Flight 69: The Mile High Club (Hot Sex with a Handsome Stranger) (4 page)

I don't just feel happy or contented or joyful. I feel something deeper, stranger. I feel as if I have uncovered the force of my primordial genes
;
the inner me that is truly me. I have been living a lie. I don't want to be a superwoman, the head of the company, the best PR in America. I want to lie on my back with my legs spread and my vacant places filled. I want to fuck...

But no, that's not what I mean. That's what Harvey wanted. I want more than that. I want to feel totally and completely at one with my own body and I know the only way to do that is sharing it with another body that wants the same. I have an intuition that in those unfamiliar places we are afraid to go, all girls have the same yearning, the same driving force, the same secret desire. In the vagina of every girl her clitoris is Sleeping Beauty waiting
to be awoken by her
prince.

I drift off on a wave of ecstasy with this mystery Mr. Swanson in my mouth and parting is such sweet sorrow
when
he eases my head back
and his cock makes a popping sound as it slides from my
swollen lips. He pulls me forward and kisses me on the mouth. He cups my cheeks and stares into my eyes.

'You're doing great,' he says.

'My pleasure,' I say and I say it Southern the way it's supposed to be said.

We stand and I double over, clutching the sides of the stainless steel sink. He widens my legs and, as he thrusts forward, ramming into me, I want this flight, this journey, to go on
forever. I am sopping wet. I feel liquids running down my legs, coating my thighs. I watch him in the mirror, his head thrown back, faint lines on his brow, teeth gritted, lips concentrated. He keeps going, in and out, until I'm sure he's about to come, but then he
stops
.

I wiggle my ass. I want more. More. I am a greedy girl with an aching pussy and that aching pussy will have to be patient. He has other things in mind. My hips are pushed back. The head of his cock nestles against the tight ring of puckered flesh around my anus with its untold secrets. A weird feeling runs up my spine, a shiver of fear and longing.

He pushes against me and I push back. I am holding my breath and let it out in a long sigh as the head of his cock forces its way inside me with a faint pop and I feel as if I have been opened like a cork being plucked from a bottle of champagne. The fine delicate skin inside my ass stretches as he plunges in deeper and I realize I don't know myself at all. I had sworn that this is something I would never do, not with anyone, and now, with this perfect stranger, I feel complete, not ruined or used, but flattered and indulged.

Firecrackers are igniting and exploding all through my body and in my hissing whispers begging for more is the truth of my deepest
needs, the veracity of who I am. W
hen you
peel back the layers of culture
and education and conditioning
, I am a woman who wants to be taken by a man like James Swanson
.

Slap, slap, slap.

I can hear the sound of flesh against flesh. He is riding me, jerking me forward like a horse in a race, slapping the side of my bottom, each slap growing harder and I feel a tingling warmth flood over my skin, the sting of each slap complimenting the pleasure of feeling him inside me. It is this combination, the pleasure and pain, that turns on the light and, in those dark places filled with shadows and fear, we see in that moment of brightness the hidden parts of our nature. When you stand nea
r naked in a business class was
room with a man you don't even know sunk deep into your ass you understand what it is to be fully human, animal and divine. To be fully alive is to walk in the shadow of death. In fucking like this, like animals in the wild, we are triumphing over life to the point where death loses its chains and mystery.

Then he comes, pumping into me, filling me up,
replacing
the
liquids
that have
and squirt
ed and drained
from my body. I imagine he's finished, but he hasn't, not quite. He turns me about. I sink again to my knees and when I suck his cock I can smell the roses and taste myself, the taste of marzipan.

Why did Craig, the flight attendant, say marzipan is an aphrodisiac? Does he know sitting out there eating sea bass what is going on in here just a few feet away? Would he care? Do I care? Words from our conversation over dinner slip through my mind, jumbled, incoherent. Then I recall something James said: He's only satisfied when he finds an untapped reservoir where he can sink in deep and suck out all that precious liquid.

He must have known we were going to end up fucking on
Flt. 69
I didn't care. It must be something that happens in business class and, now I've joined the club, I'll never fly any other way. It's a cliché, sex on a plane like this, but I didn't care about that either. Clichés are clichés because they are true: more haste less speed, a stitch in time,
the early bird catches the worm,
and that's just what I've got in my mouth, this silky serpent that has made me happy.

