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I know how excited you were on the day you were flying home. On the day that you fell into my hands. On the day that everything changed.

You love to fly. You love the whole ritual of it. The preparation, the anticipation. The things that other people complain about, the documents, the schedules, the folding of your world into two little cases, is for you a magical process, a distillation of yourself. You roam around your house with such excitement, picking and choosing. You lay down your underwear into the suitcase thinking: “on that day I shall be this but on that day I shall be that whole other girl”; and you smile to yourself and breathe, covering the silk and lace with stockings and scarves in concealment of the joy and promise of it.

One time, as you were moving airside, you were picked out of the line moving into the departure lounge and made to bring your case to the small room which the customs officers use to make their searches. There had been nothing random about it. You had known you would be called there. You had felt his eyes lock onto you in the line and when he had told you to follow him you had felt a bead of heat form in your cunt and your eyes were down as you obeyed him. In the room when he had asked you if he could open your case, you had not met his eyes but nodded and bit your lip and he would have thought you were nervous and never could have guessed how excited you were. Not about him, he was nothing, but his hands moving through your secret self, lifting the sheer and the silk and the satin made your mind dark and clouded and you imagined his hands on you in your dark cloudy mind lifting you and tearing you and filling you. You would have let him. You could tell that he felt it too, and he could not meet your eyes when he pointed to the door through which you should go to re-join the other outbound passengers. As you walked away from him, you knew that he would have taken a moment after you had left the room to slump and taste your absence and revise all the other doors he had not opened in his life. But you were gone again and free.

You always dress in the same way for the aeroplane. It is part of the ritual. You wear a grey, cowl-necked, woollen dress that is almost long enough to hide the tops of your stockings but not quite. When you sit in the bar waiting for your flight to be called you let the hem slip up and count the eyes that follow it. You part your legs on the stool and know that they are watching and wanting to put you down on the floor there amongst the bags and luggage trolleys to destroy your quiet elegance, to savage you, tearing down the top of your dress to pull your nipples into their wet mouths while those others *** your legs apart to bite your thighs and put their tongues in you. You imagine them standing over you, the ones waiting to pierce you or taste you, circling you with their cocks hard and ready to spill their hot cum into you, or onto your skin, on your neck, in your hair.

In the taxi, on the way to the airport, you chatted happily with the driver about this and that. You are good at it, especially when you feel confident and happy and you can tell that he likes you and is flattered with the attention and the interest you are showing in him. He is older than the usual drivers and he carries an air of resignation about him. The music he is playing is lush and romantic. You ask about his family and his work, you show interest in his future plans and you see his eyes in the mirror looking at you more and more frequently. You can tell that he is looking at your mouth. You can tell that he is imagining it on him. All the while you have been sitting there behind him your dress has been drawn up so that you can part your panties with your hand and trace the wet lips of your cunt with your fingers. As he looks at your mouth your fingers are inside you. You can feel the shaft turning the wheels under you and you see the city pass you blurred and extraordinary as you reach into yourself. You struggle not to give yourself away, not to come for his sad eyes. You want to move across the seat and stretch your thighs and say: “Look. Look what I am, how deep and wet and limitless.” You are not unattainable in that moment, but the car draws to a halt outside the terminal and you get out and when you hand the *** to him your fingers are wet and he notices and you know he understands. As he drives away he will lick his fingers and taste your cunt on them and wonder what he had. But he will drive away, and you will turn on your heels and strike them on the marble as you move across the concourse towards me.

I knew who you were the moment I saw you. I knew the girl you were and are, so full of hope and excitement and impatience to wring every significant moment from the day. I knew how cheated you felt by what you found in the world but that you would not be defeated: you would not succumb. You could not. I knew what you were and are. I knew how you had consented to be stripped and pawed and prodded but never seen, never known, as they struggled with their small needs thinking they had something while you were far, far away in a place of which they could not dream, to which they could not follow. I saw that in your eyes the moment I sat down next to you, amidst the bustle of the settling cabin. There was no hunt, it was as if we had centuries of time behind us and centuries before and that we had invented each other. All around us people jostled and apologised and slowly settled down as if they were under dark glass. The cabin cleared and I saw you smile and push back against the kick of the engines as they rushed us upward. The aeroplane soared and tilted and settled and flew steady across the sea.

The cabin was silent now and the stewards brought blankets and fussed kindly as we covered ourselves. The lights of the cabin dimmed. In the silence I turned and placed my hand around your throat and pulled you close and said:

“I know who you are and how brave you are and how patient. Everything you dreamed of is yours and everything you longed for is real. You were never wrong even when it all seemed impossible. Feel that now that you are home.”

As you listened you reached your arms down under the blanket and grasped the hem of your dress to roll it upwards, in a revelation upwards over your thighs rolling up rolling like a stocking over your hips until it was a tight band around your waist and you shifted so your face was against the closed hatch of the window and I movedfollowed you around with my hips grasping the band of your dress to pull you near me and ripping and parting so there was wet for me to glide hard up into you there pinned against me and rolling back and knowing who it was inside you.

After a while, before you came, you lifted the hatch on the window and looked out onto the stars and the clouds and the sea and your mouth was open and wet on the cold surface as you travelled home.
  • 2 weeks later...
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