Copyright© 1997-2004

There was a young German named Ringer
Who was screwing an opera singer.
Said he with a grin,
"Well, I've sure got it in!"
Said she, "You mean that ain't your finger?"

Don't you just hate falling asleep on the plane? The vibrations, the awkward angles the constant interruptions. I prefer reading a good book on a flight rather than dropping off to sleep. Yet, on a long flight, I can not help but drop off. Blame it on the boredom.

Perhaps what is worse than sleeping on a plane was waking up. On this flight, I found a more enjoyable way to wake. Simply put, with a hand gently fondling my crotch through my pants. Now, know that I had no idea that such a thing would or could happen. My spouse was on the other end of this flight and I knew no one else on the plane.

I sat, eyes closed, realizing my hardness was painfully pressing into my jeans and that it was because of a hand gently fondling me. How long had that been going on? Had I slept and been touched for over an hour? Of course, I knew, it could very well be possible.

I hadn't moved, my eyes glued shut, as I tried to remember whom I sat next too. Seated by the window, as I normally enjoyed watching the midnight lights of cities as we passed them, I remember the seat next to me was empty. I became bored and probably fell asleep because it was cloudy and I couldn't see anything outside the port hole. The seat next to me had been occupied, but for the life of me, I could not remember whom it could be. Male or female I wondered, and prayed it was female? How did she look?

I couldn't remember.

The hand was excruciatingly patient, moving feather-like for an indeterminate amount of time before squeezing me firmly, as if testing the depth to which I slept. If anything could be judged by being fondled in the middle of the night, in a darkened plane and several kilometers above the earth, its that I assumed the fingers and hand belonged to someone experienced. How else could they fondle me, possible for a rather long time, as I still slept unless by a hand that has fondled a man before? That caused me to consider it was one of two types of people; an older, experienced woman or a man.

God, I prayed it was not a man!

Yet, as the minutes passed and my mind cleared and became less clouded with sleep I imagined that it was indeed a male touching me. That thought alone caused me enough worry that my member started to wilt. Its a catch-22 situation, to want that touch to continue but feared whom it belonged too. I had to look, else, I realized, the hand would withdraw when I became soft.

Most of the other passengers had their lights turned off and the cabin was in a gray darkness as I squinted out of one eye. At first I could not even see anyone next to me, but a shadow. In seconds, it soon took on form. Yes, a face, pale white skin, glasses, short straight hair... a lady.

Or perhaps I should call her simply, a woman, 'lady' may be pressing the boundaries of that term.

In fact, she was as I had guessed, an older lady. Just how old was difficult to ascertain in the dim cabin through slotted eyelids.

By the continued movements of the hand and the direction her eyes were aimed, right at my crotch, it was obvious she hadn't realized I was awake and looking at her.

Damn, that hand felt good! No longer was I in danger of going soft.

I had said she was no 'lady', what lady would fondle a stranger while he slept on a flight thousands of feet about the earth? Yet, the brief glimpse I had suggested she was just that. If first impressions can be taken into account of course.

A pale skirt with tan nylons, a loose off-white blouse and several discrete, and expensive, rings and earrings all helped with that interpretation. The face, attractive may be the wrong word so I shall call it striking, revealed her age gently. Yet, I guessed she was at least forty years old - at least ten years older than I.

Coming towards our seat, a stewardess interrupted the jewelled hand and I waited anxiously for it to return to its delightful spot upon my lap. But it did not, much to my discomfort. Painfully my cock pressed against the rough fabric of my jeans. Why did she not continue? Did she guess I was awake?

I squinted yet again towards her, and saw that she too had her eyes closed, laying back with her short brown hair laying against a tiny airline pillow. So, feeling braver, I opened my eyes fully to look upon her. She was like an older woman everyone knows but rarely does one get close to these cold strikingly attractive older ladies. Yet, inside the cold perfect exterior was a fire that desired and was adventurous enough to fondle me as I had slept.

