In the Summer of 1987, I was a broke-ass college graduate who was about to become an even broker-ass graduate student. I had some money in the bank, and I knew that I wasn’t getting any younger, so when an English friend asked me if I’d like to fly home with her, I jumped at the chance.
We had a Row 50ish window and aisle seat on a BA747, flying MIA/LHR. Not ritzy, but not bad either. Pre-9/11 international travel was good stuff, with food and ample free drinks. I was ready to go, seated on the aisle, and dreaming about the verdant English countryside. (Nah, that’s just BS. I was hoping that my friend, who would never be “more than a friend” would maybe become “more than a friend.”)
“I can’t sit in the middle.”
I look up and see this (attractive?) young woman, holding her ticket, puzzled because I am in her seat.
I pull out my ticket, and we compare them.
Yup, same row, same seat.
Before I can call the stewardess, my friend says that I should just sit in the middle. You know, be a gentleman.
So, I slide over, grumbling ever so slightly; but, we taxi out, take off, and I start drinking. It’s all good, and I have a healthy buzz going by the time we’re over the middle of the Atlantic. Also, I have two great people sitting on either side of me. We’ve had great conversation, and a lot of laughs. Aisle-girl is actually pretty cool, and grateful that I gave up my seat for her.
Another hour passes, and I’m sleepy, drunk, and full. The blankets have been distributed, and the trays collected. My friends are asleep, and I have to take a leak.
“Excuse me,” I say to aisle-girl, waking her. “I have to use the lav.” (Such a cool thing to say, I know.)
I exit the row, and go to the toilet.
Upon my return, I sit, pull up the blanket, and try to fall asleep. Aisle-girl unexpectedly leans her head on my shoulder. Her right hand slides under my blanket, and she brushes against me as she strokes my arm. Then, she does it again.
“Don’t say anything unless she’s your girlfriend,” motioning to my friend.
She unbuttoned my blue jeans and slipped her hand into my boxers. At this point, I an harder than calculus.
She starts stroking me under the blanket. Slow, deliberate strokes. Then, faster.
I wanted to scream, but I didn’t.
I looked at my friend. Still sleeping as aisle-girl jerked me off.
Finally, I succumbed, shooting my load into her hand, which had been expertly positioned to catch my cum.
She pulled her hand out from under the blanket and showed me what she had before slurping it up. She reached under the blanket one more time, scooped up the rest, and licked that off of her fingers while I buttoned my jeans.
Then, she kissed me on the cheek, and dozed off on my shoulder.
When we landed, I asked if she’d like to get together again.
“I don’t think my husband would like that. Thanks again for switching seats, though.”
As we walked off the plane, my friend said, “She seemed nice. Are you going to meet up?”
“I didn’t even get her name.”
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/xt31r5/upright_and_locked_mf
“at this point, I’m harder than calculus.”
Pure poetry