Blog entry: 6.32 p.m.
So here I stand on the edge of a great new adventure, dear reader. We’ve all dreamed about it, haven’t we? The thought of joining the Mile High Club, though probably not so much when you’re stuck back in cattle class with the person in front’s seat two inches from your nose, but this is it. I stand before you like the gladiators standing before Caesar about to perform the salute and I salute you, dear friends. I, who represent the curious and the interested, am about to begin my brave new adventure, and with any luck I’ll be reporting back in just a few short hours with a wicked story to tell, so wish me luck and good hunting. Until we meet again, this is Missy Misdemeanour signing off!
Watching the little icon inform me that my latest blog has updated it hits me. Now I have to put my money where my mouth is. You can only fake it for so long. Sooner or later you have to step up, so the real question is am I ready to step up?
The face in the mirror wrinkles her nose, cute as it is, and observes me through oceanic blue eyes. I can’t deny that I have been blessed with kind skin and good bone structure and the hair helps. I know the debate rages on in the media over who has more fun, blondes or brunettes – well, I’ve had my fun and I can’t complain. Actually, I can and I will. These looks have been a blessing and a curse. Too many jerks think they can push their luck and dazzle with their loathsome lines, but at least they are obvious and easy to detach. Far harder are the earnest ones who get under your skin and then detonate their lies at close quarters, leaving you to suffer the fall-out. It’s really not pleasant.
I finish pinning my hair in place and add a touch of lipstick; cherry red just to get the boys going. Checking my appearance, the girls are looking perky and should arouse the relevant interest levels – but who am I really kidding? I bluff and flatter to deceive but, deep down, I have always been a good girl at heart. I may have the looks but I just don’t have the killer instinct. This is an assignment too far. This may very well be the end of Missy Misdemeanour, my slutty alter ego and the source of income these last four years. What started out as a brilliant marketing ploy to chase after the stories that no one else could now feels like a noose around my neck and little by little the lies pull it tighter. One day there will be nothing left. These lies will have choked the very life out of me.
Get a grip, girlie! You still have it, so be strong and be happy and, most of all, get the job done! Picking up the sky blue hat, I reach for the little case, take one last look at my alter ego who, I note, is smiling back at me, and depart the private bathroom of the business lounge.
His tongue burns my skin. I feel it melt and sizzle as he brands me with the roughness of his kiss and the fires are lit deep inside me. This is what I have been yearning for all this time. My body is screaming out to him as the space between us disintegrates. His body is hard like granite, reassuring as he presses me up against the cubicle wall, his lips imprinting their scent down my neck, reaching my ear, and I gasp as my sex begins to ache for his touch. My brain is sparking and, like a fish starved of oxygen, I clamp myself to him, my lips seeking out his, desperate to feel them hot and hard against mine. My cool, calm exterior has been washed away and now I am his, a love-starved sex junkie, and he is my drug. It has only been seven hours. It is not supposed to happen like this. I need to take control, but …
The stewardess’s skirt offers futile resistance to his determined fingers. His kisses are an addiction now, long and lingering, short and intense. I just can’t get enough of them, but still this is spiralling dangerously out of control and then the thought hits me straight between the eyes like a clanging bell. Your readers expect! Do not disappoint! If this is to be your last assignment then go out with all guns blazing.
‘Fuck it!’
‘Sorry?’ He breaks off from his latest cross-border attack to look me straight in the eye, and what beautiful eyes he has. Big and brown, they remind me of looking into pools of chocolate, so warm and inviting, and I’m drifting away all over again. Who is this boy and where has he been hiding all my life? The black tee clings pleasingly to his torso and clearly here is a man who takes care of himself.
‘Not you,’ I reply, holding his gaze.
He smiles, his cheekbones chiselled by the gods themselves high up on Mount Olympus, his brown crew cut spiky and inviting, and then a thought drifts through my psyche and I blush. Who is this filthy wench invading my thoughts?
‘You know talking to yourself is often considered the first sign of madness,’ he whispers.
‘I know,’ I agree, his low voice like melting honey. ‘But at least it means I’m never alone.’
‘That’s another way of looking at it,’ he agrees with a smile and there is a definite glint of mischief right there in those beautiful brown eyes. This is dangerous. I’m losing it. My defences have been breached. I’m lying out there for the taking and I don’t have the will to defend these barricades any longer. I close my eyes and accept his willing lips, hungry for more.
As his tongue teases and torments I feel his palm sliding up beneath my skirt, edging higher still, brushing my skin, hot to the touch, and my crotch is crying out for his touch now. Thank God for Victoria’s Secret as he reaches my tiny little triangle of pubic hair. The shivers are like a tsunami rushing through me. It has been such a long time since any man touched me down there.
