Flying High: Sexy Stories from the Mile High Club

Flying High: Sexy Stories from the Mile High Club

by Rachel Kramer Bussel, Alison Tyler

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Overview

Flying High: Sexy Stories from the Mile High Club by Rachel Kramer Bussel

This red-hot guide to getting it on at 30,000 feet will have readers racing to the ticket counter so they too can be Flying High. Editor Rachel Kramer Bussel presents scintillating stories of one-flight-stand seductions by strangers, frisky flight attendants, pent-up pilots, an exhibitionist screen star who's hot to trot, a female flying instructor who takes two male students under her wing, and a couple who take advantage of the latest in-flight technology. Featuring arousing new works by Alison Tyler, Thomas, S. Roche, Elizabeth Coldwell, and many more, Flying High is sure to make anyone a frequent flyer!

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781627780599
Publisher: Cleis Press
Publication date: 03/17/2014
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 224
File size: 300 KB

About the Author

Rachel Kramer Bussel regularly contributes to Refinery 29, Glamour, and Cosmopolitan, and she hosts readings around the country. A prolific erotica editor, her titles include He’s on Top, She’s on Top, and Do Not Disturb. She lives in New York City Praise for Dirty Dates "This stimulating read is both for experienced players and those just discovering the joy of tying up your lover. Anything For You is a collection of sexy stories of uninhibited, adventurous sex by the county's best erotic writers. Each boldly-wrought tale shared with your lover is another door opened into the erotic mindscape." —YourTango "Rachel Kramer Bussel's is a guidebook to great sex, told story by delicious story of uninhibited, adventurous sex sure to keep the home fires burning Each boldly wrought tale shared with your lover is another door opened into the erotic mindscape." -- Fresh Fiction "A scintillatingly kinky combination of scenarios is offered for the reader's arousal, captivating with words anyone who has a bondage fetish." -- Night Owl Reviews "Each character in these stories shows a tremendous amount of strength and pride. It takes guts to let someone see your innermost desires, and allow them the freedom to grow. There is certainly something for everyone here." -- Coffee Time Romance

Read an Excerpt

"The Girl Most Likely" -Kristina Wright

Cindy Harris?”

I jolted at hearing my name—my maiden name—spoken by a deep male voice as I settled into my seat. The plane was crowded, I was trying to avoid hitting anyone in the head with my overstuffed carry-on, and the last thing I needed was to spend an eight-hour flight to London chatting it up with an old high school chum.

Then I looked at him and was taken back fifteen years, to my senior year in high school and my first true love.

His face had changed, though I supposed mine had, as well. I knew my hair was different—longer and darker than the short blonde cut I’d had back then—but he had recognized me immediately while I wasn’t sure I would have picked him out of a crowd.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me,” he said with that old familiar smirk.

I found myself smiling in response. “Max Viannetti. Wow.”

“Yeah, wow.”

We were interrupted by the flight attendant coming by to make sure our tray tables were up and our seats were in the upright position. After she passed by, I shook my head. “This is surreal. I haven’t seen you since—”

“Prom.”

I winced. Yeah, I’d kind of forgotten that our sweet love affair had ended on a sour note.

“Water under the bridge,” he said, his voice unlike what I remembered, but the tilt of his head as familiar as my own reflection. “How are you?”

I hesitated, then closed my eyes wearily. “Loaded question. I’m supposed to say ‘fine,’ right?”

He laughed. “It’s a long flight. I think you can say more than ‘fine.’”

I felt the prick of embarrassing and inappropriate tears behind my eyelids. I knew my eyes were glistening brightly when I looked at him and his concerned expression told me I wasn’t doing a good job of faking joy.

“Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

I waved him off. “No, I’m just tired. It’s been a long month. I just got divorced.”

The word was bitter and hot on my tongue, though I’d had more than a year to get used to it. Blurting it out to a man I hadn’t seen in fifteen years and had parted ways with under less than the best of circumstances just reinforced how utterly worn out I was these days.

