Night Flight

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How about this!I have been invited to attend the International Women in Business Conference being held in Paris, France. My very first official overseas business trip and I am more than ready for it. Definitely time this twenty-eight-year-old middle management executive strutted her stuff on a larger stage.Reading over the announcement, the core topics and activities sounded excellent. Advancing Women into Leadership Roles – Women on Corporate Boards – Opportunities for Women Leaders, and on the last day of the conference, a ‘Panoramic Tour of Paris’ followed by an evening ‘Meet and Mingle’.Sounds good to me! I am thinking to arrive a couple of days early to play tourist, followed by the three-day seminar, and afterwards a couple more days to wander around Paris and shop. All of it paid by the firm and tax deductible – what’s not to love!So here I am, taking an Air France night flight out of JFK International Airport, New York. I dress comfortably, but respectably. A black jacket, light blue blouse, and a knee-length charcoal grey concertina pleated skirt over matching white bra and undies. I complement that with sheer black thigh-high stockings and three-inch black ankle-strap shoes. I also take along a pair of soft comfortable slippers stuffed in the top of my handbag to wear on board the aircraft.The Air France departure gate is quiet and a light passenger load makes for an easy boarding.When I booked my ticket, I deliberately chose a window seat in the rear of the aircraft. You get a little more engine noise in the back but with only three seats across, you have less inconvenience with people moving around and less passing traffic in the aisles. I anticipated a quiet flight and fully intended to quickly grab a pillow and blanket and snooze my way to France.I am standing in the aisle next to my seat doing the usual balancing act of trying to lift my carry-on bag into the overhead storage compartment without braining myself when a man appears at my side. In fact, he appears to be an extremely distinguished looking gentleman who I estimate to be somewhere in his mid-fifties, around five feet ten with silver grey hair and goatee.Granting me a slight bow of his head and a smile, he graciously relieves me of my baggage and coat and places them in the overhead storage compartment, followed by his own. He has a rather polished manner about him and there is certainly no mistaking his Armani suit for something off the rack at Burlington Coat Factory.With the baggage chore accomplished, I squeeze by him and sit down in the window seat. He then makes himself comfortable in the aisle seat with the empty seat between us.He smiles across at me.“Bonsoir, jeune fille.”“Merci monsieur, bonsoir monsieur,” I reply.“Ah, American?”So much for my New York-accented college French.“Oui monsieur, une Americane.”“Ah, Je suis actuellement en pleine conversation avec une ravissante jeune femme,” he responds, and then in heavily accented English, “I make polite conversation with a charming young lady.”I smile and hold out my hand.“Helen, New York City.”“Ah,” he replies. “I am Henri, from Paris.Introductions complete, I reach into my handbag and take out my slippers. Lifting each knee in turn, I unbuckle the ankle strap on my high heels and slip them off, replacing them with my old comfortable slippers.My newly introduced travel companion looks on approvingly.“Ces chaussures sont très commodes! Si simples… les pieds doivent être à l’aise.”Oh sure.“My apologies, monsieur. My French isn’t as good as it should be.”“Ah … forgive me, Miss Helen … er … Those shoes look very comfortable, so simple and yet… they must be comfortable.”Slippers aside, I have the distinct impression that my suave travel companion is checking out my legs more than my footwear. I smile and remain friendly. It is that primal male thing – men cannot help looking Escort Yakacık you over. Well aware of his steady appraisal, I push my discarded heels underneath my seat, smooth my skirt down and turn to gaze out of the window.There is little outside to see besides the flashing blue taxiway lights and the line of planes awaiting takeoff. I pull down the window shade, then stuff my pillow into the gap between the window and the side of my seat and put my head against it.Thank goodness for a nice large blanket that effectively covers me from neck to ankles. Aircraft cabins can get very cool on long-distance flights. I pull the blanket up around my shoulders and snuggle down. A few hours sleep and I will be ready to greet Paris in the early morning.