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Nonstop to Istanbul

Determined not to miss her long since planned flight, Becky had arrived to the terminal a full hour before boarding time. She used this opportunity to run through a mental checklist of gifts requested by her American expatriate friends in Istanbul: Two boxes of Kraft Mac & Cheese, three bags of candy corn, one box of graham crackers. One "Very Cherry" Maybelline lipstick. Extraneous items that took up most of the space in her checked bag, but a small price to pay in exchange for the wonderful host family's hospitality: four months, rent free. Every time she thought about it, she would begin grinning uncontrollably. At last, after so long, this is what her life was going to be about once again: traveling. Her one true love.

As her boarding group was called, the excited but sleep deprived backpacker swung the straps of her tightly packed travel bag around her thin shoulders and headed to the line forming at the entrance to the jetway. Snaking their way around the evenly dispersed crowds awaiting their turn, the members of boarding group 1 gathered in a semi-orderly line, clutching their individual passes, awaiting their turn to enter single file into the sleek fuselage. Becky fumbled through the papers in the pocket of her thin jacket as she approached the attendant.

Boarding the Boeing 767 went smoothly for all 318 passengers aboard Air Canada flight 8618 with direct service to Istanbul. As she made her way down the aisle, her glee was apparent to all that looked up. This was finally happening! Turkey, although not at the geographic center of Europe, would allow her to fly direct to most of the destination cities in her plans. It would serve as the ideal home base for the seasons to follow.

Her assigned seat waits at the rear of the aircraft, the very last row, on the starboard side of the plane. "Nobody to kick my seat, nobody to bother me... perfect." she thought as she booked this seat, weeks ago.

The orange-flavored chocolate ball had indeed achieved its goal: keeping her awake long past her usual bedtime of 1am, allowing her to stay alert the entire night, on into the early morning to catch her connecting flight from Atlanta to Toronto. Missing this flight was not an option. But now that she has boarded the plane, Becky feels the weight of her eyelids become increasingly heavier. She shifts in her window chair, adjusts her seat back, and settles in for the sixteen hour flight. The seat next to her is vacant, allowing her to leave the arm rest up.

"I'll be able to put my feet up, as soon as everyone settles in." she says to herself, further narrowing her already naturally narrow eyes, and grinning wryly.

After takeoff, Becky peruses the drink menu and settles on a bourbon. Most assuredly, a little younger than her seasoned taste allows her to hope for, but anything beats a Coke on a transatlantic flight. Now, she just has to stay awake long enough to order it. Eyeing the progress of the pairs of stewardesses as they progress down the cabin, she calculates that if they do not stop for breaks in between cart refills, she would have her turn in 15 minutes.

The plane has not yet ascended to its maximum cruising altitude, some turbulence is to be expected. It comes as no surprise to Becky when the cold Atlantic air begins to play with the plane, drawing the wings down suddenly as airstream after airstream pulls the lift out from under them, like an area rug out from under a cartoon character. In an almost masochistic way she enjoys the way it makes her gut tingle, and her muscles tighten. The way she'd squirm into her seat as if it were possible to compensate for the hundreds of feet of sudden altitude displacement with such slight body movements. The feeling is reminiscent of much younger days, riding the roller coasters at amusement parks with her cousins. Though she didn't much enjoy that feeling back then, now this same feeling signifies her impossibly rapid approach to a faraway destination, replete with hidden passages, secret coves, undisclosed locations, insider history, covert meanings, unpublished establishments, underground markets... all for her careful and studious perusal, and ultimately, her unabashed enjoyment. Exuberant elation allows an excited, muted guffaw to escape her soft, uncharacteristically shapely lips.

Hazy mental images of star filled skylines with minarets and domes in the background are shattered suddenly as the shrill cry of a baby whose lungs are certainly much too big for its body reverberate through the cabin. She pulls her personal copy of SkyMall out from the pocket of the seat in front of her and resumes her favorite travel pastime: looking for prime examples of obscene Western comfort idolatry. SkyMall never fails to deliver. This month's finds include a solar cell safari hat with a built in head-cooling fan. A T-Rex wall-mounted trophy. A two-person snuggie...