“Sorry to hear that,” he said, and sounded sincere. “Been there, done that, myself. It’s miserable, even when it’s necessary.”

I nodded. That summed it up. “Anyway, I’m off to London for a much-needed holiday. How about you?”

“Wedding,” he said with a grimace. “My best friend from law school.”

“I didn’t know you were an attorney.” I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. Max had once been an integral part of my everyday life. I had loved him, once; probably still did in that way that young love never really dies.

“I’m not,” he said. “I teach law. Decided early on I preferred theory to practice.”

“Smart man.”

Somehow, I had missed the fact that we had taxied and taken off. Me, who hated flying and got nauseous on takeoff and landing, had missed the worst part. I smiled at Max.

“I’m glad I ran into you. It’s nice to catch up.”

And catch up, we did. For the next two hours, through our rather unappetizing dinner, we talked—about law school for him and design school for me, his failed marriage and mine, mutual friends from high school who had drifted in and out of each of our lives—we talked about everything but the past.

As I nestled into my seat with a blanket over my lap and an airline pillow jammed against the headrest, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep postdinner, Max raised the armrest between us. I jumped at the touch of his hand on my thigh, a sense of the unfamiliar colliding with some very intense memories. His soft chuckle made me relax.

“I was a jerk back then,” he said softly, the first reference to our history he’d made since we’d started talking. “An arrogant jackass who thought I was entitled to score on prom night, if no other time.”

I felt my face flush hotly. It wasn’t something I wanted to rehash. I’d been a good girl in high school—a good girl who didn’t believe in premarital sex. That had only lasted until the second semester of freshman year at Georgetown when I succumbed to what I believed was love and had a lackluster experience. I had spent a long time regretting saying no to Max so many nights and losing him because of it. It really wasn’t something I wanted to talk about.

I turned my head toward the aisle. “S’okay,” I mumbled. “I was a goody-goody who thought I was saving myself for something better.”

“We had some fun though,” he said, his voice stirring something inside me. “Didn’t we?”

Memories of fevered nights of long make-out sessions and roaming hands—his and mine—flitted through my brain. I nodded. “Yeah, we did.” He fell silent then and, like the rest of the plane, we slept.

I awoke from an erotic dream, disoriented for a moment until the loud, steady hum of the plane became real again. What was also real was the big, warm hand resting on my thigh. I glanced at Max, sound asleep and sprawled in his seat—as sprawled as anyone can get in an airplane seat—his face in sleep slack and peaceful, hints of the youth I once knew in the lock of hair slipping boyishly down his forehead.

I don’t know what made me reach out and touch his mouth, but one moment I was watching him sleep and the next I was brushing my index finger over his full lips—lips that had driven me out of my mind when I was too inexperienced to know what I had been missing. Still caught in the web of my sex dream, I contemplated what that mouth could do to me now. I shivered at the thought.

Memory and fantasy were so intertwined in my tired brain that I didn’t realize Max was awake and watching me until his lips parted. The quick lick of his tongue against the tip of my finger made me jerk back in surprise.

“I—I’m—I was dreaming,” I stammered.

“About me, I hope.” His drowsy expression held a hint of lust. Just a hint—as if he had been dreaming, too—but it was enough to make me press my thighs together. “Want to tell me about it?”

I shook my head. “I don’t really remember what it was about. Just…that it was about sex and need—I needed something…”

“So it was about me.”

I didn’t take offense at his comment. The scenario probably had been related to Max, but even my dreaming self couldn’t conjure up what it would be like to sleep with Max because it had never happened.

“Yeah, probably.”

He shifted so that his mouth was very close to my ear. “You know what’s funny? I bitched about not being able to fuck you but you’re the only woman I ever dream about like that.”

I looked at him, trying to sniff out the mockery. He looked utterly sincere. “Really?”