- – -I was not sure for how long I dozed, but we were at altitude and well out over the Atlantic. The aircraft is quiet, cabin lights dimmed and I can hear that steady hissing sound of circulating air. I can also feel a hand on my thigh.I look over to see that while I was asleep my French fellow traveler has exchanged his aisle seat for the seat next to me. Underneath my blanket, the palm of his hand is resting on the front of my skirt, fingertips gently stroking the material.I look directly into his grey eyes.What do I expect to see? A shamefaced smile, a sheepish penitent acknowledgment and a ‘sorry Ma’am, boys will be boys’ rueful shrug?I get none of thatSurprisingly there is nothing challenging or reproachful in his demeanor. He appears strangely respectful. Nothing salacious or aggressive, rather there is a silent unspoken questioning in his face. A seeking … seeking what? … acquiescence?This is the moment I am supposed to indignantly jump up, scream blue murder and slap his impudent face. The moment I expose this perverted outrage and demand the Flight Attendants move me to another seat.I am supposed to do all that.But I don’t.Instead, I turn my head away. I look towards the closed window blind and rest my face against my pillow. I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep and both my Parisian travel companion and myself know that I am not.His touch is extremely gentle and rather playful. I can feel his hand and fingers lightly tracing the pleats in my skirt, a tactile examination of the material and the contours of my body underneath. His hand moves slowly and tenderly over the front of my skirt, softly feeling its way up over my hip to my waistband and back down across my stomach. When his hand reaches my lap, he gently lets it rest there.A pause in his explorations. A gesture, perhaps to give me time to evaluate and signal my approval or objections. My chest feels tight, and I think I must be holding my breath. I am frozen in place. I say nothing and after several minutes, he slowly presses his hand against my lap, his fingers pushing the pleats of my skirt down between my thighs and into my crotch.I stifle a gasp and force myself to keep my eyes closed. I keep my face turned away from him, bite into my pillow and keep my thighs tightly clenched together.The exploring fingers pause and he slowly withdraws his hand from my lap. An opening gambit? A tentative first grope to check out the lady’s accessibility? A soft knock on the door to ascertain the lady’s reservations and inclinations?Perhaps a point of reappraisal. ‘She almost did but she didn’t’, or ‘she wouldn’t but she might?’Our flight continues eastward and it seems Monsieur Henri has chosen to behave himself. I snuggle down under my blanket and doze off.I awake to feel his hand upon my knees, fingers tracing the front hem of my skirt. I do believe he is teasing me now. He has me wondering, ‘will he or won’t he?’ Now his hand slips under the front of my skirt and onto my legs, his palm caressing and fingers feeling my stockings.His hand moves excruciatingly slowly. Atalar escort There is no haste in his delicate explorations, no bull in a china shop rush for the goodies, however, his hand is inexorably heading upwards. The front hem of my skirt is across his wrist and being pushed farther up my legs with every feel of his hand and fingers. I continue to hold my legs tightly together.The wayward hand pauses at the top of my stockings and explores its way around the lacy thigh band. After some minutes of his fingertips tracing the lace tops, it slides above my stocking tops and onto that area of bare skin between my stocking and panty leg. He pauses again on that area of bare skin. A decision point, for him and me? He gently squeezes and taps his fingers against my thigh. A subtle signal. Monsieur’s finger tap inquiries upon my inner thighs designed to encourage a response.I am not sure what my response should be. A kaleidoscope of impressions fills my head. Wake up, girl … you are supposed to be a semi-sophisticated businesswoman here, not some silly schoolgirl. Either from weakness or stupidity, I finally respond and most likely, it is from simple curiosity. His finger taps seek a response and I reply to his tactile inquiries. I open my legs enough to allow his hand full access.He reaches up and caresses my panties. His palm quickly cups my mound while his fingers extend downwards to feel and tease the cleft in my panties. I take a firm grip on the edge of my blanket, hold it tightly around my neck and bury my face into my pillow trying to stifle my erratic breathing. I smother my gasps and silently sob as he fingers me through my panties.I bite down into my pillow and silently chant a mental mantra. ‘Do not react, do not utter a sound. Do not scissor your legs, twitch a thigh muscle or wriggle your ass.’ At all costs, maintain a respectable decorum.I cannot believe I am actually telling myself this nonsense. Oh sure. I am going to sit here quietly aloof and unresponsive while he fondles me through my panties. Nevertheless, I decide that I am going to try because I recognize that Henri is no fool. His controlled body language is indicative that he is also well aware of our possible public exposure and has no wish to embarrass either of us.Under my blanket, my own body is already betraying me with a hot dampness trickling between my legs.His hand slides up underneath the leg of my panty pushing my panty gusset aside. I draw in a deep expectant breath. It is an experienced hand that firmly engulfs my naked pussy. His thumb has little difficulty in locating my tingling clit, partnered by a finger that is simultaneously inserted into my vagina. To my chagrin, my pussy pulses and grips his finger.Is it my imagination, or can I smell