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Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Fingered
With my fingers between my legs, I looked around me.
Everybody seemed to be asleep; it looked safe, so I raised my legs and covered myself more fully with the blanket.
Relaxing back, I concentrated on the throbbing sensation in my pussy. It had been hours since I last played and the travelling had both tired me out and left me feeling frustratedly horny. Being stuck in one place I find difficult at the best of times; to be on a plane for the better part of eight hours, was not helping matters.
I shifted my position slightly, trying to get a better angle by pushing back against the armrest on the row of seats I had carefully bagged upon takeoff.
It was no good. Every time I got near, something would distract me: a stewardess, someone coughing, the guy in the seat adjacent to me, reading his book. I had to do something - and fast.
Zipping my jeans back up, I made my way to the toilet. It was small, as they always are, and cramped. But it offered a seat, a wall to push against, and the privacy to grimace and groan and come hard.
And I did.
It was brief, but explosive and well worth the quick visit.
And made all the more pleasureable by the US Customs & Immigration officer demanding I place that very same index finger onto the digital scanner as I entered the country.
I'm sure my fingers still smelled of me as I got them scanned; my own personal version of giving the US a proper English two-fingered salute to their racist, discriminatory, anti-human-rights immigration policies.
Not that I'll be starting any trouble whilst I am in town.
At least, not that sort.
Everybody seemed to be asleep; it looked safe, so I raised my legs and covered myself more fully with the blanket.
Relaxing back, I concentrated on the throbbing sensation in my pussy. It had been hours since I last played and the travelling had both tired me out and left me feeling frustratedly horny. Being stuck in one place I find difficult at the best of times; to be on a plane for the better part of eight hours, was not helping matters.
I shifted my position slightly, trying to get a better angle by pushing back against the armrest on the row of seats I had carefully bagged upon takeoff.
It was no good. Every time I got near, something would distract me: a stewardess, someone coughing, the guy in the seat adjacent to me, reading his book. I had to do something - and fast.
Zipping my jeans back up, I made my way to the toilet. It was small, as they always are, and cramped. But it offered a seat, a wall to push against, and the privacy to grimace and groan and come hard.
And I did.
It was brief, but explosive and well worth the quick visit.
And made all the more pleasureable by the US Customs & Immigration officer demanding I place that very same index finger onto the digital scanner as I entered the country.
I'm sure my fingers still smelled of me as I got them scanned; my own personal version of giving the US a proper English two-fingered salute to their racist, discriminatory, anti-human-rights immigration policies.
Not that I'll be starting any trouble whilst I am in town.
At least, not that sort.
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