As I sat next to her, I thought how she still looked smoking hot. The last time I saw her we were in college together, dated a few months. She was my experimental stage, I would later say. A fireball, with red hair to match. A quick temper, impulsive nature, tiger in bed, daring and adventurous. She made me feel alive when the pedantic drivel became too much.
“Veronica, how nice to see you,” I exclaimed. She put down her glass (champagne?) and her blue eyes turned to me. I always felt so plain next to her. Mousy, brown hair and eyes, far too short and thick. I always thought the boys flirted with me to get to her. She used to tell me how sexy I was, curvy; how my breasts drew her gaze and curved into a waist and back out to hips. She wanted to hold onto my hips and muffle her mouth against my intimate curls, lick and stroke with her tongue. All this went through her head before she looked up at my face, she used to say.
“Charlotte,” she greeted in remembrance. I was half afraid she wouldn’t remember me. She looked up as the last passenger boarded and a flight attendant shut the door. “Get my friend Charlotte some champagne, love. Thank you.” She flashed the woman a smile.
“A friend of yours?”
And with that opening we discussed our jobs, catching up from the crazy days of college. She ordered glass after glass and I supposed working for the airline got her certain perks; as for myself, I could only drink two before feeling a sense of motion sickness.
She ordered a blanket and tucked it over our laps. “Nice and cozy. Married?”
I wanted to deny, for some crazy reason, the relationship that I had formed and committed to. I wanted us both to be single and fly away to some distant, exotic land and feast on each other with the sweetest of fruits and wines. I stared at her lips, shook my head a little, and responded, “no, not yet. About to be. Flying to meet up with my friends for a bachelorette party.”
“Those are amazing,” she said, smiling. Her hand reached down between us and took my hand. I was afraid I would start sweating and she would be able to feel it soon. “Never want to marry, what a shitty ass, impractical concept of monogamy for life. But I sure do appreciate the parties.”
“So you’re not married,” we were looking into each other eyes, her perfumed breath smelled so damn good, I resisted the urge to kiss her, “in a relationship then? Several?”
She laughed, and her hand let go of mine. She leaned a little closer to me, nothing that didn’t appear as old friends chatting. I caught myself at the thought and cringed to think that I still cared how things looked. “Not a one, not right now. Or at least,” I felt her hand on my thigh beneath the blanket, but above my skirt, “none that are serious.”
I gulped. “Veron-”
She placed a delicate, long finger on my lips, her nails well manicured and matching her lipstick. “Shh, you’re going to let your over-thinking take over, instead of just,” her voice a whisper, hand under the blanket slid to the inside of my knee and slowly glided up, the skirt material offered no resistance. “relaxing and enjoying yourself. And you know you always enjoyed yourself.”
Oh did I ever! No man had ever made me orgasm as many times as this woman. The skill she possessed was awe-inspiring and slightly unnerving. “Oh,” I panted, as a finger curled and traced the outline of one my lips through my lace underwear. “O-okay,” I muttered. Yes, yes, yes, my mind cried. The finger continued to explore the outside of lace and pulled back. I leaned back a little, as much as the first class seat would allow-which was a fair amount more than I was used to at least. Her fingers pulled the lace to the side, a single finger followed up and down the plump lip, her gaze steady on my own. I looked away, around, to see if anyone was watching. The people across from us were asleep, the other people I could see had in headsets and were watching the movie. No one was paying us any attention. Her finger traced the crevice, gossamer of touches, such a tease. I arched my hips a little, to give her more access or to press more firmly against her finger, I wasn’t sure what.
She chuckled and I again found myself lost in her vibrant eyes. “You always were impatient,” she purred, and the finger continued to stroke up and down, not parting the lips, just the tip feeling the obvious moisture and spreading it up and down. “Ask me.”
“Please,” I whispered, my barely-there voice shaky, “please please me.”
Her finger dipped down into the moist center and withdrew, brushed up to my clit, circled lazily. I reminded myself to not arch up any further, I didn’t want anything being obvious. “I never could say no to you,” she said softly. Her finger moved back and dipped, up and looped, the circle becoming firmer and more focused on my hardened button. I caught my breath; I tried to not let any noise happen. A strand of curly red hair floated in front of her shoulder when she broke my gaze and looked towards my lap. “So wet,” her finger got more insistent, more rhythmical. She inserted two fingers and curled, the angle couldn’t have been easy for her, but she rubbed such a glorious place before transitioning back to my clit, strummed. I tried not to writhe; I tried to be silent; I shut my eyes and focused on her fingers playing me like an instrument, the chair so unforgiving in not allowing her full access, the blanket almost a barrier that kept her arm down, rather than the up that I wanted if she could plummet her fingers and bend and rock them in and out, hitting my clit all the while….
I came, a sharp intake of breath and a sigh.
Her fingers slowed dawdled, spread my damp stickiness on my lips and inner thighs before she moved away. I opened my eyes – and didn’t look at her at first, but glanced around. Her friend/coworker looked at me, stood in front by the cart, and smiled and winked. I felt myself blush.
“Oh Charlotte, some things just don’t change,” Veronica stated, sounded disappointed.
My face became more red than her hair.