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(John and Sue Mobray, mid twenties, newlyweds.)
John and I didn’t end up fucking for the first three days of our week-long honeymoon in Paris.
It wasn’t because we were jetlagged, or arguing, or tired from all that time in the Louvre. It was something much, much better.
Let me tell you what happened.
JFK has a restaurant, La Vie, and when we got off our domestic flight from Boston we had a bite there, which turned into a full meal once we saw the menu. ‘Hang the expense,’ said John. ‘Let’s start this right now.’
We drank some Bordeaux (that actually turned out to be better than anything we had the whole time we were away) and John had the slow cooked lamb, me the fish. By the time we transferred to international terminal and found our gate, we were both a little sleepy, and well contented.
The plane that night was not very full, and we had a three-seat row to ourselves by the wing, with no one behind us and a single older lady in the seats in front. Across the aisle in the middle row, a bald businessman sat entranced by his Blackberry. We could see a few others, scattered further across the aisle and on the other side.
They served us light refreshments, including a glass of champagne for both of us, and then dimmed the cabin lights at about ten thirty.
There were a range of movies on the seat console but the one that caught our eye was Betty Blue, on the Frenchy-themed channel. When it came on, we looked across at each other and smiled because early in our dating, we’d rented this, and John had eaten my pussy while I watched the opening third, where it’s all nice and happy, before Beatrice Dahl starts to go bonkers.
‘Do you want to “watch” this again?’ I asked.
‘Is it good?’ he said innocently. ‘I haven’t actually seen it, only heard it.’
‘The beginning is excellent.’
‘Ah.’ He looked down at the tiny space between my legs and the seat in front, and shrugged. ‘We’d need a mini-me.’
We giggled, and then both put our headphones on and watched the pair of them, Betty and her boy, being so very young and French and sexy. But after the cunnilingus scene, I lost interest, and noticed that I was nodding off. I yawned and summoned the stewardess to ask for a blanket.
‘Sure, honey,’ she says, and I am almost disappointed by her Georgian accent. She might have been Parisian. This is Air France after all. She is dolled up enough to be Parisian. And there are a few other French staff in the cabin crew. Why couldn’t we have got one of those? The unfairness of it all!
Anyway, she brought me back two large blankets and some of those tiny pillows they give you, which is in addition to the larger one I have brought on in my hand luggage. John and I have decided that we don’t want to waste a day recovering, so we’ll make sure to get a good night’s sleep tonight, and then hit the sights tomorrow, soon after we arrive.
I arranged myself with the large pillow against the corner of the seat and the window, and snuggled into the dull roar of the engine. John set himself up with his eye-mask, because the businessman and a few others are sill reading and there are intermittent flickers from the others watching their in-seat movie players.
‘Oh, damn,’ I say. ‘I forgot my mask! Can I borrow yours?’
‘Hell no. You forget, that’s your lookout.’
‘Humph.’ My bottom lip went out in a feeble attempt to manipulate him. He grabbed it between thumb index and gives it a playful tug.
‘Hands off!’ I pulled away.
‘No chance,’ he says, and prods my belly, before reclining his own seat and lying back under his blanket.
And we go to sleep.
What actually happened was that I lay there for about twenty minutes and then I heard the gentle sound of John snoring. He always does when he sleeps on his back, no matter what.
The businessman looked over at me expectantly. Obviously the sound of my new husband’s snoring is going to distract him from his very important work, a disruption which will lead ultimately to the collapse of the world economy, so I better do something.
‘Darling?’ I say. ‘You’re snoring.’
‘Oh. Must be the red wine,’ he says.
‘Yeah, that must be it. Do you want the window seat?’
‘No. You have it.’ (He gets that look on his face, the one when he thinks he’s being all chivalrous. Hah.)
‘Well, do you want to lie down?’ I pulled up the seat arm so he can put his head in my lap, and pretty soon, he had his legs up on the spare seat and was lying in comfort across me, totally covered by both blankets.
We stayed like that for about another twenty minutes. The smell from his neck rose up, cologne and sweat and the gentle odour of his skin, and the weight of his head caused my thighs to part slightly, to give him a fuller lap to lie in. He grunted gently as he turned to face my stomach, so the breath from his nose was directed at the lowest part of my belly, and I imagined I could feel it though the blanket. His cheek was pressing slightly into my mons.
The hum of the engine was comforting but unrelenting against the left side of any body, and the warmth from his head and shoulders pressed into the right side of me. French voices drifted from the back of the cabin. The wine I drank was still working its magic and I began to feel dreamy, like I was a giantess, and my body was hurtling through space at many miles an hour; which I suppose, it was.
Long story short: I got horny.
