What I Did on That Flight While He Slept

Marina and Adrián had been together for a little over a year, a relationship born between final exams and dead afternoons in a provincial city. They were both around twenty-two, and that trip to Cartagena de Indias was the first real madness they had allowed themselves: a transoceanic flight, a hotel facing the sea, and two weeks with no one asking them for explanations. They’d paid for it half and half, with waiters’ tips and a silent loan that her parents pretended not to remember.

In the boarding line, Marina couldn’t stop moving. She was wearing a white strappy top that hinted at the lace of her bra, a short denim skirt, and flat sandals, and she walked with that mix of haste and vertigo of someone who still can’t quite believe what she’s about to do. Adrián looked at her as if she were a miracle.

—I still can’t believe it —she said, hanging on his arm—. Fourteen days just for us.

—Fourteen days and not a single alarm clock —he replied, and kissed her temple.

They had three seats between the two of them: Adrián in the aisle, Marina in the middle, and the window seat free. A small luxury won by getting up early to check in. They settled in with laughter, her resting her head on his shoulder as the plane taxied toward the runway. This is only the beginning, Marina thought, and believed it completely.

Then, with the doors almost closed, the last passenger arrived. A man in his forties, tall, with a jaw shadowed by three days of stubble and a blue shirt clinging to broad shoulders. He made his way down the aisle unhurriedly, checking the numbers, and stopped right at their row.

—Excuse me, I think the window seat is mine —he said, in a deep voice that seemed to come from somewhere very low down.

Adrián stood up to let him in. The man slipped between the seats with feline ease, and when he sat down his thigh brushed Marina’s for just a second too long.

—Sorry about the touch —he murmured, looking her straight in the eyes—. I’m Damián.

—Marina —she replied, and felt heat rise to her face for no reason.

***

The takeoff was smooth. The plane rose above the blanket of clouds and, with the constant hum of the engines turned into a lullaby, Adrián was out like a light almost immediately. He hadn’t slept the night before, too nervous, and ten minutes later his head was already resting on Marina’s shoulder, his breathing slow and deep. She stroked his hair tenderly and stayed very still so as not to wake him.

Still meant, too, exposed to the man by the window.

Damián had taken out a book, a paperback novel with a cover that left no doubt about the genre. He held it in such a way that Marina, despite herself, could make out a line or two: something about an open mouth and a cock sinking to the back of the throat. She looked away, but it was too late: curiosity had already bitten her, and with it a wet tug between her thighs that made her cross her legs.

—Your boyfriend sleeps like there’s no tomorrow —he commented softly, not lifting his eyes from the page.

—He was exhausted —Marina whispered—. We’ve been planning this for weeks.

—You can tell he loves you. —Damián closed the book and turned a little toward her—. What I don’t know is whether he knows what he has. Whether he knows how to fuck you so that look of yours as a good girl just falls right off.

Marina should have answered sharply, should have turned her head toward the window and pretended to sleep. Instead she stayed silent, her pulse pounding both in her neck and in her cunt, while the flight attendant passed with the cart. Damián ordered a whisky; she, a juice.

—Try it —he said, offering her the glass—. For the nerves of your first long flight.

Marina took a sip from where his lips had been. The alcohol went down her throat like a live coal and spread through her belly in a wave of heat that had nothing to do with altitude. She handed the glass back without looking at him.

—Better? —he asked.

—I don’t know what you’re trying to do —she replied, though she knew exactly.

—Nothing you don’t want —Damián said, his voice a whisper of black silk—. There’s something about airplanes, don’t you feel it? The confinement, the constant vibration in the seats running through your body, getting between your legs… it makes a person think things they’d never dare to think standing up. Like spreading your legs beside your sleeping boyfriend. Like sucking a stranger’s cock under a blanket.

Marina clenched her thighs tightly. Her lace panties were already soaked and she knew it, and suspected he did too.

***

The cabin had sunk into dimness. Most of the passengers were dozing or lost in their screens, and only the blue lights along the floor broke the dark. Adrián was still asleep against her shoulder, oblivious to everything, his hand lax on the aisle armrest.

Damián pulled the blanket from the seat pocket and spread it over both their laps, as if seeking warmth. Beneath that improvised tent, his hand settled on Marina’s knee. The heat of his palm seeped through her skin.

—Damián, no —she murmured—. He’s right here.

—Exactly —he answered—. Tell me to stop and I’ll stop immediately. But you’re not going to say that, are you? Part of you’s been wondering for a while what it would feel like to have a stranger put his fingers in your cunt with your boyfriend snoring beside you.

