Sky High Desire — Donnie Magazino

It was mainly about the uniforms, this odd fixation that Brian had always had with flight attendants. The pliant smiles and oddly upbeat instructions of what to do should the plane take a sudden earthward plunge were only icing on the carnal cake of his air travel-related fantasies.

And the dream didn’t end with a breathless doggie-style romp in the tiny airplane restroom; Brian wanted the full package.

He wanted his sweet-smiling sky vixen to collapse in his arms upon returning from some jerkwater hub in south Florida.

He wanted her to regale him with amusing tales of boneheaded shoplifters busted in over-priced airport gift shops and suspected terrorists politely asked to depart the plane minutes before takeoff, all the while seated on his lap, her soft hair brushing his nose, her taut little tail shifting in place as his hungry hands ventured into her vest and blouse. And he would lift her skirt, right there in the living room love seat and dampen her thighs, her ass, her swollen mound with a soft trail of tongue flicks.

She would turn to find him rock-hard and ready (their days apart would splatter the flames with gas).  Now facing him, she’d perch herself on his steady left leg and decorate his face, then his chest, then his cock with the brightest, boldest shade of pink lipstick she could find at the airport drug store. And after easing him inside, savoring the agonizing slide downward, she would buck and grind herself silly, facing away once again but straining her neck because she had to find his eyes at the moment that the tickle in her spine would give way to an eruption.

And they would dance that spastic dance, limbs locked, eyebrows violently arched, moans exploding into an angry spasm of nonsense syllables, hips crashing and pumping, one pelvis bracing, the other springing faster and faster, both dancers squeezing every aching muscle to tease out this tortuous ecstasy, this white-hot symphony of release.

That was the dream.

So he tumbled into matrimony with Heidi, a small spunky blonde so committed to the calling of airline service that she wore those plastic wings on her silk pajamas, and soon the well-rehearsed dream surrendered to reality.

Here was the reality:

She’d return home cranky, sullen, spent, complaining of drunken passengers and smelling of hotel shampoo. And days later, she’d shuffle away to some midnight flight to Newark after a passionless peck on the cheek and a half-hearted promise to return home next time in a rosier mood.

Heidi is horny. Her compact frame fairly buzzes with every accidental bodily brush she collects on her trip up the aisle to the food station. Even the turbulence rattles her in precisely the right way, somehow reminding her of those lust-laden days with Brian ages ago when the clumsy young lovers couldn’t wait to taste each other, before eight years of full-time jobs and a part-time marriage grinded the two into a pair of passionless housemates.

But the pain-in-the-ass mustachioed drinker in aisle 14 seems determined to drain that mischievous buzz away, one pissy complaint at a time. This unpleasant man with his unpleasant demands should prove a likely candidate to snap Heidi free from her state of sky-high desire. But things are more complicated than that…

Maybe it’s his heavily jutted jaw or strong hands. More likely, it’s his forceful manner, that inner jungle cat daring to be tamed, that thunderous glare penetrating even his mirrored sunglasses.

He summons her to the bathroom, dissatisfied sneer in place. Apparently there is a problem.

“Anything I can help with, sir?” she offers.

“You can help me with the bathroom sink, honey. It’s filthy.”

His hand on her waist shouldn’t make her knees buckle, but her fluttering heart knows nothing of inappropriate contact. And then there’s this ‘honey’ business. Shouldn’t that unleash the post-60′s educated feminist in her? Doesn’t this Cro-Magnon creep deserve a stern lecture and an epithet-strewn wake up call?

But she decides that this grizzly has a teddy bear’s heart. And she makes the mistake of spying those hands again.

“Um, it’s Heidi. And we’ll be landing in Newark shortly, sir. So if you’d just take your seat and –”

“I need the bathroom now, Heidi,” he growled.

She has more to say about the need for him to return to his seat so soon before landing and something else important but without warning she is ushered inside the bathroom, not by an angry yank, but by the tender teddy bear nudge she’s been waiting for.

