her shoes.

“Oh my,” she giggles, positioning her hands on the sink. “Maybe I should bring up your wife more–”

Another powerful thrust silences her. She grabs the faucet as you grip her hips like handlebars and wheelbarrow her. Her moans are more frantic now. You harmonize with some moans of your own. It feels even better than before. You’d had sex plenty of times, but never done something as raw as this. In this position, she can’t do anything, can’t even move, only hold onto the faucet for dear life as you use her body to satisfy your savage desire.

But you’re not the only one enjoying this. You feel her pussy clench on your dick, and the waves of another orgasm wrack her body. Her arms once again give out, and despite what you said earlier about not catching her, you grab her before her head crashes into the sink. You carefully lower her back down, your cock still buried in her throbbing pussy. She has tears on her cheeks.

“Is everything alright?” you say, concerned.

“Yes,” she sniffs, “it’s…more than alright. You’re just, you’re so perfect…”

She turns as far as her neck will allow and closes her eyes. Recognizing the signal, you kiss her. With your lips pressed together, she pulls down the front of her dress, exposing her soft, round tits culminating in dark, erect nipples.

“Dear Lord,” you say, admiring her breasts in the mirror. You bring your hands back to them, fondling them carefully.

She grins proudly. “You like?”

“I love,” you say, resting your chin on her shoulder and gently pinching a nipple with each hand. You move your cock very slightly inside her, just enough to maintain your erection. “Are you sure you’re an accountant?”

She rolls her eyes. “Are you insinuating that I’m some kind of whore?”

“No, never. Nothing like that. I was thinking more along the lines of an angel.”

“You’re so sweet,” she says warmly, turning and kissing you on the cheek.

“I try,” you respond. “Now let me suck these beautiful fucking tits.”

She sighs. “Proper mama’s boy, aren’t you?” she says, dismounting your cock. She points to the toilet. “Sit.”

“I’m not sitting–”

“You want these tits in your mouth, yes? So be a good boy and do what I say.”

You’ve had control for long enough that you’re happy to relinquish it, but this feels too nasty – even for you. That said…how long ago was it that you’d considered jerking off on that very same toilet?

“You’re disgusting,” you say, halfway between admiration and horror.

“Yes,” she concedes, turning around, gazing at you with that same loving boldness you saw when she was blowing you. “But you fucking love it, don’t you?”

Fair point.

You kick off your sweats, shuffle around her and sit on the open toilet. A breeze drifts up and caresses your balls.

She lifts up her dress. Her pussy has a light wisp of hair above it. You notice a few freckles on her lower stomach. She straddles you and directs your cock towards her cunt with one hand.

“When you heard me peeing,” she whispers, “Did you think about fucking me?”

“No,” you moan, desperate for her to lower herself on your dick. You’re so needy that you almost thrust up into her.

“I think you did. In fact, I know you did. I saw you when you turned around. I saw a cute little boner in your sweats. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I…”

“My pussy sold me out; your cock sold you out. So I want you to tell me now. Did you think about fucking me?”

You’d stretch this out, but her perfect pussy is so close to your aching cock and her nipples so close to your hungry mouth that you simply can’t. “I did.”

Her eyes blaze. “So did I.”

She drops herself down on your cock, her ass slapping against your bare legs. You grab a nipple in your open mouth and suck it, earning a moan from her. She begins to rise and fall on your cock, and though she drops her dress, covering her pussy, you don’t need to see it to feel incredibly stimulated. Truthfully, even if she was naked, you wouldn’t look. Her breasts fill your vision as you move from one to the next, licking and sucking each nipple, twirling your tongue around her small areolas, pulling as much of each breast in your mouth as you can.

“What a good boy you are,” she says contentedly. “Treating me so nicely, so respectfully – you really do deserve this.”

“Mmm,” you murmur appreciatively.

“There’s just…one more thing I want,” she says. She gyrates her hips on your dick, sending spasms of pleasure through you. You feel yourself approaching the point of no return. “One last…little…intimacy…from you.”

You release her nipple and stare up at her. “Anything,” you say. You already know what she’s going to ask for. You just want to hear her say it. Her eyes brim with admiration as she looks down at you.

“I want…your cum,” she pleads. “I want you to…cum…inside…me.”

This is it. There’s nothing left to say, nothing left to do. She’s so beautiful, so unbelievably sexy that you don’t need anything else. Pressure builds in your cock. You reach one arm behind her back, pulling her down on your shaft. She gasps.

Then, you climax.

For a moment, you’re lost in the wave of bliss as it flows through you. Everything is lost to you; time, place, your very being become distant and hazy, forgotten memories that leave only a faint afterglow in their wake. All you can feel and see is her – her body, her face, her breasts, her drenched and erect nipples, the little sinews under her skin, the mole below her shoulder blade, the warmth of her thighs, the wet tightness of her pussy.

Then your muscles tense up and you hold the woman even tighter, shooting ropes of your thick, hot cum inside her. She moans with each spasm, grabbing your hair with one hand and the flesh of your back with the other. As you continue to cum, her lips find yours and you kiss without moving, your tongues stationary in each other’s mouths. You finish and lean into her chest, breathing heavily.

As your mind returns, you take inventory of it. Almost everything seems to be there. You know who you are, where you’re going, what you’ve done. All of the sundries of your personality and experience are intact and in their proper places.

But something is missing. The face of a woman hangs in your head – not the woman in front of you right now. This face used to inspire you, arouse you, bring you to your knees. But looking at it now, you feel…nothing. No fear, no anger, no desire.

It’s just a face.

You press yourself into the woman’s chest. Her warmth soothes you.

“It’s okay,” she whispers gently while she strokes the back of your head. “You’re okay.”

“Thank you,” you say, your voice dry.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

Eventually, she pulls herself off of you. As she crawls towards the door, a few drops of your cum leak out of her and form a dotted trail on the floor. She leans against the door, stretching out her legs. After taking a second to collect yourself, you join her.

You feel a soft sensation on your fingers as you sit down beside her. You look down and see a pair of balled-up black panties in your palm.

“For you,” she murmurs. “So you don’t forget.”

You kiss her on the cheek. “I won’t.”

“Neither will I,” she says, a little sadly.

“I don’t even know your name.”

“We could keep it that way,” she says, her words slurred, drawn-out. “Make it a one-off.”

“Do you want that?” you ask.

She presses her face into your shoulder and yawns. “Do you really want to have the ‘what are we?’ conversation after having sex in an airplane bathroom?”

“Isn’t that when we’re supposed to have it?”

You feel her breathing slow down. Her eyes close. “We can talk about it in the morning,” she says. “Or…”

You wait a few seconds before prompting her: “Or?”

She says nothing. She’s fallen asleep.

You sigh.

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