A body takes up the empty space next to her. "Okay if I sit here a minute?" A man's voice. Becky places the SkyMall back into the seatback pocket. "It's fine", she says out loud, turning to look out her window. "Not like I wanted to stretch out or anything...", She mumbles to herself.

"I'll go back when the baby stops crying", the voice says. She looks away from the window, only to lock eyes with the most handsome man she'd seen in her young life, at least outside of the pages of a glossy magazine. At 6'2", Raul Cavazzo truly was a stunning specimen. With broad, linebacker shoulders and glowing white teeth, the Italian born soccer player would certainly turn a woman's head.

Se loses her place in the conversation, as you might lose your place in a book in response to someone calling out your name.

"...No, no, it's really fine. You can sit here." He smiles wide in return, and she forgets to breathe. Not one to allow her feelings to show, Becky recovers and looks out her window again. Maybe SkyMall would be a good thing to peruse, after all. She fumbles a bit inside her seatback pocket, only to realize she's looking in the wrong pocket.

"Babies, right?" He chuckles. It's not clear to Becky if he's directing himself to her, or if the jab was a general insult at the chronologically challenged the world over.

"Can't say I'm a fan. Do you have any?"

"You kidding? Still a big kid myself." She smiles in return.

Unprompted, he starts in again: "In fact, just celebrated my thirty fourth last week."

"Lovely, happy birthday!"

"Thanks. You live in Canada?"

"No, I Live in Atlanta. I just had a layover in Toronto. What about you?"

"Been in Toronto for a few years now. Raul Cavazzo, pleasure. I play soccer with team Toronto, forward center. You follow?"

His arm still extended, she takes it. Another bright smile as he points to himself. She can't bear to tell him she's never heard his name. "Oh, yes!"

Disappearing eyes and a vigorous nod to accompany the almost too-happy smile on the sports star's face validate the need for Becky's little white lie. But it's for not, he's on to her tiny lie. "No you don't. Thanks for trying, though."

Spending sixteen hours next to this sexy signore takes the sleep right out of Becky's immediate plans.

"So, what is it you do in Atlanta?", the athlete asks, with the obvious intent of prolonging the conversation.

"I was a nurse."

"I see. And now?"

"And now... I'm a traveler." She smiles again.

"It's great to know there's a nurse on board."

"I'm not a nurse anymore."

He artfully ignores her deflection. "...I feel safer already."

She rolls her eyes. He continues his unabashed flirtation.

"You know, I've always had a thing for nurses."

"I think the baby's stopped." She points towards the bow of the plane.

"I like the view better from here."

She stops trying to hide her smile.

"Don't you have a wife you can bother?" Her playful tone only serves to egg him on. "Are you applying for the position?"

"I take it you're hiring?"

"I take it you're interested?"

Fresh out of witty retorts, the sexy Asian would-be seductress resigns herself to a cheesy grin, as she bites her lower lip. "Cool your jets, Sporty Spice. You're not my type", she lies as she glares at the man with the chiseled jaw, and 5 o'clock shadow.

"Who says you're mine?!"

"You do."

Becky only has to nod in his direction once while fixing her eyes on his midsection for him to understand what's happening: his clearly agitated sex member has made its way between the thin lining of his boxers, and the lightweight moisture wicking starter pants is the only barrier between he and her. At 6'2" and built like an offensive lineman at the peak of his career, even under wraps, his engorged manhood is clearly a marvel to behold.

He realizes his guffaw, and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. She pretends to be unimpressed with the exchange, and turns away once again toward her window.

It's only now that she notices she's missed her chance to order that drink.

The intercontinental jet liner continues its race at near the speed of sound toward its destination, chasing the fast approaching horizon. A new chapter, her promising future, awaits beyond those clouds.

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Awoken by same rocking that lulled her to sleep only hours ago, Becky sleepily scans her surroundings. One ridiculously sexy sleeping Italian, zero crying babies, zero stewardesses brandishing bourbon. Can't have it all, she reasons.

Becky chuckles to herself as she recalls the moments before her drifting off to sleep. The cheek of some men! He is charming, she admits to herself.

She'd always maintained that she should have been born a man to match her constant drive for sex. Only fairly recently, in the twilight of her twenties, had she begun to master the nuances of waging the psychological war that is sexual attraction using all the natural artillery she was born with.