Once inside, his mustache-aided kisses tickle the nape of her neck and urge her downward, to face the impeccably clean sink that supposedly demanded immediate cleaning.

“Sir, I’m getting the feeling you’ve deceived me.”

Then the door shuts and there is nothing but the smell of two blending bodies.

Days alone for Brian were always the best and worst part of being wedded to a stewardess. He could have Twinkies for breakfast and watch plenty of porn. But without the distraction of an attention-hungry wife he could also spend his empty evenings wondering where things had gone so disastrously awry.

He never reached a conclusion but he did discover the need to regain that predatory glare that chose to elude him in recent days, that masculine growl that once brought his beloved’s knees to a buckle.

So he would race from the house, seconds after Heidi’s bloodless goodbye, in an effort to catch that midnight flight to Newark. On his way to the airport, he’d need to pick up a few things: a fake mustache and a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

She presses her body against his, one hand gaining leverage against the unexpectedly spotless sink, the other lifting her hair to make way for the wettest, warmest kisses her neck has ever felt. She is melting; her legs weaken and threaten to give way.

Thoughts of her husband intrude and spark caution:

“Um, no hickeys. Please.”

But these worries fade into the landscape with the mustachioed stranger’s sinister chuckle. He nibbles away without a care. Even the pilot’s call for the flight attendants’ return to the cockpit causes no alarm.

And Heidi keeps grinding away, testing the limits of this handsome stranger’s patience. The growing bulge in his pants will soon become a violent throbbing mess that knows no reversal. It is only a matter of time. But it will have to wait until she is ready.

She turns and aims a soft retaliatory nibble just below his mustache, pulling him into a series of sloppy kisses and wordless conversations as deep guttural moans escape the mouths of both breathless kissers. She is ready.

“Now!” she demands.

With a word the manic removal of clothing begins, interrupted only by the odd kiss or aimless caress. Though only apart for seconds, their bodies reunite as if life held no greater torture than their separation. Their sweaty skin seems to melt together; their hair tangles and melds as if inhabiting a single body.

For a few chaotic seconds they drown in an ocean of random kisses and licks and tugs of hair only to surface with Heidi’s turning and taking hold of the sink, her small, sweaty hands nearly losing their grip as her lover steadies her buoyant backside for the coming succession of thrusts.

But first: entry. It is slow, agonizing, teasing the deeper regions of her swelling pussy with the promise of an achingly snug fit. And another.

Inspired by her short, sharp, almost verbal replies, he picks up speed, somehow knowing that raising her hips and pushing down her shoulders would give him the angle needed to find that place in her soul that made her shudder with the sweetest glee and the deepest relief.

Athletic groans gather in an echo around the bodies in furious motion, until they share an impossibly sharp tingle that wrings them forever free, a flash that bathes them in the brilliant light of a thousand suns and rips the floor from under Heidi’s feet, sending her tumbling to the ground. Her mystery man follows her down and cradles her shuddering torso, their frames uncomfortably folded in the cramped quarters of this makeshift love nest. They stroke each other’s faces and share a wordless moment of warmth with no distraction but the sound and sensation of the jumbo jet’s wheels making shaky contact below.

Then the faint trace of pink left on Heidi’s lips finds a home on the mustachioed stranger’s sharply chiseled chin. And here comes Heidi’s slip up:

“That was wonderful, Brian.”

They share an awkward grin before catching their breath and gathering their clothes.

Brian readjusts his mustache in an effort to keep up the game.

But did he really think she didn’t know her own husband’s breathless moans? His gawky  but endearingly noisy kisses? Did he really think she’d forgotten the feel of those stone-hard hands bracing her slender hips while dancing the night’s final dance with a dream?

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Donnie Magazino a writer of thought-provoking smut. His alter ego, Copper Smith, is currently working on the serial fiction story ‘Kitten in the Crosshairs’, a tawdry tale of clandestine passion, betrayal and orange jumpsuits. Check it out at UppercutAvenue.com.