Actually, very horny. So much that muscles in my stomach, legs and pussy had a few exploratory contractions, just to get the lie of the land.
‘You having fun?’ he says.
‘Yep,’ I am happy to report.
He settled back down again, but lifted his head up only a few minutes later and said, ‘You smell good.’
(He has quite the nose for me, it must be said. Sometimes he can smell when I am wet, just sitting next to me in the car.)
I smiled and reached my hand down underneath the blanket, lifting up his head, and I ran a finger along my labia.
Oh, yes. I am horny.
I placed the finger under his nose.
‘You’re lovely,’ he said quietly, and his arched his right hand over my thigh so that he can assess the situation for himself. I assisted this endeavour by pulling my g-string back out of the way, and soon, his fingers were gently probing the outside of my pussy.
John loves my pussy. If he touches it, he mostly wants to keep touching it until something happens. I know this. So, it was no great surprise or shame when he slowly worked his middle finger inside me, and then rested his thumb on my clitoris and gently nuzzled it. We do this all the time at home.
Just then, the Georgian stewardess passed by and had a cursory inspection of our row, and I wondered how obvious we were, under the blankets, John with his head in my lap, me with my hips slightly forward, and his right arm nowhere visible.
Can she see his hand in my cunt?
Apparently not. All she does is to check that his feet aren’t sticking out into the aisle too far. And then she moves on.
My hips relaxed slightly and my pussy opened. John put his mask back on, kissed me on the stomach through the blanket, and started slowly fingering me and stroking my clit with his thumb.
Sometimes my pussy has no off switch, and it was one of those nights.
John worked away slowly and steadily inside me, and after about ten minutes, I came, quietly. But he didn’t stop like he sometimes would, and after a few seconds of discomfort, the sensations turned to pleasure, and I realised I could go again. And then again.
Then, I have to get up to go to the toilet, and I gently move John’s hand and head so that I can get up. He does not say a word, just smiles at me and kisses me as I pass.
I cannot tell him what I am doing. It’s now after midnight and only the businessman is still awake nearby, but I don’t even want to whisper, which might break the perfect unspoken trust between us.
I get to the toilet and take off my g-string, which has become a genuine pain in my ass, scrunching against the join between my leg and my pussy every time John adjusts his angle. Being as wet as it is doesn’t help. I am slightly chaffed.
Then I go to the toilet. Coffee, water, wine and champagne have made this a necessity, and the last orgasm was spoiled by trying so hard not to pee. If I’d been at home, I might have…but not tonight.
After I pee, I wipe up some of the moisture that has found its way down to my thighs, and take the opportunity to explore my pussy, which is wet and open and still aching with gentle pleasure. I touching my clit and moan, and I can’t wait to get back to John.
But this is important: he can’t say anything. If he says something, it’s over.
Please don’t say anything, John. Please just put your hand back the way it was.
I come in past John, who is sitting upright, and he lies back down immediately I have the blanket in position, but this time, he steals his hand underneath my right thigh before I have a chance to put it down.
I am now sitting at an angle, with my left leg flat and my right one slightly raised. Two fingers find their way inside me quickly and wordlessly and his thumb is back on my clit, gentle but insistent.
I love you, John Mobray.
Blackberry man, still entranced in saving the economy. Lady in front, asleep. Stewardesses, all seated. Lights low. Engine loud.
We are go.
A further hour later, and I am engrossed in, dedicated to, the serious business of prolonged masturbation. The lovely, dirty man in my lap is giving me orgasm after orgasm. They just keep building, they are like waves in slow motion, breaking in the beach, and even as I’m having one, I could feel the next one, five minutes away, coming over the horizon.
I have elected to turn on the movie console to give myself some visible reason to be still awake, and making the occasional noise, and am now watching the beginning of Clooney’s Batman.
I did attempt to watch Amelie on the Frenchy channel but I found it stupid and incomprehensible. I wanted to pull Amelie’s hair. I also felt sorry for Amelie, because I knew that Amelie will never know the wanton thrill of being gently fingered to massive, shuddering climaxes in a cabin full of sleeping people. She is just too pretty. Poor Amelie.
I cannot actually follow Batman either in my current state, but I know it has something to do with trying to prevent an explosion. (Most of these films are, nowadays.)
George Clooney himself, I can comprehend. I know he is not Batman. He is George Clooney, pretending to be Batman by wearing a sexy mask, and getting paid lots of money to do it. Some of which he would surely like to spend on me.
Can he see me out of the corner of his eye? Does he notice as my faces creases up into yet another searing, delicious wave of pleasure? I bet he can. I bet he would be very interested in me, right now.
Let’s face it, any man would be interested in me right now. Feel how fucking wet I am! I am the superwoman of sex!
