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Finger: part three
Finger: part two
Finger: part one
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Thursday, September 22, 2005

Premium Economy 

“You’re my favourite lady” she breathed, as she leant in towards me.

“Really?” I said, catching a whiff of her delicate perfume and getting another glimpse of her ample cleavage plunging through her tight white shirt.

“Yes, you’re the nicest one here – so polite. I’ve been calling you ‘Nice Lady’ to the others”

I smiled shyly, and tried not to stare at her large, perfectly round bosoms, being thrust in my face.

“Well, um, thanks. You’ve really been so helpful”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure”, she said, as she handed me my drink, “it’s always lovely to have someone like you on board”

Her finger lingered on mine for a second as I took the small plastic cup from her. It was a tiny gesture - and very ambiguous - but outside of this environment it would have been far clearer in its meaning.

“Is that ok?” she asked, gesturing toward my drink, “I opened a new bottle for you, but I wasn’t sure how much soda to add”

She waited for me to sip it. I suddenly felt very self-conscious. There were two hundred other people on board and she was waiting on me – as if it were just her and I. My hand shook a little and I wondered whether there was turbulence. There was certainly fluttering going on between my legs.

“I can get you another one if you don’t like it” she said, still waiting for my response.

I quickly sipped the drink. It was perfect – the best ratio of scotch to soda water that the best bartender could have mixed – but that wasn’t the point: she needed my appreciation.

“My god, that is delicious” I remarked, as I took another gulp, “fantastic. Thank you so much, it’s lovely. I really appreciate your doing this for me”

She breathed a sigh of relief, and I tried not to look at her heaving bosom stretching the thin material of her shirt. I also tried not to look at her erect nipples poking through.

“I’m glad you like it. If you want another one – or anything else – you just call for me; my name is Katrina”. She grinned at me.

“Thank you, I will” I responded, and noticed how pretty her green eyes were and how soft and kissable her mouth looked. “You’ve been very kind”.

“And you’re very nice” she replied, “just call if you need me”. She smiled again and wandered off to the galley.

I sat there, drink in hand and watched her curvaceous figure walk away from me, her fine arse beautifully sculpted in her tight skirt. I tried to collect my thoughts. Was she flirting with me? Did her gestures mean anything? How long would I be able to wait before popping to the loo, to do something about the throbbing between my legs?

It couldn’t wait. A few minutes later I got up from my seat and made my way to the toilet. Damn, a queue. I waited in line, and noticing my own erect nipples through my top, willed them into submission. (It didn’t work).

“It’s my nice lady again”

I turned to find her behind me grinning. I smiled back, and she squeezed past me, to make her way further down the aisle.

Though the aisle was narrow, there was space for two people to pass, so I was slightly surprised – but not at all disappointed – when she pushed right up against me as she moved past.

Smelling her sweet perfume, and feeling her soft breasts squeezed against mine, was almost too much for me: I wanted to grab her arse then and there, pull her close, kiss her deeply and run my fingers across her ample bosom.

But the moment was all too brief: she moved down the aisle and I was left with a dripping wet pussy and a need to do something about it – quick.

And as soon as the toilet was free, I rushed in to sort myself out; an image of her in my mind, sitting on my lap, with her skirt hitched to her waist and her breasts in my mouth.

Moments later I was climaxing: it was fast, furious, and lots of fun – much like my trip to New York - minus the breast to mouth action.

Unless you count my own breasts in my mouth, which although enjoyable, isn’t quite the same thing.

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