His finger slips between the folds of my sex. Glorious, sensational feelings shoot through me. How could I have forgotten just how amazing this can be? It is criminal how much I want this. Nothing else matters. The world can end. The universe can implode. I just don’t care. All I can feel is right here and right now and it’s just so fucking awesome. This is Ground Control to Major Tom. We have serious fucking lift off! There is no way I can ever let him go now. But then it occurs to me that I don’t want this, not here in this tiny cubicle a mile up in the sky. I want roses and candles; I want linen sheets and the sound of the ocean outside of my window; I want the fairy tale and a king-sized bed on which to be thoroughly ravished by my new Prince Charming. This is what I want. This is what I need.
Oh Jesus! I don’t think I can hold out any longer. This boy is truly a magician. Harry Potter has nothing on him. I close my eyes and sigh and wonder if the whole of the airline has got the message yet?
Another finger slips into my silky folds and the boy starts to find his rhythm. He is about to strike gold and it is mind-blowing. I fight the urge to scream out. Why shouldn’t the whole world know about it? This is the most newsworthy story of the decade. I am about to get me some! His tongue seeks mine out, his kisses harder and deeper, the urgency of passion building with each delicious touch. A long, lingering, sumptuous kiss; a kiss to lock away in the deepest recesses of my mind to savour on a rainy day, before his fingers are on the move again, reaching around, locating the zip on the back of my skirt.
For a moment he is distracted as his fingers try to work the zip and I could take charge. I could stop him and regain some control. I could sit tight and thwart his ambition, but where would be the fun in that? This is no time for morals. I’m hot and I’m wet and I’m seriously turned on and nothing is going to get in my way of scratching this burning itch that’s threatening to reduce me to a quivering wreck. I need this. Boy, do I really need this. But then again, he’s still wearing his Levis.
‘I think it’s my turn,’ I whisper, passion and desire drawing me ever closer to the abyss.
‘You’ll get no argument from me,’ he replies, stealing another kiss as my fingers start to work his belt loose before turning my attention to the buttons. Hermione Granger would be suitably impressed. The briefest of looks and they pop themselves open one by one. The denim is reassuringly rough, firm to the touch, and as I drag it away my eyes light upon a pair of figure-hugging, white Calvin Klein shorts concealing a bulge of majestic proportions. Jackpot!
The burning of my loins is almost too great to bear. Images flash into my head, each one more pornographic than the last, involving Mr Remarkable and an airline cubicle toilet. I delve into his shorts, keen to play with the beast, but Mr Remarkable has other plans for me. The zip gives. He shrugs my skirt down my thighs as if it wasn’t there before lifting me gamely onto the sink, spreading my thighs wide. My tiny little thong doesn’t stand a chance against such masterful aggression. He peels it away as he bends towards me. I shiver at the glorious anticipation of what he is about to do and suck my breath in hard as his errant tongue glides against my glistening pussy, hot and rough and blissful to the touch. He invades without mercy, licking hungrily at my sex, and with every wicked flick my nipples grow harder and harder, my whole body now aching for release. This is pure pleasure, this is better than any drug. This is what I have been searching for my whole life. Suddenly I am alive again!
I shake and shiver. I bite my fist as a freight train of pleasure steamrollers through me. Finally I breathe as I begin to float back down from the stratosphere, blowing a stray strand of blonde hair out of my face as I look at him smiling back at me.
‘Wow!’ I mutter.
‘Wow,’ he echoes, looking pleased with himself.
‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’
‘Once or twice,’ he admits.
‘OK,’ I whisper, nodding. What else is there to say?
So much for formalities; I am reduced to his panting plaything. But we need to go back to the beginning. Yes, I remember now, every story needs a beginning.
It starts as a joke, a wild suggestion bouncing ideas off each other around the office, but the joke holds. It sticks, it gains wings, and then it takes flight. Why just be any other blogger since there are a million and one already out there, filling up the web with their daily thoughts and ramblings? I couldn’t be a call girl since that had already been done, but maybe there are other ways I can trade on my looks. Charlie the editor begins to set me challenges. Go write a blog about your experiences, he tells me, and sooner or later we inevitably end up at the Mile High Club. So I start hanging out on planes, lots of planes, but no joy and then the realisation dawns that it’s not the passengers getting up to mischief. No, sir, it’s the stewardesses. Everyone knows it’s the stewardesses who rule the skies so I sign up.
So now you know, so let’s get back to the beginning and the arrival of Mr Remarkable. Of course that’s not his name, but it feels kind of right. You’ll see.