Marina said nothing. And saying nothing, she knew the second she parted her knees a millimeter under the blanket, was an answer. His hand climbed slowly along the inside of her thigh, tracing a torturous line, until it reached the hem of her skirt. Each centimeter was a small capitulation. She closed her eyes and bit her lip.

Damián’s fingers found the lace of her panties, already soaked, and pressed through the fabric. The pad of his index finger ran along the slit from top to bottom, stopping over the swollen clit, and Marina stifled a gasp, covering her mouth with her free hand.

—Look at how wet you are —he whispered against her ear, his breath warm—. Your cunt’s dripping, you’ve soaked the lace through. Your body doesn’t know how to lie, even if your mouth tries.

The words heated her just as much as his fingers. Damián shoved the lace aside and stroked her directly, no fabric between them, drawing slow circles over the slick clit, so slowly that a tiny moan slipped out of Marina and she had to swallow it, biting down on her knuckle. His fingers dipped lower, smeared with her slick, came back up. She arched against the seatback before she could stop herself.

—You’re open like a ripe fruit —Damián murmured—. I’m going to put a finger in you, and you’re not going to make a sound. Understood?

Marina nodded, her head buried in Adrián’s shoulder. Damián’s index finger slid into her with obscene ease, all the way to the knuckle, and curved to find that spongy spot that made her delirious. When the plane hit a patch of turbulence, she used the rocking to move her hips, seeking more pressure, impaling herself a little farther on the stranger’s finger, hating and loving in equal measure how easy it was for her to give in.

—Imagine what I’d do to you with time and a bed —he murmured, sinking a second finger into her—. I’d spread your legs and lick your cunt until you were begging me to stop. Then I’d fuck you face down, holding your hair, until your ass was red from my balls. Here I can only give you a preview.

The two fingers went in and out with a wet, slow rhythm, producing a muffled sloshing sound only she could hear beneath the blanket. Damián’s thumb settled on her clit and traced precise circles, knowing exactly how much pressure to use. Marina felt the orgasm rising from deep in her belly, unstoppable, like a tide with no levees left.

Marina turned her head toward Adrián. He was sleeping with his mouth slightly open, serene, dreaming of beaches she was already betraying. Guilt pierced her chest like a needle, but the pleasure growing in her belly was stronger, older, more honest. Damián set a deeper rhythm, curling his fingers inside her, his thumb pressing the exact spot that made her tremble.

—I’m going to… —she began, and couldn’t finish.

—Do it quietly —he ordered—. Make sure nobody finds out you’re coming on the fingers of a stranger at ten thousand feet. Make sure your boyfriend doesn’t find out the little saint he’s taking to Cartagena just came in the seat next to his.

The orgasm hit her like a wave that gives no warning. Marina buried her face in her own shoulder to smother the moan, her legs trembling beneath the blanket, the walls of her cunt clenching in spasms around Damián’s fingers, squeezing them, milking them. A hot spurt wet her thighs and the edge of the seat. He didn’t stop until the last aftershock faded, and only then did he withdraw his hand, shiny up to the wrist, and put his fingers in his mouth with insulting calm. He sucked them one by one, watching her.

—Sweet —he said—. So sweet and forbidden. And it tastes like the cunt of a woman who’s been fucked properly from the inside. Even if it hasn’t happened yet.

***

Marina should have felt ashamed. She did, yes, but beneath it burned something else, a dark kink that pushed her forward instead of holding her back. She adjusted her soaked panties with trembling hands and looked at Adrián: he was still asleep, now with one arm crossed over his chest. The clock on the screen showed barely two hours had passed. There were many more to go.

Damián shifted in his seat. Beneath the blanket, Marina heard him unfasten his belt with a click muffled by the engine noise, followed by the low zip of a fly. When she glanced sideways, she saw he had pulled his trousers down to mid-thigh and that his cock was out, huge and veined, resting on his belly. Her mouth watered uninvited.

—Now it’s my turn —he murmured—. And I want you to suck me properly. All the way down. No teeth, all tongue, like it’s the only thing you’ve ever done in your life.

Panic and desire knotted in her throat. The space was tiny, Adrián was sleeping a handspan away, any sudden movement could expose her. And yet, with her heart battering her ribs, Marina slipped out of her seat and crouched under the blanket spread over his legs, curled into the hollow between the rows. The carpeted floor scraped her knees. The darkness smelled like him: clean skin, an expensive cologne underneath, something deeply masculine, that specific scent of a grown man’s hard cock that made her mouth water before she even touched it.