Among her closest girl friends, she'd confide that she understood a woman's sexuality to be like a dose of adrenaline: the proper dose could lift a man's spirits like a jolt of epinephrine, give him the confidence to cross the sea of self doubt and break the ice first. But too much can send that same man stark-raving mad, buying drinks, flaunting his feathers, on a fool's quest, vying for her attention, to feel that same rush just once more.

She'd learned to keep her hounds at bay, and only resort to cunning trickery when her sexual urges deem it absolutely necessary.

Like today.

In preparation for her long awaited trip, Becky had begun taking on many extra shifts in the past few weeks. Most prominent of the drawbacks of the most selfless profession in modern times that she'd been drawn to adopt as her own was the long, arduous hours. Anything resembling a fixed sleep schedule would be laughably naive to hope for. Along with sleep deprivation comes an inevitable slump in libido, as does any actual strength needed to chase tail.

But this prelude to a travel experience has been her very own much needed shot in the arm, and waking up on a plane away from home next to a foreign man she desires has only served to stir the womanly feelings inside of her that the antiseptic innards of a hospital only seem to stifle.

If she were a man, she would have serious morning wood right now.

What to do? She could duck into the restroom right behind her, barricade herself from the other 317 passengers and pleasure herself the way only she knows how. Indeed, the idea of taking matters into her own hands seems like a good idea. To achieve sweet release would only take minimal effort on her part. She'd only need to wake the lumbering athlete next to her.

The dumb, clueless, beastly, carnal, debased, certainly morally bankrupt, lumbering athlete, that had already expressed sexual interest, sitting right next to her.

Just the fleeting idea of wrapping the insides of her seductively soft legs around his flowing, biblical-esque locks caused her naughty bits to swell with blood.

Where did he say his final destination was? Did he even say? She had been so preoccupied with throwing him off her own trail that she had lost track of his.

Not one to sit idly by, Becky hatches a plan to rid herself of the pesky pangs of sexual starvation. A stewardess approaches, smiling at all who happen to look up. She catches her stare and smiles, maintaining eye contact. A uniquely American way of requesting attention.

"May I help you?" An overly saccharine southern accent gives the stewardess away.

"Hi, yes, this poor man doesn't have an ounce of fat on him, and he's shivering in his sleep! Do you think we can get him a blanket? I feel so bad..." Becky feigns a concerned mother's look.

"Oh of course, I'll be right back."

"Oh, and could you bring me back a double bourbon, neat?" She pleads, brandishing a plastic Visa card with the airline's logo prominently emblazoned on the front.

The waitress smiles and disappears.

Becky bites her lip again. This man is going to get more than he'd bargained for.

Less than three minutes pass, during which time she had begun to replay in her mind the last sexual encounter she'd been a party to.

It was in her bed, five weeks prior. An old travel friend was passing through her city and had asked to stay over as he waited for his layover on his way back to Germany. What had begun as an innocent meeting of old friends had escalated rather suddenly, and they had found themselves at the mercy of their own desires, twisting and contorting their slender frames to achieve all sorts of sexual positions that the freedom of international travel seems to incur, along with the slight nudge in the right direction of a healthy dose of alcohol. They'd agreed to meet up again in the near future, and the possibility of seeing Berlin again seemed less dreary now.

The stewardess returned with a tightly wound blanket in a plastic bag in one hand, and an offensively austere cup in the other. Bourbon, in a plastic cup! And they called Hitler an animal.

They swapped items, and as the southern belle ran the credit card, Becky placed the cup on her now extended seat back tray, and began to tear open the blanket's plastic.

Once more, the two women swapped items: a lightly printed receipt and plastic card for a torn bag, destined for the trash.

Becky rested the blanket on her lap, as she thought twice about what she had planned to do. There was still time to excuse herself. Absentmindedly, she reached for the bourbon, took a healthy sip, and stared at Mr Cavazzo, the offensive lineman for the Toronto soccer team.

She dr*ped the blanket over his torso, and took another sip of the bourbon.