His hand stroked my thigh and I jerked against him as if he were stroking my bare pussy. The past was so close to the surface, I knew exactly what his fingers would feel like on my skin. But there was a blanket and skirt between me and those fingers.

“Yeah,” he said, staring at me so intently I felt like he could see my thoughts. “Really.”

The plane was quiet except for the hum of the engine; everyone around us was asleep and only a couple of overhead lights illuminated night owls several rows away. The flight attendants were nowhere to be seen, no doubt catching up on the gossip before having to serve the next round of beverages. I felt something like anticipation thrumming in my veins—anticipation and a long-dormant desire. I hadn’t known what to do with it when I was in high school, but I knew now.

I took Max’s hand off the blanket that covered my lap. The flicker of disappointment on his face immediately turned to one of interest when I lifted the blanket and returned his hand to my thigh. I felt him reach down to toy with the hem of my skirt, at last touching bare skin. I sighed and closed my eyes.

“Remember all those nights on your parents’ couch?” he whispered. “That dance we did every time? Touching, pulling back—all that teasing.”

“I wasn’t teasing,” I said. “I was trying to be good.”

He slid my skirt up an inch. If this had been high school,I would have let him go just to midthigh, then I would have pushed him away and sent him home. Now it was all I could do not to beg him to fuck me right there on the plane.

“You were good. The girl most likely to be good.” He shook his head. “And I was the poor, love-struck fool who thought I could corrupt you.”

“I’m not that girl anymore.” I reached under the blanket and jerked my skirt up until his entire hand rested on my bare skin. “And I’m not sure what I’m most likely to do, but I know what I want to do.”

He curved his hand around my thigh, high enough that I could feel the barest touch against the edge of my panties. I squirmed, tilting my hips as much as the seat belt would allow—which wasn’t much—and looked at him.

“What are you doing?” he said, but it was not an admonishment. “We’ll get arrested and be banned from the airline for life.”

I sighed. “Oh, c’mon, Mr. Law Professor, don’t be a prude.”

“Believe me, I’m not feeling very prudish,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I just can’t do to you what I want to do.”

“That never stopped you from trying.”

That was all it took. Max shifted toward me and slid his hand over my panty-covered crotch. The heat was so intense I whimpered. Though the noise of the plane drowned out the sound, he looked at me sternly.

“Hush, or I’ll stop.”

I licked my bottom lip and was rewarded with a barely perceptible groan. “Don’t stop until I come.”

Roughly, he slid his hand under the waistband of my panties and touched me. He was using his left hand and the position was awkward, with his elbow lodged uncomfortably beneath my breasts, but it didn’t seem to matter when his middle finger found my clit. I clutched at his wrist, needing to touch him and not just be touched. I moved my hand down until it covered his, resting against my pussy, pressing against my clit. I rubbed his hand and he rubbed me.

“Like that?” He stroked me and I tried not to moan. “You like that?”

I bit my lip to keep from making a sound and nodded. I wanted to fling myself on top of him, run my hands all over his body, sink down onto his cock, but I was limited to this—his hand on my mound, his middle finger pressed against my clit in the confines of the airplane.

I reached between us and unfastened my seat belt. Without the restraint, I was able to slide a little lower, spread my thighs a little wider….

Max made a tsking sound in my ear. “You’re supposed to keep your seat belt fastened at all times.”

I grinned wickedly as I pressed his hand between my thighs. “I told you I wasn’t a good girl anymore.”

My smile faded to a look of surprise as he slid his middle finger inside me. I felt my pussy clench involuntarily and couldn’t contain a gasp of desire. I clutched at his hand, guiding him with urgency as he rubbed my pussy with short, but hard, strokes. The palm of his hand rested against my clit—not enough pressure to get me off, but enough to keep me in a state of near orgasmic arousal.

“You’re so fucking wet. I knew you would be if I ever touched you like this,” he whispered.

