Courtesy


Pity how courtesy has increasingly disappeared from our society. In
this case, it was yet another alcohol afflicted passenger who whose
opinion of himself far outstripped the reality. A passenger who gave
the appearance of being unable to understand how the pretty flight
attendant could resist his virile demeanor and obvious charm. He
was seated across the aisle and one row up from me in business
class, and I had heard him espouse this very insight to himself under
his breath. And more loudly and aggressively over an annoying
period of time. It was, after all, Saturday, and he needed a date.

When he grabbed her arm and pulled her down to whisper in her
ear, I didn't like the look in his eye. He clearly wasn't prepared to
take "no" for an answer. When he didn't let go at her protests, I got
up and stepped to him. I took his thumb in a moderately painful
come-along hold, and removed it from her uniform sleeve. She
jumped back, then hurried up the aisle.

I let his hand go, and suggested that manhandling flight attendants
was not appropriate behavior. As I turned back to my seat, he was
up and at my back. I had rather expected this, so, in deference to the
tight quarters I was ready with an elbow to the solar plexus. As his
breath whooshed out, I stepped forward to let him fall to the floor.
He obligingly did so, but rather too limply for my comfort. I
checked him, and unfortunately, he had stopped breathing. I hadn't
hit him very hard, but some people are more susceptible.

I began rescue breathing, despite my reluctance to be
mouth-to-mouth with this distasteful drunk. Soon enough the
co-pilot showed up, with the flight attendant, and he had her bring
the plastic air way for mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from the first
aid kit. By the time she had returned, the man had begun breathing
on his own, and was reviving in no better temper than before. I held
him still while the co-pilot put on the plastic wire-tie handcuffs that
airlines seemed to have stocked recently. We then moved him up to
first class, which was nearly empty on this flight.

The flight attendant came back to my seat. Her name tag
proclaimed her to be Natasha. She thanked me, and offered me a
drink. I shrugged off the thanks, and declined the drink. I find that
alcohol mixes poorly with adrenaline in me.

It was quite late when Homeland Security finally let me go. Having
determined that the guy was apparently no terrorist, and after
warning me to get a lawyer, since he would probably sue me, they
handed me my bag and sent me on my way.
     By then, any trace of adrenaline was gone, so I stopped in an
airport lounge to have a drink . . . not my usual habit, but then this
had not been a ususal flight. Natasha and the co-pilot walked by,
late of their own grilling by security, I presumed, pulling their bags.
When she saw me, she stopped and said something to him. He went
on, and she came over to me.

"I want to thank you again for helping me today, Mr. Naismith,"
she said. "I owe you one."

"Well, Natasha, it's Miles, and if you owe me, which you don't," I
replied, "please have a drink with me to help me decompress. Or
not, if you are in too much of a hurry."

"Not much to hurry for here." She made a charming moue. Yet
another hotel meal with the rest of the crew, followed by an
unfamiliar bed and an early morning return flight. I'll be happy to
postpone that prospect for the time it takes for one drink, especially
for my white knight."

I couldn't resist a little flirting. "You shouldn't see me as your
knight, you know. We men always knew how those maidens
rescued from dragons were meant to reward their knights."
Pointing at her ring, I continued, "I doubt your husband would approve."

Fortunately for me, she laughed. "You are probably right about my
husband. But perhaps we can settle on a lesser reward, given that
you only subdued a man, not a dragon. May I invite you to dinner
with the crew. We'll pick up the check."

"Who could refuse an offer like that?"

She gave me the information needed to meet them, and we each
went our own way. I had rented a small suite in a widely unknown
but comfortable hotel, and there I went for a nap. I called my wife
and told her what had happened, and she twitted me for sticking my
nose in, as always. Then she asked me if I were interested in
Natasha. To my surprise, she told me I had her permission to bed
Natasha if I could. I laughed, but she persisted.

"You're serious aren't you? Is this to clear the way for you to have
an affair yourself?" I asked.

She demurred, "No, Sweetheart, I have no one I want. But I know
we have fallen into a routine, and this could spice things up. If you
succeed, I know you won't fall in love - men are well known be able
to have just sex. But I also know you will not succeed . . . Your
stewardess is married!"

"Now I know I've slipped. Back to gym for me if you are so sure
that I cannot charm a woman who doesn't owe me marital duties!
Or maybe I should try pheromones . . . But seriously, don't worry . . ."

She cut me off. "Don't tell me you won't even try. I want to worry.
If you are too chicken to actually try, then you had better think up a
good story to tell me, at least. Besides, I want to plan how to seduce
you back to me after your tarty conquest. You wait . . . your cock
will be so hard it hurts when I get through with you after you get back."

