First Layover: What I Did Without Him Knowing

The night before my first flight I hardly slept. I’d been with Andrés for six years and, although I’d never given him a reason to distrust me, there was something about the idea of going out alone, of spending the night in a hotel in Amsterdam, that gave me a kind of diffuse vertigo.

I put on my uniform at five in the morning. Andrés was sleeping face down in our bed, with that broad back of his that I loved so much. The night before we’d fucked to try to help me relax. He’d done it to me slowly, first with his tongue between my thighs until I came against his mouth, gripping his hair with both hands, and then he’d put me on all fours and driven his cock into me from behind while he pressed my neck down into the mattress. He buried himself deep, with those long thrusts that make skin slap against skin, and I asked for more, for him to fuck me harder, until he came inside me with a rough groan against my ear. Even so, after coming twice and feeling his semen drip down my thigh when I got out of bed to clean myself, the nerves hadn’t eased.

The flight was Barcelona-Amsterdam. Four hours there, one night layover, and back the next day.

***

On the plane they assigned me the middle cabin with Carmen, a blonde colleague with a face that said she knew everything and who, from the very first moment, treated me as if we’d known each other forever. Before takeoff she stretched out her arm and gave me her hand without saying a word, as if she knew exactly what I needed.

As soon as the plane gained altitude and the passengers were being looked after, we started talking.

—Have you really looked at Álvaro? —she asked me in a low voice.

—The copilot?

—The one built like a truck —she said with a smile that didn’t need translating—. I’ve been trying to work something out with him for months. I want to suck him off until he hasn’t got the strength left to fly.

I visited the pilots’ cockpit shortly after, dragged there by Carmen. Álvaro was indeed striking: tall, strong jaw, the sort of man who looks like he’s stepped out of a luxury watch ad. The captain, on the other hand, didn’t turn around when we came in. Huge back, completely white hair, big hands resting on the controls.

Carmen had told me something about him: that he’d been with the airline for more than thirty years, that he’d lost a daughter a few years ago, that he drank more than was wise. His name was Rodrigo Saura.

When he finally turned to face us, he looked like someone who’d seen too much to bother pretending to be interested. He looked straight at me.

—First layover —he said, as if noting a fact.

—Yes.

—I hope it isn’t the last.

Then he looked back ahead.

***

Dinner at the hotel was tense. There were four of us cabin crew: Carmen and me, and two others who already knew the route, Silvia and Marta. The pilots ate alone at the other end of the restaurant, though that didn’t stop Carmen and Silvia from staring at them insistently.

Afterward, in the hotel bar, Álvaro ordered champagne to celebrate my first flight. Rodrigo stayed at the bar, with his back to the group, a whisky glass turning slowly between his fingers. The difference between the two men was almost comic: one of them, around forty, surrounded by admirers, and the other completely alone, detached from everything, drinking with the calm of someone who no longer needs to prove anything.

At midnight, Álvaro left the hotel with Carmen and Silvia. Marta went upstairs to sleep.

I stayed.

Rodrigo was still at the bar. I’m not exactly sure what made me go over. Curiosity, maybe. Something less easy to put into words, maybe.

—Don’t stay up too late —I said, placing a hand on his back—. Tomorrow you’ve got to take us all back.

He turned. He looked me up and down with a calm that irritated me without my knowing why.

—Want a drink?

***

I should have said no.

I sat down beside him and he called the waiter without asking what I wanted.

—A vodka cranberry cocktail —he ordered—. You’ll like it.

And he was right.

For the first half hour we talked easily: cities, flight routes, the countries that had impressed him most over his decades in the air. He was intelligent, that much I couldn’t deny. He was also distant in a way that was strangely comfortable, as if he didn’t need to sell himself or convince anyone of anything.

—Do you have a partner? —he asked.

—Six years. His name’s Andrés.

I crossed my legs and felt my skirt open for an instant. He saw it. I felt that he had seen it, and that made me nervous in a way I didn’t like. Under the skirt I was wearing very thin black panties and I felt, unable to stop it, the fabric grow damp between my thighs.

—Does he know you’re here with a pilot at one in the morning? —he asked.

—I told him I’d gone down for a drink with the others —I answered, and regretted it the moment I said it.