We were shoulder to shoulder because of the angle and the narrow seats, his body kept a little away from me because he would have to move his hand if he shifted closer and I needed that hand where it was. I needed to come.

We both froze as a flight attendant passed by, Max’s finger pressed inside me, my spread thighs barely concealed by the flimsy blanket. But she didn’t even glance our way and, after a moment, she passed back to her station and Max resumed playing with me.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered. “I want to get you off.”

I trembled at his words. We might not have been in the most intimate of positions or locations, but his words were doing as much to get me off as his finger. I shifted, frustrated at the confines of my seat and the bad angle.

“More, another finger,” I told him. “And keep talking to me.” Immediately, I felt him slide his index finger inside me along with his middle finger. I brushed my own fingertips against the back of his hand and down over his knuckles, wet with my desire. If there had been room, I would have added my finger to his two—to feel both of us inside me, surrounded by my wetness.

“Better? Feel full?”

I nodded.

“Wish it was my cock inside you instead of my fingers?”

I jerked up against his hand. “Yes,” I said with a whispered hiss. “Oh god, yes.”

“Good. Think about my cock fucking you,” he said as he stroked me harder. “Think about it as you come on my fingers.”

That was all it took. I clenched my thighs around his hand, a mental picture of his cock—which I had never even seen—driving into me. I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood, eyes closed so I could pretend we were alone as I rocked as little as possible against the fingers inside me.

“I feel you,” he whispered. “You’re grabbing on to me. Your pussy is so wet, but you’re still clinging to me.”

Max kept talking to me, whispering sexy, naughty things as my orgasm went on and on. It was as if my body, limited by our surroundings and position, was taking as long to finish coming as it had taken to get to orgasm. Softly panting, I relaxed my grip on Max’s wrist, realizing that I had been digging my nails into him the entire time.<>“Sorry,” I said, rubbing the indentations my nails had left behind. “I was kind of lost there for a minute.”

He slowly withdrew his fingers, rubbing them over my pussy. “Don’t worry about it. That was amazing.”

I shook my head. “You have no idea.”

There was a moment of awkward silence punctuated by yet another flight attendant pass-by. This time, she looked pointedly at us. Her expression was neutral, but the wink gave her away.

I sunk lower in my seat, mortified. “Oh hell, she knows.”

“There’s still some of that good girl left in you,” Max said.

I shifted in my seat, tugging my skirt down over my hips. I smiled wickedly at him as I slipped my hand into his lap and stroked his erection through his pants. The motion was so familiar I knew exactly how he would react. This time, though, I knew I wasn’t going to be content with a little groping and fantasizing.

“I bet you could have me thoroughly corrupted by the time we leave London,” I said, giving his cock a little squeeze.

By the time we made our descent into Heathrow, the butterflies in my stomach had nothing at all to do with flying.

Table of Contents

Introduction: Flying High

34B by Bill Kte’pi
Instrument Flight Rules by Zach Lindley
A Brief Respite by Desiree
Get On, Get Off by Jeremy Edwards
The Scream Queen by Sommer Marsden
Wild Child by Matt Conklin
Bermuda Triangle by Vanessa Vaughn
Top Banana by Craig J. Sorensen
Nasty Little Habit by Donna George Storey
Urgent Message by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Obedient by Teresa Noelle Roberts
Aisle Seat by Stan Kent
Game in the Sky by Elizabeth Coldwell
When Your Girlfriend Wears a Very Short Skirt by Thomas S. Roche
Planes, Trains and Banana-Seat Bicycles by Alison Tyler
Flights of Fancy by Geneva King
The Girl Most Likely by Kristina Wright
Bert and Betty by Ryan Field
Wing Walker by Cheyenne Blue

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Flying High: Sexy Stories from the Mile High Club 5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 1 reviews.
Scarlet_Slept More than 1 year ago
Some lovely inspiration in here - just wish I were bold enough to try it!