I was taken aback. She never used the word cock. She really
seemed serious. "Alright, I'll tell you I'll give it a shot. But only on
this condition: when the occasion arises, you must do the same. And
I'll decide when the occasion arises."

It was her turn to be taken aback. With an odd note in her voice,
she agreed. We professed our mutual love and hung up. I called my
partner, a litigator, and told him the firm might be defending me,
and gave him the initial information that I knew. Even though I had
only an office practice, seldom going to court, I knew it was all too
likely that the jerk on the plane could find a lawyer to take his case.
Finally, I slept.


I dressed with special care for that dinner. I wasn't sure I could
even begin to think of seducing Natasha, but having my wife's
permission to try did make the situation piquant. In an unusually
jaunty frame of mind, I joined the party at the restaurant.

It was great fun. They weaseled out of me enough of my military
experience to know where I had learned the close combat and the
first aid, I learned more than I wanted about their spouses and
families. They made me laugh with stories of weird passengers, and
the pilots and I talked flying until we recognized the glazed look on
the faces of the others. Natasha was charming, but two of the other
flight attendants were single, and felt free to flirt outrageously. A
cute brunette named Janet, in particular, seemed to take it upon
herself to make me feel properly commended for coming to the aid
of her compatriot. I was not used to such treatment, and, frankly,
reveled in it. Dinner was over too soon. I didn't want the evening to
end, so I invited the whole group to go to a club I knew.

The married members, other than Natasha, begged off, and the
other single girl, Allison, I believe, was meeting a friend. So I was
left with Natasha and Janet. I was surprised that Natasha had joined
us, but I believe she thought of me as her property, and was a bit
jealous of Janet.

I am not a celebrity, but through my clients, I know a few who are.
And I knew where they hung out. I was sure the girls would enjoy
seeing some of these famous people, so we became people
astronomers, although I didn't expressly state this course to them.

We were not lucky enough to see any first magnitude stars, but we
saw several lesser lights, including a soap opera star that I didn't
recognize, but Janet did, a Senator, a popular novelist, and a couple
of sports personalities. My stock rose considerably when I was
accosted by an old classmate, now President of the National League,
who was seated with Bryant Gumbel, apparently giving an interview
for Gumbel's HBO sports show. Probably the ever popular Pete
Rose issue, I guessed.

Shortly after midnight, the girls said they had to be back, claiming
to need some sleep before their early flight. Natasha gave me a
chaste kiss on the cheek, proper and discrete, and thanked me again.
Janet said, "Well, if Natasha won't thank you properly for your
bravery, I will!" Pulling me close and molding her body to mine,
she threw her arms around my neck and gave me a kiss that
promised more than most women could deliver. It was quite an
effort of will to break it off, but I didn't have permission for Janet.
As I looked up, I noticed an odd look on Natasha's face. Again she
looked jealous, or maybe possessive?

Sunday morning, there were no early flights. Dense fog closed the
airport until lunch time. About noon, I was surprised to get a call
from Natasha. I had given the girls my cell phone number the night
before amid inebriated promises to reunite whenever we were all in
town. I had never expected it to be used.

"I'm calling to take you up on your offer," she said.

"I thought you were flying out today," said I.

"Our flight was delayed, and the later flight was half empty, so they
cancelled it and put those passengers on our plane. One of the crew
of the later flight needed to get home, and asked me to switch with
her. I can't leave until tomorrow morning."

Reviewing the prior evening with a vaguely aching head, I dimly
remembered offering to show the girls the various tourist sites in
town. Apparently, they never had time to sightsee in the ordinary
course, despite coming to the city regularly.

I made an appointment to pick her up from her hotel in an hour,
and called my limousine service. I think Natasha was impressed
with the limo, and even more so with the helicopter. After a
wonderful day, we settled into the limo for the long drive out of the
country for dinner at an small Japanese inn and spa known for its
outstanding cuisine . . . and romantic and intimate gardens.

I found the first chink in Natasha's armor on that drive. When she
slipped off her shoes, I thought about her profession and insisted on
massaging her feet. You would have thought she was near orgasm
from her sighs and moans. This gave me another idea.

Pulling out my phone, I called the Inn and scheduled us both for
full body massages. Natasha initially said no, but reassured of
professionalism, she agreed.

Dinner was served in an intimate alcove, looking out over the
Japanese garden. As a concession to inflexible gaijin like me, there
was a small hole under the table where I could stash my lower legs.
Natasha could probably have sat on her heels, Japanese style, but
gracious as ever, she followed my lead so as not to embarrass me.
The pit was small, though, and our legs necessarily rubbed together.
I know I was very conscious of it, and I think Natasha was too.

