Meeting Jess | free spanking story

I like travelling on airplanes. As an airforce brat, I flew a lot as a child, and I'd peer out the windows for hours, staring at clouds, imagining that I myself could fly, if I'd only try hard enough. Flying is such an apt metaphor for imagination. I remember reading Joyce's "Portrait of an Artist" and understanding clearly, for the first time, the meaning of the Daedalus myth. How creativity often demands our solitude and isolation, and how artistry can be a risky process, the possibility of failure always present.

As an adult, what I like about flying is the solitude and the anonymity flying affords. Surrounded by strangers I am still alone, and I enjoy that feeling. Floating above the earth, temporarily disengaged from worldly obligations and connections. Free.

And on a practical note, I can enjoy some uninterrupted reading time. I generally buy as many magazines as I can carry from the newsstand before boarding.

Settling comfortably into my seat in first class, I slip off my shoes, snap on my seatbelt and open a magazine, then shut it abruptly. This is an overnight flight, and I don't want to go through my cache of reading material too quickly. Instead, I peer curiously around the cabin, appraising my flying companions.

And then I see you. Or, at least I think it's you, sitting across the aisle from me. It's hard to tell; the one photo I have of you is blurry, so I've never had a clear picture of your face. But still, the profile is similar. The curve of your jaw, the shape of your nose. Then mentally I give myself a shake. I'm only indulging in a little wish fulfillment here, sinking into one of my fantasies about how we might meet, if the circumstances were right. As the plane readies for take-off, I flip open a magazine and begin to read, happy to note that the seat beside me is empty. Sweet solitude.

But an hour later I still can't shake this impression that you are here on the plane with me. You too are flying solo, if indeed it is you, and I consider approaching you and introducing myself. But what if I'm mistaken, and the handsome man sitting across from me is not Jess? Or worse, what if it is you, but you consider my presence an uncomfortable intrusion, an awkward violation of the boundaries that define our friendship? "Give your head a shake, girl," I mutter to myself, and return to my copy of New Republic.

Two glasses of wine and an hour later I am now certain that it is you. You've had a brief conversation with the flight attendant, and right away I recognize your voice. I feel a wave of arousal and excitement. After months of talking to you on the phone, I know your voice as intimately as conventional lovers know each other's bodies. Still though, I am afraid of approaching you- scared by what might happen. Scared by what might not happen. Frustrated by my own passivity I utter an audible imprecation, and you turn your head.

Your eyes narrow for a moment as you look at me, as if I'm familiar to you. Then you shake your head, as if saying, "no, it couldn't be," and turn back to your book.

I spend the next half hour alternately berating myself for my cowardice and staring at your profile, silently willing you to look at me again and recognize a woman you have known only through letters and stories. What to do? I imagine regretting for a long time this stasis that paralyzes me, forsee mourning this missed opportunity. One last sip of wine for dutch courage and I rise from my seat, approaching you.

Sensing my presence beside you, you turn around, an enquiring expression on your face. "Yes?" Your voice is friendly and polite, but you obviously don't recognize me.

All I'm able to say is, "hello, Jess." My voice is far shakier than I'd like.

Hearing my voice you start for a moment, and I watch your shifting expressions cautiously. Puzzlement, comprehension, then pleasure flash across your face in seconds. "Michele?"

I can only nod. Grasping my hand in yours, you gently urge me to sit down beside you.

The next few hours pass in a blur; to this today I cannot remember what we spoke about; I can only recall, with great intensity, my pleasure at finally talking with you. Hearing your voice, seeing your eyes. Touching your hand. The casual act of sitting next to you was exciting.

With a start we both notice that the lights in the cabin have dimmed; our travelling companions are drifting off to sleep. For a moment we are both silent. Facing you, our bodies leaning towards each other, all I can imagine at this moment is making love with you.

Slowly and gently I place my hand on your thigh, the question in my eyes easy to read, I'm sure.

With great tenderness you pick up my hand and bring it to your face, sliding my palm against your cheek. You kiss my fingers one by one, then simply say, "yes."

Rising from my seat, I remove a blanket from the overhead compartment. Sitting back down beside you, I spread it across us, so that we have a modicum of privacy. You turn off the overhead light.

And now I feel your lips on mine, light and exploring, their movements slow and leisurely, and my own part to greet your tongue. And it's like kissing you for the first time and kissing you as if we have been lovers for years. You are my familiar stranger. My distant lover made flesh.

We kiss as if we have all the time in the world, when we do not. As if there is no desperation behind the act, no knowledge that we will never meet and touch again. Underneath the blanket you pull my legs across your lap, so that we are as close as possible. I feel your mouth on my neck and shoulders and shiver a little, and you give a soft laugh of pleased recognition, remembering from our letters how that caress arouses me.

As we kiss my fingers slide through your hair and touch your ears, nose, eyes. I want to be able to touch all of you. I am so eager and needy to explore the topography of our desire. I kiss you with my eyes open; I don't want to deny myself the pleasure of looking at you as we taste and touch each other.

And now your hands are sliding under my sweater, loosening my bra and finding my breasts, cupping and kneading them, your thumbs brushing my nipples into hardness. I give a soft little cry and you whisper, "hush now."

