Tom Wilkins looked across the aisle to check his first impressions. She was as good looking from the side as she had been from behind. As they had queued for the security check he couldn't help but notice her in front of his sister and Andrea, she had a bottom you could bounce coins off, it was so tight and taut and rounded. Now he was sitting opposite her, luckily Mum and Dad were in the row in front and then Mary and Andrea were in front again. He was sitting beside some old git. But opposite! Opposite was the most beautiful woman, definitely a woman, not a girl, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, in reality, in mags, on tv or even in his dreams. If his boys mag (which he didn't get anymore) had a scale from 1 to 100 ("Our historical sexiest girls – does Madonna beat Marilyn?") then she was 120 at least. Had he been the analytical, thoughtful adult he would turn into, he would have tried to work out what it was, which parts of her made her so perfect; but he was a hormonal teenager, thinking with his eyes and his groin so that was out. In fact she was perfect because of the combination of traits that just worked, none of her features carried some magic that made them the ultimate in female perfection. Starting below the bottom, her legs were clearly delineated in her leggings, they weren't pencil sticks, they were thin but with flesh and shape and clear (but not overly sculpted) muscle.
As she walked, the leg muscles contracted and expanded slightly. The rippling effect would have drawn your eyes if those peachy rounded buttocks hadn't been rising and falling and swaying all at the same time and pulled your view up to themselves. She had none of the overly emphasised hip rotation or leg swinging that some girls put on to emulate models, her walk was unaffected, unintentionally sexy; which was what made it so sexy. Hips were obvious. His sister's hips (of course he'd noticed) were quite narrow, quite boyish. This woman's were wider, as if saying 'I am a healthy, fecund woman'; not quite what used to be called 'child-bearing hips' (which often meant fat), but heading healthily that way. The waist, where her short shirt pinched in above the leggings, was narrow and yet again not overly, waiflike, narrow. It went in a few inches, enough to emphasise the hips. She had, though he could not see from this viewpoint, a flat stomach, the result of exercise and reasonably good living. All things in moderation her father used to say, and that had rubbed off on her somehow. Her skin was clear from no bad food (well, not much), no drugs (none, ever) or cigarettes (anymore) and little alcohol. But we've avoided the most obvious point that his current view showed him. He could see the undercurve of her breasts, a gentle rounded rising curve which (he imagined) came to a point where her nipples resided and then sloped back to her body in a more direct diagonal. If her hips were not overly emphasised, her bust was definitely more attention grabbing. Not that they had been artificially augmented, they hadn't. They were all natural 39 inch D cups. Big but not big enough for backache. She knew they drew looks (admiring or jealous) and opted to make the most of what she thought of as her best assets (here she was wrong), so her bra lifted and supported them into a most impressive cleavage, which wasn't on view in this instance since she was wearing a tight rollneck jumper.
Her neck was not quite as long as to be called swanlike, just graceful and slightly longer than average. Then we get back to her face; her skin as has already been said, was smooth and clear. She actually wore little makeup (which might also have helped keep the skin in good condition), and her light complexion with a reddened high cheek was entirely natural, green eyes looked out from under long lashes; enabling her to flash looks that quelled many a drunken suitor or fluttered in need of help when she wanted something. A mouth that fell naturally into a near smile that left people unsure what she was thinking and that was how she liked it generally. Her nose was not obvious, it wasn't too big nor too small, it suited her face, with a slight concave to the bridge.
Her forehead was broader than many women, it seemed to indicate (rightly) that here was a woman with brains as well as beauty; and the whole was topped off with long, undyed, very light brown hair. It might have seemed that perfection would demand blonde or raven black or startling red, but no, this very light brown shade complemented her skin colour; both blonde or black would have contrived to make her skin seem too pale. As it was she had the look of the ideal English lady from a past era.
She was not the kind of woman Tom had jacked off too when he was fourteen, until that fateful day when his Mum had needed to use his computer whilst he was at school and had seen his browsing history. If she had screamed at him it would have been better than the look of sad disappointment on her face when he got home. He blamed himself for not clearing his history. He was embarrassed that his mother had seen his preferences (actually they weren't, 'Pink Slits' catered for many types of user, he'd been mildly disgusted by the images of blokes ejaculating over a girls face, and disbelieving when the girl made noises like this was the best thing that could happen to her), and relieved that she hadn't seen his brief exploration of anal – which culminated in the most horrendous website he'd ever seen of a man being fucked and shitting at the same time. It was so awful he hadn't even told his mates about it (and they had often shared the sites they'd found). His friend Jes was gay, but he couldn't imagine any normal person, gay or straight, would want that!
The next most embarrassing event occurred that evening when his Dad was sent to 'have a word with your son'. Embarrassing for him and his Dad. The fact that made it more embarrassing for Michael Thomas Wilkins, though he didn't let on, was that 'Pink Slits' was the website he regularly used. That 'chat' had been awful for both of them; very hard to discuss porn sites access without discussing porn; what was acceptable for a curious 14 year old, what was acceptable sexual behaviour? It had been excruciating for both of them.
Rev. Armitage Shanks had, surprisingly, been far more use. Fate sometimes gets its gears in action to ensure things happen in useful circumstantial order. So it was that a week later at the after-church youth group, Rev. Shanks had got the boys separate from the girls. The girls got to discuss what was acceptable, how far should they go, whilst the boys were given a talk and discussion on web porn. He talked unembarrassed and factually. He explained how what was seen was often not normal or expected behaviour between loving couples, and how expecting it from a girl could mess up relationships. He explained how peoples brains actually altered as they became addicted (and he stressed it was an addiction) to what they saw; and how that addiction – just like any other addiction – required stronger and stronger doses. He was willing to go into unexpectedly graphic discussions (some parents were a shocked when they heard, but then those same parents would have been shocked by what little Mike or Dave or John were actually viewing onscreen). Nothing was off the table. The result was that Tom opted not to view porn anymore, rather touchingly it had been the comment about 'how would feel if you discovered your sister on a website?' that finally convinced him, not the statistics on sex trafficking. He got to realising that these pretend schoolgirls or models or lesbians or whatever were peoples' sisters and daughters and really they were somehow worse than prostitutes (in his mind) because they were pedalling an idea which was totally unreal. At least a whore actually did let you fuck her, these internet stories were just stupid, badly acted and (he hoped, remembering the violent ones he'd viewed) unreal.
Since then he had grown into an attractive young man, or nearly a young man. At fifteen he could easily pass for several years older, his body had reached its full height around thirteen, now it had filled out from scrawny to well-made. Not beefy like the rugby forwards, but no longer the skinny young teenager. He didn't actively exercise, but playing rugby at school, football at breaks and walking the dog for miles at weekends had all helped mould him with muscles and shape. His face had matured as well; if he didn't need to shave too often, there was at least the hint of growth than could disguise his age. His skin still had the smooth, clear sheen of a child, but was overlaid with more solidity, less puppy fat; and he had avoided (so far) the bane of pubescent teenagers, the spray of spots across his face.
He looked over again and found her looking directly at him, reddened and uncomfortable he went back to reading the in-flight magazine. But by the time they landed he had determined on a course of action. The wheels of fate turned just a little. As everybody stood and jostled for position without actually touching each other, he engineered to be several people behind his family. Then as 'she' stood up, so did he, as they stepped into the aisle, he allowed her so slip in front, leant forward and whispered "Excuse me for staring at you, I know it was rude. It's just that you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen". And that was it. She turned and smiled at him and left. He hadn't expected anything and wasn't disappointed, he just wanted to make amends.
.... There is more of this story ...