After dinner, we were led to the spa. We were each handed a
kimono, and told to remove all our clothing, each in a small
dressing room. Natasha looked dubious, but finally gave in to the
exotic atmosphere. When we emerged in our kimonos, the
attendants laughed. One came over and insisted on opening and
reclosing my kimono with the opposite flap on top. She explained
that the way I had it, the way a man buttons his shirt, was only done
for a corpse. I blushed as this operation had probably flashed my
privates at Natasha.

We were then led into the bath. Neither of us had anticipated a
Japanese bath before the massage, but in charmingly accented
broken English, we learned that it was expected. When the two
women attendants pulled the kimonos off of our shoulders, I
remembered that the Japanese are oblivious to mixed bathing.
Wanting to hide my nudity under the water, I started toward the
pool, noticing Natasha doing the same. Both of us were stopped,
however, and pulled to the side. The attendants then began to wash
us with soapy sponges, then rinsed us with clean water. Only then
could we enter the hot water of the small pool.

I admit that I peeked at Natasha while she was washed. Well,
stared, actually. Lord, she was gorgeous. I was surprised at the
darker pubic hair, thinking her a natural blond. And that figure, so
in proportion, each part complimenting the next. I was hard put, so
to speak, not to be hard.

In due course, we were alone in the bath. Extreme heat, I learned,
inhibits the normal male response, even with the visual stimulus
before me, letting me appear the gentleman, thank Heaven. The heat
did, however, intensify the effect of the sake left for us by the
attendants.

I duly apologized , saying that I hadn't intended to put her in this
position   that I didn't realize the implications of the Japanese
massage. She blushed with me, and laughed sheepishly, saying that
it would be a great story for her husband. We talked more, and she
allowed as to how he often questioned her as to whether she would
ever succumb to a smooth talking passenger. She said she knew that
he knew that she was faithful, and that she suspected that he kept
asking because he got some kind of sneaky thrill out of the fantasy. I
agreed, and told her I encouraged my wife to show off and flirt for
the same reason. She questioned me closely on this, to her strange,
aspect of male sexuality, and finally seemed to chalk it up to all men
being turned on by anything at any time. I agreed. We didn't touch
in the pool, except incidental contact as sake cups were refilled, but
the circumstances and the conversation made it seem deliciously intimate.

After what seemed like a long time, but probably was not, we were
summoned from the pool, dried, and dressed in the kimonos again.
The attendants led us to a small room, again overlooking a garden,
with two massage tables. Convention reasserted itself momentarily
when the kimonos were once again pulled off our shoulders and we
were asked to lay down on the tables. Natasha was so cute, what
with the way that blush reached all the way to the tops of her
breasts, though I admit my face was also red. Small towels
materialized over our buttocks, and the massage proceeded.

Natasha had opted for a deep massage, and looked sexy as hell, all
but nude on her stomach, while a rather large Japanese man in a
white loin cloth tried to flatten her into the table. The sounds she
made suggested she was happy, but it looked painful to me. I opted
for a more subtle massage, delivered by a tiny woman in a bra and a
loin cloth similar to the man's.

The masseur and masseuse left us, telling us to relax on the tables
as long as we wished. I turned my head face Natasha and smiled,
trying to sink into the tatami mat on that table as my body did its
best to imitate a puddle. She smiled back, apparently feeling the
same way.

Suddenly the peacefulness was rent by a playful scream and giggles
from next door. Then another couple raced by, nude, pink from their
own massage. Down the little hill they went, and then jumped into
what I had taken for an ornamental pond. Looking closer, I saw that
it was actually a well disguised swimming pool. Concentrating on
the pool, I was surprised when I felt my towel pulled off and my
butt slapped. Jerking up, I was treated to the glorious sight of
Natasha's backside as she too ran giggling to the pool. I jumped up
and followed.

When I jumped in after her, it was cold. But we warmed up a little
as the four us ended up in some uncoordinated game of tag, or at
least some furtive feeling up of each other, according to rules that
were never enunciated, but seemed to be known to all anyway. I had
quick handfuls of both women's breasts, and felt two sets of hands
on me in seemingly inadvertent touches. I can state with certainty
that cold, unlike heat, does not inhibit the normal male response.
The game ended with Natasha in my embrace in the deep end, with
my erection pressed against her stomach as we kissed, our ardor
increased by the noises made by the other couple, who sounded to
be involved in more intimate pursuits. I raised Natasha up to my lips
for a kiss as our legs scissored to stay above water, and my erection
slid across thick pubic patch toward her slit. We were wrenched
back to reality in that instant, and quickly backed off from each
other.