Your erection strains beneath my lap, butting against my thighs, so I shift my legs so that I can reach down and trace the length of your cock through your pants. My fingers on your zipper shake with anticipation as I undo your pants, then slowly ease back the waistband of your shorts to free your cock. It's so warm beneath my hand; heat seems to rise from your pubes and balls as I trace the length of your erection with an enquiring hand. My thumb circles the head of your cock, dabbling at the pre-cum there. Lifting my hand from underneath the blanket I bring it to my mouth and lick away the evidence of your need. And now it is you who groans, and me who whispers, "hush."

Really what I want to do is take your cock in my mouth, but I haven't the nerve, here on the plane. I want to bury my head underneath this blanket and smell you and taste you, rub my face against the wiriness of your pubic hair, against the softness of your sac. Lick your thighs. But we have so little room, and even in the midst of our desire I am frustratingly conscious of our lack of privacy. If only I were braver. If only I didn't care.

As my hand strokes your cock, giving it a little squeeze each time it reaches your glans, your fingers drop from my breasts to delve under my skirt, stroking my crotch through my panties, rubbing at my mound. I'm trying to keep my breathing slow and regular, but as your finger eases past one leg hole to wriggle inside my pussy, your thumb stroking my clit, I let out a huge sigh, and bury my head in your shoulder.

"You're so wet, Michele," you whisper, kissing my forehead and hair, and even though I'm sure only I can hear you, your voice seems very loud on this silent plane full of sleeping strangers.

Now I want you inside me, somehow; I'm feeling greedy and brazen and hungry and defiant. So silently I indicate to you that I want to change places, so that I have the inside seat. We ease back our seats a little further, and I turn to face the window. You pull me back towards you and then we lean back against the seats, so that now we are spooning, my ass resting in the well of your thighs. Once again I cover us with the blanket, which has fallen to the floor.

Impatiently I ruck up my skirt and slide my panties to my thighs. Reaching behind me I find your cock and give it an encouraging squeeze. "Please," I whisper.

I feel your erection butting against my ass, then sliding downward, searching awkwardly for my cunt. It's almost as if we are teenagers, shyly fucking, too scared to look, content to grope and explore for a while. Arching my hips a little higher I capture your cock, and feel it begin to slide inside me, easing past the elastic tightness to find the welcoming heat and wetness of my pussy.

Your hands on my hips, you pull me backwards towards you, until you are in me as deeply as you can be. The zipper of your pants rubs against my splayed labia, biting in a little, but even this discomfort I drink in and absorb and enjoy.

Given our lack of room, you can't thrust much; but your hips begin to move in a slow, shallow rhythm that has me rocking back against you, our legs entwined. It feels so good to have you inside me, but I want so much more; I'm frustrated by all these goddamned clothes. I reach behind me to touch you and I feel clothing when I need to feel skin. I need to feel your bare legs pressing against mine, your nipples hard against my naked back. I sob a little, in frustration and in anger at myself, that I can't be happy with what we have now. You continue to ease in and out of my pussy, your arms wrapped around my waist, your head buried in the join of my shoulder and neck. "I know. I know," you whisper in recognition and consolation.

And now one of your hands falls from my waist to burrow under my skirt, finding my clit; and of course you know precisely how to touch me; already and always your fingers know best what pleases me, the light tapping motion, the insistent rub. Is this the first time we have fucked, or the hundredth?

Your breath against my neck has grown shallower and faster, and I know you are close to coming. I can feel my own orgasm building, threatening to spill over all too quickly. Suddenly your body stiffens and your arms tighten around me, and clenching my pussy around your cock I cum too, rocking against your cock and your hand. As the contractions ease, you turn my head back toward you and kiss me twice, once very hard and deep, then a softer, more lingering caress that is almost chaste. I twist my head back to face the window, tears springing to my eyes.

We remain embraced like this for a minute or two, then, with a regretful sigh you ease your softened cock from my sex. As it slips out, some of your cum puddles on the leaves of my cunt and the airplane seat. I reach between my legs and wipe it up, bringing my fingers to my face so that I can smell it, then lick it. Gently you grab my hand, and suckle our juices from my fingers. Then slowly we fall asleep, your arms still wrapped around me, our bodies covered by the blanket.

I awaken to feel you awkwardly trying to right my clothes, tugging at my panties, pulling my sweater down over my breasts. I turn to you and smile, but can't think of what to say. Is there anything to be said? I'm afraid even to touch you right now. Instead, I shrug off the blanket and return to my seat. We will be landing soon.

Before the plane descends I try to restore order to my universe, heading to the bathroom to wash my face and put on some makeup. I rub my hands against my cheeks, catching the faint scent of our bodies, then wash them with regret, feeling like I'm removing all proof that we have met and touched. Hiking up my skirt I slip a hand into my panties, exploring the tender, swollen lips of my cunt. My throat is tight and pained as I realize that far too quickly, all evidence of you will fade.

As I return to my seat I see you watching me as I walk down the aisle of the airplane. As I pass you, your hand grasps mine, and you bring it briefly to your lips, kissing my palm. Then I move past you and sit down.

And now I'm watching you disembark. Your back is very straight and you seem so resolute. I exit behind you, deliberately letting a few people leave before me. I just want the pleasure of looking at you, unobserved, in these last few moments.

As we enter the terminal I lose you for a moment in the crowd. Frantic for one last glimpse of you I crane my head, then spot you as you move toward the woman who is waiting for you. I watch as you bend your head towards her to kiss her, your arms enfolding her in a familiar embrace. And then the two of you walk away. You never look back.