Slowly, that jewelled hand moved down from her lap towards her knee. I caught my breath when I saw it reach the nylon and then move back towards her... beneath her skirt. She could not be doing what I think, or hoped, she was doing?

Her knees parted slightly, enough to give room for that hand to move directly to the place between her legs.

A moist glistening tongue came out of her small mouth and licked her red lips so very slowly. Her eyes clenched behind those small-framed expensive glasses.

I watched her respond to that hidden hand and I felt incredible passion and lust that moment. I've never before been a voyeur or had tendencies to peek upon another person, yet here I was watching a woman a decade older than I masturbate silently merely a few inches from me. It was thrilling. It was dangerous.

I wanted more.

What was it that had caused her to open her eyes, did my breathing change? Did I accidently press my arm against hers? Or did she simply wish to look upon me as I was now looking upon her? I cared not.

I only cared that she froze in what she had been doing. Twice she stopped doing what I was enjoying, touching me and then touching herself, and I didn't want her to stop again if the chance presented me with it.

The lady's, and yes that is how I thought of her, eyes grew wide in surprise and perhaps a little fear. Her hand froze beneath her skirt and then slowly started to disengage. I wanted to tell her not to stop, that the sight of her was incredible sexy, that I lusted after the simple touch of her hand. Yet I wasn't alone, I shared the cabin with several dozen other passengers, most of whom looked asleep. I feared that my normal voice would wake half a dozen around us if I spoke.

Who was more surprised when my hand reached over and pulled her closest knee towards me, spreading her thighs farther apart? She gasped when I touched her warm smooth inner knee and held her breath as the skirt was forced higher up her thighs as those thin shapely legs spread.

I was delighted and surprised to find the lady wore thigh-high stockings and a garter belt. The only time I had seen this on a live woman was when my wife wore them for the first and only time on my thirtieth birthday. That had turned into an exciting and exhausting evening, I sparse hope within me wanted to repeat that feeling now.

She didn't resist but watched me intently as my hand generously fondled her stocking clad leg and finally, her smooth pale white skin above. I could feel the heat from that smooth sexy skin, and even thought I felt moisture. Could it be the moisture from her sex? God I hoped so. What guy needs more proof that his actions are accepted positively than the juices from between a woman's legs?

The hand that had been touching herself, and most probably me, clenched the arm of her chair but disengaged when I pulled it towards me. She watched amazed as I brought those thin fingers up to my face and smelt and then licked them clean. Her juices coated them.

She tasted heady, raw. And I imagined that this pussy had not felt a man in a very long time. It was my male bravado that I fantasied it to be true.

When satisfied with her taste I lay her hand back on the inside of her thigh, high up upon her pale skin. When I looked back into her face, she looked surprised and I could read her attempt to decipher my actions, to read what was my intentions. To be honest, I had no intentions, I simply wanted to enjoy this mysterious woman and I thought nothing else but my own selfish pleasure.

Still she didn't move so I leaned over and placed my lips next to her ear. "Do it", I ordered in a rough whisper. Her face turned towards mine and she looked into my eyes intently before she nodded slowly, once. My eyes again turned downwards, to her lap.

The lady closed her eyes, lay her head back against the pillow and slid her hand beneath the last few inches of skirt hiding that treasure from my eyes. She sighed loudly and her hips started to move in time to the slight movements of her hand.

Here I was, bare meters from a dozen other people, thirty-six thousand feet above sea-level watching an older lady masturbate a mere breath away from me. I couldn't actually see between her legs, but I didn't care. The whole situation was so erotic that a generous view of her sex may have actually soiled it. Strange as that sounds, its completely true.

With my lips back near her ear, "I felt your hand earlier." She froze without opening her eyes for a brief second before doubling her efforts and biting the bottom of her lip. I could read her determination to enjoy this moment with the same level of desire as my own.

Was she surprised at being discovered? Embarrassed? Or, as I hoped, extremely turned on?