Get On, Get Off Part Two — Jeremy Edwards

Did you miss the first chapter of Get On, Get Off? Read it here.

Things went smoothly for the flight crew, and it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes before they’d taxied, soared, and leveled off. But cruising altitude came none too soon for Jared, whose cock, still enclosed by a thin layer of underwear, pulsed tentatively but unceasingly against his palm. The woman, his partner, was clearly biding her time as well; Jared heard no further sounds from her while they ascended, and the elegant feet remained still, looking like a piece of lewd sculpture with the panties seductively adorning them. It crossed his mind that this must be what one woman sees of another in neighboring bathroom stalls—shoes and panties. Almost involuntarily, he visualized the long row of stalls of an airport women’s room, then visualized the row of soft, bare asses inside those stalls, each neatly seated for that satisfying post-flight pee. His cock ached, and he gave it a sustaining squeeze.

At last, the pilot switched off Zirbin’s trademark “fasten seatbelts” sign—a cartoon crocodile in sunglasses, whose 1970s-style belt and buckle appeared to be part of his body. Even as Jared registered this, he heard a deep, sensual sigh from next door, and he could only assume that his invisible companion’s fingers had made welcome contact with her intimate zone.

He extricated his cock from his briefs, letting out a silent sigh of his own as his flesh finally met his flesh. At least he thought it had been silent; but a peculiar discontinuity in the breathing from beyond the curtain made him feel that his partner had heard him, and had tracked his progress. It excited him to speculate that she was that aware of him, as she gently nurtured her hungry pussy lips.

He squirmed in his seat, and he accidentally brushed the curtain. For an instant, he felt the solidity of the body on the other side.

“Sorry.” He whispered it.

“Okay,” returned a breathy voice, raw with intensity.

The voice, that aroused “Okay,” echoed in his head as he stroked himself. Its imagined repetition became a masturbation mantra, blending with the real sound of the jet—and the real sounds coming from lap- and mouth-level one seat over. Her wetness was now audible, and Jared could visualize the slippery activity of delicate fingers across and between pouting lips, as vividly as if it were being displayed for him on Zirbin’s egg-shaped video screens. As her breathing dipped, plodded, and crested to a complex and ever-changing rhythm, he thought he could actually follow her trail along her folds, in and out of her cunt, and back and forth to her clit. His own rhythm, simple but powerful, rocked him in harmony with her.

He reached for one of the generous, Zirbin-monogrammed handkerchiefs, which were provided within a candy-striped “Personal Intimacy Kit” that also included plastic bags, disinfecting gel, and—just in case people wanted to join forces—a box of condoms. With a grape-colored handkerchief wrapped around him, he gave out a prehistoric grunt.

“Hey,” the breathy voice suddenly said, in a labored whisper rich with erotic texture.

“Yeah?” Jared was tingling right on the edge.

“Maybe we could pull the curtain up.”

It was technically a “maybe” statement rather than an invitation; but Jared knew what it meant. Clutching his swaddled cock in his left hand, he used his right, with passionate dexterity, to release the catch that had kept the curtain anchored. With a shoooop of relief, it disappeared into a slit in the ceiling—leaving only a plastic nipple visible, by means of which future passengers would, at some far-off time, pull it back down.

The face that greeted him was a tableau of melty, sensuous beauty. The woman’s blonde hair was in disarray; her eyes were glazed in preorgasmic semi-focus; and her mouth twitched in a way that made her lip gloss repeatedly catch, and transform, the sterile cabin light. Her white blouse was unbuttoned enough to show two cheerful breasts, each half out of its bra cup, with nipples erect and moistened.

She was so far gone down the road to ecstasy that Jared couldn’t tell what she might look like in repose, what expression her face would hold under normal circumstances. But here, now, she was stunning—possessed of that quintessential grace that comes to a woman on the verge of orgasm.

She smiled at him, then closed her eyes.

He realized that a moment of eye contact with him—enabling her to observe that his gaze was on her exuberant breasts, on her hiked black skirt, on her cunt-clutching fingers, and, most important of all, on her radiant face—had been all she needed to go over the top. Now she threw her head back as far as the seat-in-its-fully-upright-position would allow, and she quivered, absolutely quivered, from panty-draped ankles to self-mussed hair. Her moan sounded all the more intense for its courteous softness.

And Jared got his money’s worth out of Maxwell Zirbin’s big purple handkerchief. He pumped for what seemed forever, as he inhaled her aroma, contorted his eyes shut, and visualized a night sky of milky clouds over the Atlantic.

Just when he had milked himself dry, he heard her voice again.

“Want a taste?” She sounded shy, but somehow confident. He opened his eyes. Her fingers, held aloft, were glistening, and her pupils were sparkling.

Without hesitation, he leaned forward and sucked one finger, then another, then another.

“Nice,” he commented, feeling suddenly drunk with impetuousness, and completely at ease. “You taste like berries. And maybe, uh, tamari. And—mm—a hint of black pepper.” He licked his lips.

She laughed. “Thanks. But I think you may have read one too many of Zirbin Magazine‘s extreme wine columns.”

He joined her laughter. “Well, yeah, it’s possible.”

“Just don’t tell me I taste like cilantro. I hate cilantro.”

“Deal.”

They laughed again, and Jared noticed that she was perhaps even lovelier when she laughed than when she came. He wanted to see more of both.

Thank god it was going to be a long flight.

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Did you miss the first chapter of Get On, Get Off? Read it here.

Jeremy Edwards is the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off and the erotic story collection Spark My Moment (both published by Xcite Books). His libidinous short stories have been widely published online, as well as in over forty anthologies. His work was selected for The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, vols. 7, 8, and 9, and he has read at New York’s In the Flesh and Philadelphia’s Erotic Literary Salon. Jeremy’s greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile. You may find Jeremy here: http://www.jeremyedwardserotica.com.