She took it in her hand. It was hot and already hard, thicker than she’d expected, a vein throbbing along the top and the red, shiny glans peeking between her fingers. The weight made her salivate despite herself. She gripped the base with her fist, slid her hand once up and down, and watched a drop of clear fluid form at the tip. She licked it, curious, and the salty taste sent a tiny shiver through her. Above, Damián tangled his fingers in her hair, not pulling, just guiding.

—Slowly —he whispered from above—. Take it all the way in. And not a single sound.

Marina closed her lips around the glans and lowered her head centimeter by centimeter. The cock filled her mouth until it brushed her palate, and then went farther, all the way to the back of her throat, forcing her jaw open as wide as it would go. She held back a gag, breathed through her nose, and kept going until her nose touched the skin of his belly. Damián let out a rough gasp above the blanket, and his hand in her hair tightened a little.

—Fuck —he whispered—. Good girl.

The plane’s rocking swayed her back and forth, setting a rhythm that wasn’t hers, and that made it both more humiliating and more arousing. She worked with her tongue, enveloping his whole cock, sliding back up with tight lips until she reached the crown and then letting herself fall again to the base, swallowing when the tip touched her throat. With her free hand she cupped his balls, stroked them, squeezed them just a little, and felt them tense against her palm.

Every few seconds she would go still with his cock buried in her mouth, holding her breath, certain Adrián would wake up; each time, her boyfriend’s steady breathing reassured her that the secret was still safe. A thread of saliva hung from her chin. She felt like the dirtiest woman in the world, and she loved it.

—Good girl —Damián murmured, and the words ran all through her—. Look at how you open for it. Look at how you take it in yourself. Keep going.

Beneath the blanket, in that suffocating darkness, Marina found herself slipping her free hand under her own skirt, two fingers entering her slick cunt, turned on more by her own submission than by anything else. She was fucking herself to the same rhythm she used to suck, and each shove of Damián’s hips above made her release a muffled moan that stayed trapped in the back of her occupied mouth.

The plane lurched again and pushed her forward; the cock brushed her uvula and she let out a silent gag. Damián cursed under his breath and tightened his grip on her hair until it hurt. She felt him tense, felt his balls tighten in her palm, felt his whole body prepare itself.

—Now —he gasped—. Don’t let go. Swallow it all, every last drop.

Damián’s climax was a grunt muffled in his throat, his hips thrusting in short, deep spasms. The first jet hit the back of her mouth, thick and hot, followed by another, and another. Marina took it and swallowed, instinctively, feeling the semen go down her throat in gulps while her eyes watered. A fourth spurt filled her cheeks and a thread escaped from the corner of her mouth to her chin. While she swallowed the last of it, a second small, silent orgasm shook her alone, her own fingers still inside her cunt, clenching around them in wet spasms from the sheer filth of the act.

She licked him clean, gathered the last drop on the tip with her tongue, ran her thumb over her chin, and sucked up what had escaped her. She returned to her seat on weak knees, the taste of semen soaking every corner of her mouth and her face burning, as if she had just run a marathon in the middle of an ocean of sleeping strangers.

***

Damián covered her mouth for a moment with the blanket while she caught her breath, then leaned in to leave her a fleeting kiss on the temple. His beard scratched her skin.

—You were perfect —he murmured—. You suck like a goddess. I’m going to think about this mouth until landing.

Marina curled up in her seat, exhausted and electric at the same time, with the semen still slowly sliding down her throat and her soaked panties stuck to her swollen cunt. Adrián chose that moment to stir in his sleep, and his hand reached for hers in an innocent, tender gesture that split her chest in two. Clean love on one side; dirty desire on the other. She stayed very still, her boyfriend’s fingers interlaced with hers and the taste of the other man still thick in her mouth.

—What time is it, love? —murmured Adrián, barely opening his eyes.

—Still a long way to go —she answered, her voice hoarse from all the swallowing—. Go back to sleep.

He smiled, squeezed her hand, and closed his eyes again. By the window, Damián pretended to read his book. Without looking at her, beneath the blanket, his finger brushed the back of her hand one last time, and then moved down to squeeze her bare thigh just above the knee, marking her.

—This isn’t over yet —he whispered—. We’ve still got hours. Before landing I’m going to make you come at least two more times, and next time I want to feel you trembling while your boyfriend looks you in the face and still has no idea. I’m a patient man.

Marina closed her eyes. She didn’t answer, but her body, that incorrigible traitor, was already beating for what was left —her cunt throbbing, her nipples hard beneath the top, her mouth still full of a stranger’s semen— while the plane kept cutting through the night like a silent accomplice.