He lifts me from under my arms. We kiss again and it feels like a farewell kiss, the last kiss. I can hear the squelching of my wet parts like water running from a bath. I was like a female machine oiled with male semen. I smell it in the air, a dizzying cocktail mixed with the secretions that coat my thighs, my bottom, my breasts,
my
face. My heart thumps in my chest and as we draw apart I bite my lips.

He smiles.

'You look about fifteen years old when you do that,' he says.

'That's how I feel.'

'That's how you felt.'

He turns away and reaches for my dress. I step into it and he pulls up the zipper. He dresses,
then
grabs my torn panties from the floor.

'I'll have to replace these,' he says.

He sniffs at the gusset then pushes them into his pocket.

I'm too strung out to work out what this means and my thought stream comes to an abrupt end when I hear a
loud
double tap on the door. I glance into the mirror and what I see is a girl who has been well and truly fucked, a girl who looks like me but different.
More me.

James pulls back the bolt and as the door folds back, there's Craig standing there, his
eye-lashes
fluttering like flags in the wind.

'She had something in her eye,' James says, and the attendant looks at me.

'I can see,' he replies, and leans forward. 'It's the marzipan that does it.'

We wander back to our seats. I feel energized and exhausted at the same time. Is that possible? I can feel the stickiness between my legs and semen seeps through the crack of my bottom.
My hips sting where he slapped me and my fingers prickle with pins and needles.
We sit in silence. It's a pleasure not speaking. 

Coffee and croissants appear. I eat every scrap, dabbing the tips of my fingers at the crumbs and taking more coffee. The plane lands smoothly. We've gained an hour, an hour put to good use in the business class bathroom.

We move through the arrival formalities. He helps with my luggage.

'Can I give you a ride into town?'
he asks.

'I have a driver waiting.'

'Me too,' he says, and produces a business card.

It reads: James A. Swanson, Director,
Ogilvie
& Swanson Petroleum, with an address downtown in the Skyline District.

'That's where my new office is,' I say, and he smiles.

'Th
at's convenient.' From his pocket he withdraws a marzipan chocolate wrapped in gold. 'I'll save this for next time.'

And he was gone and I watched, wondering if he would look back when he reached the exit and he did, the perfect omen.

I live
in London
and have written FIVE other
erotic novels
!

A Girl's Adventure

When a mysterious stranger gives failed actress Greta May his phone number, she dreams of adventure and plucks up the courage to call him, but the moment she enters his flat he rips off her knickers and spanks her bottom. At first shocked and humiliated, Greta grows bewildered as the pain turns to pleasure, and after being tied to the bed for a thrashing, she agrees with rising excitement to play a game where she will win a prize if she does everything Richard demands. It is the beginning of an erotic journey of self-discovery, where Greta meets Dirty Bill, the water sports specialist
;
Vanlooch
, who uses oils from unusual places to highlight his portraits, and the moody Count
Ruspoli
who, after bedding 10,000 women, has taken a vow of chastity. Can Greta save him? Under Richard's firm hand Greta finds her true nature through discipline and, after meeting film director and
bogwash
artiste Tyler
Copic
, she seizes the elusive prize: the chance to play the role that will change her life and put her back in the spotlight.

Buy a copy from
Amazon USA (Amazon.com)
or
Amazon UK (Amazon.co.uk)

Or find out more about me at my site
chloethurlow.com

Being A Girl

A journey of discovery and awakening to the delights of discipline

When
Milly
is late for a vital interview on a sweltering day, casting agent Jean-Luc Cartier pours her some water and holds the glass to her lips. When the water soaks her blouse he instructs her to take it off.
Milly
is embarrassed but curious. As
Milly
strips off her clothes, not only her shapely body, but also her deepest nature, is slowly uncovered.

Jean-Luc puts her over his knee. He spanks her bottom and her virgin orgasm awakens her to the mysteries of discipline.
Milly
embark upon an erotic journey from convent school to a black magic coven in the heart of Cambridge academia, to the secret world of fetishism and bondage on the dark side of the movie camera.

Buy a copy from
Amazon USA (Amazon.com)
or
Amazon UK (Amazon.co.uk)

Or find out more about me at my site
chloethurlow.com

The Gift of Girls