The Edge of 30,000 Feet
The Edge of 30,000 Feet

The Edge of 30,000 Feet

I noticed her as soon as we started boarding the business class cabin. Young, stylish, striking. Dark hair, strong cheek bones, lovely clavicles peaking out from her open-necked blouse. She was dressed stylishly but casually. She carried herself with confidence, focused and contained, aware of the milieu around her but not of it. A welcome change from the sea of businessmen in uniformly grey and blue suits, all pretending that colourful socks could substitute for a personality.

I made it to my seat, popping my briefcase in the bin overhead and giving my coat to the cabin steward that appeared at my elbow. I had just sat down when a feminine voice beside me said, “Excuse me, I seem to be in the next seat.” Confident. Dusky. Her. I stood to allow her to sit, secretly thrilled that she would be my seat-mate for the long transatlantic flight.

I needn’t have been so thrilled. Apart from brief exchanges with the cabin staff as champagne was offered before take-off, and then drinks, finally followed by dinner service (white wine and the seafood option) she barely acknowledged my presence. Ear buds in (jazz, from what I could tell), she was absorbed in her book, curled by the window, clearly content in her own universe.

I suppose that shouldn’t be surprising. With her looks and the raging entitlement of most of the men in the cabin, she probably gets hit on far more than she would like. Not engaging becomes a perfectly understable defensive strategy in avoiding unwanted attention.

As I finished the preparation for tomorrow’s meeting on my tablet, the lights in the cabin dimmed in preparation for sleep. I was just putting everything away in the seat pocked in front of me when I heard a heavy thump. Her book had fallen into her lap, precariously balanced. Her head was rolled back, eyes closed, asleep. Delicately I managed to catch the book just before it fell. I marked her page and dropped it in the seat pocket in front of her.

Briefly taking advantage of her slumber, I took the time to get a better look. She was striking more than beautiful, delicate features, minimal make-up, and even in sleep a sense of confidence and poise. Perhaps a dancer in a former life. Judging by the attire, probably in a creative industry today. Publishing? Marketing? Impossible to say.

In another scenario she would totally be my type in terms of looks. There is always the question of compatibility of interests; few expect someone of my stature and position to be submissive, but that was something I had known about myself for a very long time. It limited the options in terms of the dating pool significantly. 

Not wanting to be caught staring, I looked away again. I accepted the blanked and pillow that was offered. Another was placed on the armrest should she wake up. I endeavoured to sleep, although it has always been a challenge in planes. Nonetheless, I closed my eyes, listening to the quiet breathing of the woman beside me.

That might have been the end of it except a few minutes later she shifted slightly, and in the process teetered across the armrest and onto my shoulder. I didn’t move, first from surprise and then caution, assuming her movements would wake her any minute. She slept on, though, oblivious. What started as courtesy became something else; she was clearly comfortable, and I resolved not to wake her, keeping as still as possible. With one arm pinned, I enlisted the help of a a cabin steward to help me cover her up with a blanket, and there she slept. 

Just as I surfed the edge of sleep myself, I felt movement beneath the blanket. She remained leaned in to my shoulder, head using me as a pillow, but I now found her hand resting on my thigh. First just resting. Then stroking gently. A finger ran itself up my inseam. I held my breath, trying to get a sense of what was going on, but she seemed for all the world to still be fast asleep. There was no change in her breathing, and no outward sign that she was awake. 

I won’t lie to you The situation was a massive turn-on. One that took a turn as she reached the top of my inseam. All of a sudden her hand gripped me. Hard. I could feel her grasping my balls in her fist, the hint of nails, far beyond comfort. This was possession. This was supposed to hurt. It did hurt, but in an incredibly good way. I was quickly erect, holding my breath, processing what was happening. We stayed like that for what must have been a good minute or two before she released her grip under the blanked, gently patting me. 

If I thought that was the end of my adventure, though, I was clearly mistaken. Deftly, so deftly—particularly given there was still no sign she was awake—my zipper was pulled down, and I felt her hand probing my genitals. Fingers lightly stroked the outline of my cock, now hard as a rock. I felt her circle the head through my underwear, before gently stroking just under the glans. Back and forth, feeling her nails tickle my most sensitive flesh.

I stifled a groan as she continued. Desperate not to draw attention, and also fervently not wanting her to wake up at this point. Her attentions continued, slow, deliberately, torturous. Teasing and throbbing. My breath quickened even as I struggled to stay still and quiet. I felt tingly and flushed all over, my balls tightening, an overwhelming full-body sensation of stimulation. An orgasm was approaching, and I had no idea what was going to happen when it did.

Except just as I appreciated the precipice, she stopped. Movement ceased. Her hand stayed where it was, and I hovered on the razor edge of climax. I managed to get control of my breathing. The tension was just beginning to subside, when her fingers started up again. The same place, edging my glans. The same pace and motion. The same teasing persistence. And then stillness once more.

I gripped my seat arms with my free hand, feeling the warm weight of her against me, soft and still and for all the world still slumbering, while I wrestled with overwhelming feelings of horniness and frustration. Again, my tension subsided, only for the treatment to being once again. A third time, and a fourth, and a fifth. I was beside myself with ache and throb, desperate to come, furiously needing release, and repeatedly denied. My eyes rolled back in my head in frustration.

The piercing sun through the window cast a bright orange glow on the inside of my eyelids as I regained consciousness. The aroma of fresh pastries and strong coffee wafted to my nostrils. I was still under the blanket. I had clearly fallen asleep at some point during the night. 

I glanced to my left, and she was awake, curled once more against the seat, book in hand, a mug of coffee and a croissant on the table before her. Absorbed in her reading and her breakfast. Surreptitiously I felt beneath the blanket. Surprised to find it down, I struggled to do up my zipper quietly. Just as I completed the task, quietly victorious that I had managed it unseen, she turned to me for the first time.

“Good morning,” she said, soft but confident, looking over at me with what seemed like an amused grin. “I hope you slept well.”

Prompt: On a long, overseas flight, the person in the seat beside you falls asleep on your shoulder, causing you to fantasize…


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