Slow movements, light touches, Becky ran her middle nail up and down his pant leg's upper thigh. He shifted slightly in his seat. Using slightly more pressure, she ran four nails up his right thigh and across his belly. For a split second, his abdominal muscles made her contemplate the feasibility of running in place for the remainder of the flight.

His tickle reflex caused him to stir in his seat. A morning gasp of air inward, akin to the first yawn of the morning, was the first indication of awakening. Confused for a second, a quick survey of his surroundings furnished the muscular athlete all he needed to know about the situation. He smiled and tried to lean in toward her. "Not so fast", her glare seemed to say. She dug her nails into his thigh. A confused look registers on his handsome face.

"My ball, my rules, capeesh, Luigi?"

Not fully cognizant of the situation, but smart enough to comply anyway, Raul nods and looks forward. "Yeah."

"Good boy." She playfully pats his swelling bulge.

The crossing of four timezones has hastened nightfall, and the crew has begun to shift into night mode. The overhead lights have turned off, and the glowing strip lighting on the floors indicating exit rows have been dimmed.

Becky waits until the last of the crew has moved to the aft galley before inching closer. "Wanna get sucked off?" He nods yes. "So do I. Convince me it's a good idea for me to do you." She retracts her hand from beneath the blanket, and looks up, staring toward the tiny glowing orange seat belt indicator, and waits for the earth to move, from inside a plane.

The tables being turned on him for the first time in his professional career, Raul finds himself contending with the intellectual acrobatics required to elicit a sexual response from a woman. Otherwise at a loss, he reverts to basic soccer training: mimic the opponent. He reaches below the blanket, extending it to cover her knees as it reveals the outline of his stiff erection beneath his warmup suit in the low light.

His right hand covered by sky blue fleece, he blindly searches for a knee or thigh. His palm makes contact with pleasantly warm Lycra leggings, and he glances to his right side. Becky is sitting back, eyes closed. Raul caresses the inside of her left thigh, the warmth radiating from her slender limbs surprises him. She lets a slight sigh go, her breasts heave slightly in the indirect glow of track lighting and far off television screens. As he kneads the toned insides of her legs, inching his way closer to his eventual target, the outside edge of his hand brushes against the crotch of her yoga-cum-travel pants. He leaves his hand in place, making contact with her. Now rubbing in an up and down motion, the friction against her crotch forces the cloth of her underwear against her growing wetness. Having been aroused for nearly six hours now, Becky can feel the sensation of his every move in excruciating detail. Enough to excite her but not enough to quench the desire of sexual contact, she begins to shift in her seat, in an attempt to grind herself into his strong, muscular hand, but to no avail; Raul matches her movements with corrections of his own.

"The oaf learns quick", she says to herself, almost in dismay.

As if in response to her internal monologue, he uses his middle finger to trace a line along the vertical crease of her moist vagina, from the base of her seat, up along her increasingly moist crotch, to the base of her clitoris, through yoga pants and all.

"Fuuuuuu..." Her knees quiver.

He takes this as his queue to up the ante, and before she can come down from the goosebumps, he slips his hand underneath the layer of low-rise stretch pants, but above the cotton panties she wears beneath.

Already drenched in her own wetness, Raul finds the spot directly above her clit and rests his finger squarely below it, as if it were the button to launch a nuke. Becky holds still, her legs parted as far as the narrow seats will allow. By now, unbeknownst to even herself, her right hand has found its way to her breast, fondling herself under her thick cotton pullover.

If at all unsure of his tactics, seeing her touch herself bolstered his resolve. With a hooked ring finger, the dexterous professional pulls her already wet panties to the left, exposing her crotch fully to his roaming hands. To this, she tilts her pelvis upwards, anticipating what is to come.

"Are you going to finger fuck me, you dirty immigrant?" She's now cupping both breasts as she bites her bottom lip.

With his left hand, he flips the arm rest upwards and out of the way. Scooting closer to her, he pulls his hand out from her pants, and beckons her to allow him to sit in her seat, and her on top of him. Previously unaware of the passage of time, it's now apparent that they haven't seen crew in at least half an hour, as the rest of the cabin seems to be fast asleep. They switch spots hurriedly. As she goes to sit on his lap, the excited sexual cohort pulls the elastic waistband on her workout pants down enough for her to get the idea and assist him with the task. With her pants and panties now around her ankles, she sits down again. His right hand now fondling her from over her left leg, he also intends to make use of his left hand, as well. Reaching up from under her frame, he finds her hot, wet, throbbing pussy hole slippery and inviting. He gingerly slips a thick, strong left index finger into her vaginal cavity. Her tightness surprises him.