He smiled, just slightly, for the first time all night.

—Is he jealous?

—No.

—Then he wouldn’t have any reason to object —he said—. Though I imagine you haven’t told him exactly how you’re sitting right now. Or how wet your cunt is while you talk to me.

Before I could answer, he added something that irritated me more than anything he’d said so far.

—Deep down, you like being told what to do. A man grabbing you by the hair and telling you what to do with your ass. I can spot it a mile off.

—That’s ridiculous —I said.

—It’s an observation.

—It’s a cliché.

—If it were a cliché, it wouldn’t have bothered you so much.

I told him exactly what I thought. That he’d been throwing out tired lines about flight attendants all night, that pilots thought they had the right to choose, that he hadn’t evolved enough to be having that conversation in the year we were in. I said it with a certain satisfaction, and he listened without blinking.

When I finished, he called the waiter.

—Two more of the same.

—You said that was the last one —I reminded him.

—I know. But this has just gotten interesting. I like women with character, though you’re not as good at being in control as you think. Two fingers in the cunt and most of them end up begging.

I drank. I don’t know why.

***

We spent another quarter of an hour talking, this time with less apparent tension, though it was still there underneath. He was the one who broke it again.

—You’d look more impressive with one more button undone —he said, nodding at my neckline—. With those tits out of your bra, to be exact.

—Well, I’m not going to do that.

—Of course not. —He got up from the stool and took a step toward me—. Why did you open your mouth earlier?

—What...?

His fingers brushed the fabric of my blouse and the button gave way. He did it with a skill that should not have been possible, barely touching me at all, and then he withdrew immediately to his place. After that he called the waiter to order another drink just for himself and turned back toward the bar, leaving me there.

—You didn’t want anything more, did you? —he said, without looking at me.

I stood up furious. I told him I hadn’t given him any reason to get that familiar, that he’d better never refer to my body again, that I was leaving. And when I tried to go, he wrapped one enormous arm around my waist, slowly, with a calm that was more intimidating than any sudden gesture.

—Don’t go like that —he said—. I promise I’ll apologize.

He was a considerable physical presence. I felt small against him, and that only infuriated me more, because it also produced something I preferred not to name: a wet tug between my legs, the very clear sensation that if he’d slipped his hand under my skirt at that moment he would have found my panties soaked through. I pulled away gently. Took my bag. Went up to the room.

***

I took off my makeup. Long shower. Pajamas. I wanted to sleep.

Then I started hearing voices through the wall.

At first there were only two tones, Carmen’s and Álvaro’s, indistinguishable. Then laughter. Then something that wasn’t laughter. His voice grew deeper and hers more broken, with that kind of sound one recognizes even without wanting to.

I stayed still. One hand resting on my stomach.

I heard, very clearly, the slap of a body falling onto the bed, and then Álvaro’s voice, hoarse, telling her to get on her knees. Carmen must have obeyed without arguing, because what came next through the wall was the unmistakable sound of a mouth sucking a cock: that wet, rhythmic smacking, broken by breaths and by the occasional muffled moan from her when he pushed her head down to the base. Álvaro muttered to her between his teeth, things I didn’t fully make out but whose tone left no room for doubt. He was making her take him all the way. Carmen coughed once. Then the rhythm started again.

My nipples were so hard they rubbed against the pajama top. I pinched them through the fabric with the pads of my fingers and felt a sigh slip out of me that I hadn’t meant to let go.

On the other side, Álvaro must have laid her down because the mattress creaked, and then there was a sharp, flat slap against what could only have been an ass. Then another. And then Carmen’s voice letting out a long obscenity when he must have finally slid into her. The thrusts started right away: rhythmic, faster and faster, the headboard banging against the wall we shared. Carmen was moaning with an urgency that left no room for doubt, and each thrust tore a cut-off “yes” from her that grew louder and louder.

