Madame B - Seduction

There's something incredibly thrilling about airplanes. When you're 33,000 feet in the air, you're neither here nor there. Reality is suspended, and anything goes. There's a very good reason why the Mile High Club has so many members, as this woman found out. Who said air travel was no longer glamorous, exciting, and sexy? You hear about people being upgraded to first class all the time, but you never think it'll happen to you. Not to an ordinary woman like me. But it did happen to me, and it turned out to be a very memorable journey indeed.

I was flying from Edinburgh to London for a meeting. Any thoughts I might have had about glamorous business travel were dashed when my boss handed me an economy ticket, saying it wasn't worth paying extra for an hourlong domestic flight. When I arrived at the airport early in the morning and handed my passport and confirmation number to the girl behind the desk, her face fell.

"I'm so sorry, but this flight is overbooked," she said. She must have registered the mild panic that was showing on my own face; I had to make this meeting. But before I could even start to plead and protest, she began tapping away frantically on her keyboard.

"Oh!" Her expression brightened. "Actually, this is your lucky day! We've got a spare seat in first, so we can upgrade you."

Then she handed me a shiny boarding pass and pointed me toward the fast-track security gate. I sashayed through in under a minute, hoping I looked like I belonged in first class. I was glad that the nature of my meeting demanded I wear a suit that day. The security guard who checked my pass directed me to the executive lounge, which was subtly signposted behind a bar. I stepped through a frosted-glass door and into another world. A uniformed bartender squeezing oranges for juice looked up and immediately offered me freshly ground coffee. Free newspapers were strewn across designer glass tables, and on leather sofas that would have looked more at home in a five-star hotel lobby sat well-dressed, glamorous people passing time before their flights. I looked at them in awe. My new companions all radiated money, power, and, of course, sex, and here I was, right among them.

One guy in particular stood out. He was immaculately dressed in a dark-blue pinstripe suit, whose jacket fell open to reveal an expensive turquoise silk lining as well as the flat stomach lurking beneath his pale blue shirt and tie. His dirty-blond hair was close-cropped, his rugged face and square jaw softened by a pair of pink lips that made a vague pout as he concentrated on his copy of The Wall Street Journal. If this was the type of man that flew business class, I was going to have to make sure I earned enough money to do it more regularly.

I was so comfortable that the hour's wait went by quickly, and soon my flight to London was called. I was so excited that I was the first one up the stairs and onto the jet. As I sank into the burgundy leather chair, easily as big and comfortable as any armchair in my flat, the stewardess handed me a glass of champagne. Yes, I thought, as I kicked off my high-heeled shoes and curled my bare legs up under me, this is the way to travel. It simply does not get any better.

And then I realized that it did get better, because who should be sliding his briefcase into the overhead compartment other than Mr. Moneybags himself, the very man I'd just spent an hour checking out in the lounge! Up close, I could see that he was a little older than I'd first thought-around forty, forty-five-but this only made him sexier, more distinguished. When he sat down next to me, giving me a formal nod, I could smell his expensive cologne. I also noticed that his nails were manicured and shiny. The man oozed wealth and sophistication in a way that made me feel incredibly aroused.

And I wasn't sure, but I thought that the attraction might even be mutual. I caught him sneaking a glance at my bare, brown legs and my pretty toes, painted a flattering shade of pale pink. He thought I couldn't see him behind his copy of the paper, but I could. I smiled at him, emboldened by my single glass of champagne, and he immediately broke eye contact and buried himself even more deeply in his paper. I fidgeted in my seat, trying to force him to look at me, subtly undoing the top button of my blouse so that when he next looked up, he'd see a tantalizing glimpse of the camisole underneath. When I handed my empty glass back to the stewardess before takeoff, I made sure that my arm brushed against his.

"So sorry," I said, even though I was nothing of the sort. I wondered if he, too, had felt a little charge of sexual tension pass between us. I yawned and stretched, showing off my waist to its best advantage and leaned forward so he could see the curve of my breasts. And it started to work. He wasn't concentrating on his newspaper anymore, and he was starting to look a little bit uncomfortable, as though there was a lot going on beneath that starched Savile Row suit.

The thought of his body, flesh and blood, coming to life underneath that cool, suave exterior, really excited me. Once we took off, the combination of the jet engine's rumbling, the sheer sensual luxury of the leather seat, and the fact that I'd been writhing and purring like a cat in heat, was a huge turn-on. This man was pumping out sexual energy like a power station-and I was absorbing all of it.

I glanced up and met his eyes, piercing blue and staring right at me, before he looked down to my breast. I realized that my hand had been caressing my collarbone and idly tracing the contours of my bosom-I do that sometimes when I'm thinking about sex-but I certainly didn't know I'd started to do it in public. Blushing, I lowered my gaze to his lap, and there it was-a hard-on with my name on it. His erection, which looked as big and powerful as the rest of him, was straining at his trousers, making a little tent of the pinstriped wool. As I watched, it grew even bigger, and the color rose in his cheeks as we both silently acknowledged the effect we were having on each other.

He parted his lips and closed his eyes for a moment. I pictured what his face would look like when he came, and bam-that mental image, a vivid, erotic image, sent a surge of hot blood to my pussy. A violent throbbing between my legs made me catch my breath. Okay, I thought to myself, you're in trouble now. Initially, I'd been attracted to this guy and wondered what it might be like to fuck him. Now, suddenly, that idle daydream had turned into a real possibility. My problem now was that I had to fuck him. No two ways about it. But where? How? And when? Dear God, it needed to be soon. I had never felt this frustrated in my life, and it was making my head spin.

I took a few deep breaths and tried to clear my head. Crossing my legs was something between agony and ecstasy, my throbbing pussy so engorged that the slightest touch or movement sent fresh waves of tension through my body. What was I supposed to do now? We had barely spoken two words to each other. And the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign was still on, so even if I wanted to rush to the bathroom to get myself off-a tempting option that would take only seconds-I was stuck in my seat.

As our jet climbed into the clouds, surging through pockets of turbulence, the turning of my stomach was keeping time with the adrenaline already pumping through my system. Every lurch I felt in the seat stimulated my body further. I closed my eyes, trying to calm myself down, but when I did I couldn't help imagining his body, his chest, his legs. I pictured strong arms, a toned stomach leading to a fuzz of dark-blond hair leading to-oh, God, I had to have him. I snapped my eyes open again. He was looking at my tits, glancing down at nipples that had become hard and swollen as I thought about his naked body. His paper was now folded on his lap. Did I dare reach out and touch him? Would I be able to stop once I did?