She now leans back into his chest as he uses both of his powerful hands to pleasure her most intimate of secrets, underneath the blue blanket, concealing their actions of desire from cabin and crew.

His stature is apparent even sitting, as he easily reaches her ear with his mouth, and as he plays with her below, he traces the outline of her pretty, modest ear lobes with his tongue.

"Such a tight, wet little pussy. Does it taste as good as it feels?"

"Find out."

He retracts his left hand out from under her, and slips his wet index finger into his mouth, first breathing the aroma in deeply. He makes a relishing "mmm" sound as he sucks the last bit of wetness from his extended digit.

Becky becomes aware of a growing need swelling within her to be full of his large, thick cock. She feels around under her with her left hand and immediately strikes gold without looking too far: his rock hard cock is standing at full mast. She pats it approvingly as she whispers to him.

"I need to be fucked, hard. Right now. Do this for me. Fuck my wet pussy, don't make me beg."

Being way past the point of playing hard to get, Raul obliges her earnest request by lifting her slender body up with one hand as he lowers the waistband on his sport trousers enough to pull his stiff cock out from its hiding place. Becky's humid cavity is so wet, so warm, so inviting and accepting, that there is almost no resistance at all as he lowers her effortlessly onto him. She lets out a muffled exhalation as the head of his rigid dick shaft pops past the tightness of her inner pussy lips, and she eases almost all the way down.

Her vaginal cavity is too short to accommodate the entire length of his solid piece, and he has to support her weight with clenched fists on his thighs to take up the two or three inches of slack to avoid putting all her weight on his thick sex tool.

They stay still for a few seconds, relishing the moment of quiet intimacy. Fucking stealthily within earshot of sleeping families and possibly Air Marshals, the danger of the entire act makes it decidedly more forbidding.

Knowing it's on her to establish a working rhythm, Becky places her feet on the floor and supports herself on the right armrest and his left thigh. She begins to lower herself down on him, then rising up, almost far enough to pop his cock out from inside of her, but not quite. Then, back down again. She does this for ten more repetitions, quietly focusing on the extreme pleasure this brings her clitoris in this slightly bent over position. His hands free now, he reaches up to fondle her perfectly perky tits with his hands. Appreciating the welcome extra stimulation, Becky squeezes his cock tighter with her pelvic floor muscles. She is facing away from the aisle of the plane, toward the closed window. He releases her right breast to slide the window covering open, revealing a starry night outside, as a billowy carpet of clouds line the floor of the sky, whirring past them. Their rhythm is constant, steady, rolling like tides of an ebbing current at nightfall.

They converge upon a mutually agreeable rhythm, not too slow for her, and yet not so fast that her tightness causes him to cum.

Becky stares into the wide expanse, transfixed on the luminous horizon breaking dawn, as she feels a thunderous quell emanating from her insides. Before she can signal to her partner how close she is, she feels his fucktool throb within her, and she too begins to cum deeply, with a full force, bearing down on him hard. As she reaches the end of her spasms, she slinks back into his chest, sweating underneath all the clothes they're still wearing.

Still with fight left within him, the star forward slows his thrust, now pushing as deep as possible within her, until his erection starts to give way.

Becky's forehead is pressed against the plastic window pane of the plane, staring at the first signs of landmass in almost 6 hours. This wasn't her first transatlantic flight, and certainly wouldn't be her last... But it would certainly make its way into her memory forever.

The rest of the flight, the pair kept mostly to themselves, neither wanting to press their luck.

As they retrieve their luggage from the luggage claim, they exchange pleasantries. In a volley of niceties, Becky asks Raul the part of town he stays in when he comes to visit.

"Galata. My family has a villa there."

To which Becky chuckles. Intrigued, Raul asks what she finds so amusing.

"Wanna split a cab?" She asks coyly.

Raul can only grin in disbelief.

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