myself?He fucks me with his hand, tickling and teasing, entering and withdrawing. My clit swells under his circling thumb, while his finger slides in and out of my wet pussy.Almost swallowing my pillow I am silently screaming, “Yes, finger me! finger me! finger me!”Monsieur Henri dutifully does just that. Underneath my panties, he steadily finger-fucks my bare wet slit. ~ ~ ~ Somewhere during the night, I make my excuses and leave my seat heading for the nearest bathroom. Locking myself in, I quickly pull my skirt up, push my panties down to my knees and sit on the toilet. I pee up a storm. God knows how I managed that! I put it down to a bad case of nerves caused by my digitally amorous seatmate. I would have sworn on a stack of Brooklyn bagels that I did not have a single solitary ounce of fluid remaining in my body.I am a mess and thinking, had I have known … geez, what a ridiculous thing to be thinking. At home, I would simply place a bath towel under myself, but since I am happily winging my way to the Continent, I had not foreseen this particular Kadıköy escort bayan eventuality. I was not prepared for Henri, who had been fingering me on and off for most of the flight.My inner thighs and ladyparts are sore and chafed. Self-examination of the areas of my damp discomfort provides a simple answer. Symptoms – excessive chafing. Causation – intensive rubbing of the outside parts of the vagina during masturbation. Wow, what a surprise.I look at the sanitary pad dispenser and seriously consider using one in my panties. I do not have my period but it might help absorb the flow of wetness from my vagina. I suppose that I should be grateful Henri can afford a decent pedicure. At least his fingernails are well trimmed.I repair myself as well as possible using handfuls of tissues to dry my inner thighs and delicate regions. What wouldn’t this girl give for a tube of vaginal ointment at this very second!Aquaphor, Aquaphor … My kingdom for a tube of …Straightening my clothing, I gingerly return to my seat and pull the blanket over me. Henri appears to be asleep so I attempt likewise assuming Monsieur Fingers has had enough of playing under my skirt for one night. ~ ~ ~ I am disturbed from my sleep by a hand fiddling with my clothing under my blanket. Henri is leaning closer to me with his hand on the hem of my skirt and is pulling it toward him. I am wondering just what in hell he is trying to do. I reach under my blanket and attempt to hold onto the hem of my skirt as he is tugging it.In doing so my hand touches him and I discover that his pants are open and he is trying to wrap the hem of my skirt around his bare cock. He already has a handful of my skirt pressed over his lap and he begins thrusting his cock into the bunched material.Oh no. not that! He is masturbating with the hem of my skirt. No, no, no. I am not walking around in public with semen on my skirt!I release my hand from my skirt, withdraw it from underneath the blanket and grab the collar of his shirt.“Not on my skirt,” I whisper harshly. “Don’t do it on my skirt, don’t you dare wet my skirt!He immediately releases his hold on my skirt and I smooth it back down to my knees.He looks at me in pain and desperation.“Helen… donne-moi ta petite culotte,” and then in English. “Helen… give me your panties.”“What?” Oh my god, you must be joking. He wants my underwear.He takes my hand and places it on his swollen penis. This is more than I am comfortable with.Easy girl… easy, I tell myself. It is a little late for me to be going into shock. I cannot possibly be this stupid and naïve as events have already gone too far between us for him to be satisfied using a Kleenex tissue for release“Je vous rends la culotte et c’est bon,” I whisper. “I’ll give you the panties and that’s that.”I pull my hand away feeling this irrational flash of disgust that he was actually counting upon my availability to masturbate him. My ‘availability’? Good grief, did I really think that? When did I become such a prude?After all, I had used a panty on several guys at college, and some girls as well. How hypocritical of me, considering that Monsieur ‘Fingers’ has been fondling and masturbating me for hours.The proof of his tactile ministrations is the steady stream of warm wetness trickling between my thighs and running down underneath the cheeks of my ass. I was probably sitting in a puddle and knew without a doubt that I have wet through to the back of my skirt.Monsieur Fingers is growing more anxious.“Helen… please, please… your panties.”Ridiculously late in this game, I find myself wondering if anyone onboard has noticed anything untoward happening in the back row, but the seats around me are empty and the aircraft remains dark and quiet. All of the Flight Attendants appear to be dozing up by the center galley and the remaining passengers appear to be sleeping.I reach under my skirt and grip the waistband of my panties. I ease my backside up enough to slip them over my thighs and down my legs. Smoothing my skirt to my knees, I hand him my panties and he begins the business of fiddling around underneath his blanket to wrap them around his penis.

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