I didn’t think about what I was doing. I simply did it: fingers under the elastic of my pajama bottoms, palm opening my cunt lips, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the wall. I was so wet my fingers slipped in with no resistance at all. I rubbed my clit in tight circles while sliding two fingers of my other hand into my cunt, imitating the rhythm of the blows on the other side of the partition. I wasn’t thinking about Andrés. I wasn’t thinking about Álvaro. I was thinking about huge hands, a rough voice, a slap I hadn’t yet received. When Carmen finally screamed, with that sharp, broken note of someone coming and unable to hold back, I came with her, clenching my thighs around my own hand and biting the pillow to keep quiet. The spasms lasted longer than usual. I stayed with my fingers inside for a long time, feeling my cunt contract in smaller and smaller waves until it settled.

When I finished, I sat on the bed. I looked at the blouse and skirt I’d worn to dinner, folded over the chair. I remembered Rodrigo’s words: that I’d look much better without underwear. And before reasoning it through too much, I got up and put them on. No bra. No panties.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Cheeks flushed. Eyes too bright. Nipples outlined clearly beneath the silk blouse. The skirt brushed directly against my still-wet cunt every time I moved.

Don’t do it.

I opened the door.

***

The hallway was empty. The elevator took forever. Inside, the ceiling mirror gave me back an image I preferred not to analyze.

Rodrigo was still at the bar. Exactly where I’d left him, with the same half-finished drink in front of him.

I sat beside him without saying a word. I called the waiter.

—A vodka cocktail.

Rodrigo didn’t look at me.

—You’re not wearing underwear.

It wasn’t a question.

—No —I replied, almost in a whisper.

—Why did you come back?

—I don’t know.

—I’m not going to sleep with you —he said.

—I didn’t ask you to.

—Then what did you come down for? So I could slip my hand under your skirt on a barstool and check how soaked you are? Because you are. I can smell it from here.

I didn’t answer. I felt my cheeks burn and, in fact, the dampness sliding down my thigh. He turned the glass once between his fingers. Then he spoke.

—Tomorrow, on the return flight, I want you not to wear anything under your uniform either. Nothing. I want your cunt rubbing against your stockings for four hours. Your boyfriend will thank me when you get home and he fucks you against the door before you even have time to put the suitcase down.

He stood up. Left a bill on the bar.

—Come on. It’s late.

***

We went up together in the elevator. Rodrigo pressed three. I stared at the closed doors, not knowing where to put my hands.

He stood behind me.

—That skirt looks much better like this —he said, and I noticed he was watching my reflection in the elevator mirror—. It shows everything. You can see the crack of your ass when you walk.

He was very close. I felt the heat of his body, and also, pressed against the lower part of my back through his trousers, the hard bulge of his cock. It wasn’t small. Without thinking, I pushed my hips back slightly and rubbed against him for a fraction of a second, just enough to feel the full shape.

He moved away.

And then, dry and without warning, he landed a slap on my right ass cheek that rang inside the elevator. It sounded like a gunshot. The skirt absorbed part of the blow but not all of it, and I felt the flesh trembling under the fabric and, absurdly, a hot pulse run through my cunt from top to bottom. A gasp escaped me that I didn’t manage to hold in.

The doors opened.

—Good night, Valeria —he said, already in the hallway—. Don’t forget what I asked you. And don’t touch yourself. Tonight you’re going to hold out.

I went into my room shaking. I sat on the bed. I undressed in front of the mirror. I spent a long time looking at the imprint of his hand on my ass, red and precise, the fingers perfectly outlined. My cunt was so swollen my lips stuck out, shining, and a thread of moisture hung between my thighs.

I didn’t touch myself. Not because I didn’t want to —I was dying to slip my hand down and make myself come while looking at the mark in the mirror— but because he’d asked me not to. And that, which was the most absurd thing about the whole night, was the only thing I wanted to obey.

It took me more than two hours to fall asleep, clenching my thighs every time the throbbing between my legs became unbearable.

***

The next morning, over breakfast with Carmen, I saw her with dark circles under her eyes and a taut smile that belonged to someone who hadn’t slept well and didn’t want to talk about it.

—How was your night? —she asked me.

—Quiet. I went to bed early.

Before leaving, I checked the company intranet email. The following week I had the same route assigned. Barcelona-Amsterdam, same crew.

When I passed Rodrigo on the way to the bus, he lifted his eyes from his coffee. He looked at me for a moment. Just a moment.

Then he smiled, very slowly, and looked away.

He’d seen the email too.