I grind down, and my husband responds. The fingers inside me build up the pace again.
I look at George. I look at his chin, and the lines around his eyes, and the lovely touches of grey in the sides of his…
And, now I gently tug the finger of the lovely man with his head in my lap.
We have a system. If I pull the finger, it means stop for a bit. Then when I pull it again and he keeps going.
He has stamina, my husband. He will do this for as long as I need. He is in it for the long haul. In fact, it is highly possible that he has been specially trained in this task, and hired by George Clooney to make me feel good, for the rest of my life.
Somewhere over the Atlantic at an unknown hour, we are partly reclined, with my skirt hitched fully up around my waist. The lights are all out and there are gentle sounds of sleep all around. Even Blackberry has switched off. We are all still covered in the blankets.
I am watching (sic) a movie with a blonde actress in it who is very stupid, and a top lawyer, and this is fine by me. I am not in the mood for finding discrepancies in things.
My new husband now has three fingers inside me, or maybe it is four. He is not moving them at all. Instead, I am slowly grinding my hips so that my cunt makes circular motions around his hand. The middle finger of my right hand sits on my clitoris, which feels as though it is about the size of a wine cork and aches to touch, but I can’t keep off it. There’s just no end to its demands, this evening. In almost total silence, I am coming again, and again, and again.
But something tells me that soon, this is going to have to stop. They will put the cabin lights on. They will come around and check on us. Blackberry will wake up. George Clooney will pull the funding for the project. John’s wrist will break. Or maybe, I will have a climax so big that I will finally feel that enough is enough. Something is starting to give. Something is starting to hurt.
I decide to put my foot down. It must be two o’clock in New York by now, and we land in a few hours. I am going to have one, last, orgasm, and then that will be the end of it.
I grind down hard on the lovely husband-man’s fingers and hear him gasp in pain, but there’s no way I’m letting him out. I rock backwards and forwards on his hand, and feel the ends of his fingers deep inside me, and then I rub out an absolutely huge orgasm, long and joyful and painful and exquisite, and I hold my breath for far too long, and lose control of my body.
My legs start shaking and I stamp them all over the floor like an epileptic having a seizure.
Fuck, I really have put my foot down.
I come to, and notice there are more cabin lights on than there were a while ago. Blackberry is looking over at me, scowling, and John has his mask up and is staring at me anxiously.
‘You OK?’ he says, and the sound of his voice breaks the spell.
‘Uhh…yeah. I’m OK.’
I move his hand out and close up my legs, and that is when I start to become aware of how much pain I am in.
The next thing I know, the Georgian’s voice comes over the loudspeaker.
Good morning, ladies and gentleman. We will be arriving in Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris in approximately one and a half hours. The local time is just after eight am. We will shortly be coming through the cabin serving light refreshments.
My brain can’t work out the time difference. I find I have no idea how many hours John and I were at it, or, how many times I came.
But my cunt is starting to tell me it was too many.
‘That was a genius move, spilling the milk and apple juice on the seat,’ said John as we waited at the baggage carousel. I was leaning on the trolley so people would not see my saddlesore limp, and ask if I need assistance.
‘Thanks. Those stains needed some explaining.’
‘I know. You were like a fire hydrant for a while there! I was most impressed.’
I laugh, then wince slightly as I shift my weight. My whole vagina from labia to cervix feels slightly raw, and some spots are worse than others. My g-spot feels like someone punched it.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks again.
‘Yeah I’ll be all right. It wasn’t your fault.’ I say.
And then I realised he wasn’t being at all apologetic, and was smirking at me.
‘In fact, fuck it. No. I’m not all right. You’re a bad man. You should have known I couldn’t handle that.’
‘I thought a big girl like you could look after yourself,’ he says. ‘So, first stop the Muse Picasso?’
‘Oh, fuck off. First stop a nice flat bed and then possibly a trip to the vagina transplant ward. You’re a bastard.’
‘I know, but loveable,’ he says. ‘Of course I will be expecting a return of the favour when we get into this nice flat bed of yours.’
‘You want to feel like this?’
‘Oh hell no,’ he grinned. ‘Unlike you, I know when to stop.’
‘I thought I did too!’ I whine. ‘But it just felt soooo good. Seriously. Incredible.’
‘And to think, it was all because of my snoring!’ John said, and winked.
The penny drops. He wasn’t snoring. He’d done it deliberately, to get onto my lap, and into my pants.
He’s a very bad man, my husband.
We got to the hotel and I slept all day, and was sore for three.
Then, we finally “made love” on the Thursday and again on the Friday, and it was fine, but we both always knew that the real moment of honeymoon bliss had happened well before the City of Love.
It was high over the Atlantic, on the long haul flight to De Gaulle.