We got out of the pool and went back to the massage room. We
used the towels there to dry off, facing away from each other, and
then pulled on the kimonos.

I figured I had blown it. "Natasha, I'm sorry . . ."

She surprised me. "You're sorry you kissed me?"

"Well, no."

"You're sorry we touched?"

"Well, only for your sake."

"It's insulting for you to be sorry. You should be excited, at least.
I'd hate to think it was a trial for you to kiss me."

"If you must know," said I, finally catching on, "it was exciting as
hell. You are one gorgeous, sexy woman, and the only thing I'm
sorry for is pressing on without first ascertaining your limits."

"Ascertaining my limits? Heavens, Miles, do you always talk like
an organic thesarus? To woman you just kissed in the nude?" Even
if she were laughing at me, her laughter was a gift, the more
pleasurable for having been freely given in these circumstances.

"Unless you object, Miles, I've decided to give my perverse
husband a real story. I won't go all the way with you, but I want us
to go back in our kimonos. I promise only to give you one more
kiss. Anything more than that, well, we'll see how it goes. But no
promises Unless you object?"

"Consider any objection I might put forward overruled, your honor.
Let me call the limo."

And so it was that she was snuggled against me in the back of the
limo, drinking fine Champagne, dressed only in a kimono. The
driver had raised the partition, and we were alone.

It took us three glasses of Champagne, and some nervous chatter
before we relaxed. I knelt before her and again took her feet,
removing the Japanese slippers. This time the foot massage was as
sensual as I could make it. She lay back on the cushions with heavy
lidded eyes. She gave no indication that she knew that her kimono
had parted, offering me a clear view of her mons. In fact, I thought I
was going to lose her to sleep before I got the promised kiss.

Languidly, she reached down and pulled me up to her. Her lips
sought mine, and I had my promised kiss. Tongues fought lazily for
dominance, but without urgency. My hand slid slowly under her
kimono to caress a perfect breast. She arched slightly to me, and
sighed. Never taking my lips away, I teased her nipple until it was
fully erect.

Still holding that kiss, I slid my hand down, out over the belt of the
kimono, and then back in, touching the uncut forest of hair between
her legs. No Brazilian bikini wax here, but instead a real woman's
thatch. I thought she'd push me away at that point, but no obstacle
intervened between my hand and her peach. Slowly I caressed, all
around, but never into, that slit. Her hips moved slowly in response.
When I thought she was ready, I let fingers open those lips, feeling
the wetness there. Her hips moved more urgently, and her hand
came down on mine. I thought I had reached her limit, but she
didn't pull me off.

I pulled my own hand away, and captured hers. Against a slight
resistance, I put her hand on me. I pulled her hand up, and pushed it
down. She continued on her own as I returned my hand to its former
position.

We kept at our separate fondlings, while our kiss continued. Her
tongue became more demanding and her hips started to pump more
forcefully. I wasn't ready for her to orgasm yet, so I took a chance. I
broke the kiss. She had only promised me one kiss, and it had
seemed so far that almost anything went during that kiss. I wasn't
sure what would happen when it ended, but I wanted to make her
come on my tongue. I broke the kiss and slid to my knees in front of
her. She started to push my head back, but I murmured, "It's only
another kiss . . ."

Her hand relaxed and I tasted her. She surprised me in that she
seemed less ready to come with this stimulation than with my hand.
Her hips pumped and her hand twisted in my hair, but I couldn't
seem to push her over the edge. I finally resorted to the old trick of
writing the alphabet with my tongue on her clitoris. She came on "j."

I would have continued, but she pulled me to her face, and we
kissed again. She didn't give me a chance to wipe my face, so she
tasted herself on me. It didn't seem to bother her. This new position,
however, presented me with a test of my character. My cock was at
her vagina. A small adjustment and a hip thrust, and I would be in
her. Heaven knows I wanted it. But she had said we would not go
all the way. Then suddenly it was not up to me. The car lurched, or
her hips bucked slightly, or both, and I was in her. Only an inch or
two, but in her. She froze. I froze. The kiss ended as she looked
down between our bodies, to where the head of my erection had
disappeared into her. Deliberately, she moved her hips so that
another inch disappeared. I am not big, so this was half-way for me.
I stayed still, waiting. After a second, she pulled her hips back abruptly.

"I'm sorry, Miles. I can't do this. This is more story than I planned.
I'm not even sure I can tell my husband this much. I have to stop."

"I understand, Natasha. I shouldn't have plied you with so much
liquor. I wanted us to have fun, but I didn't want you to regret it later."

"Oh my, Miles," she laughed, " I won't regret it. I wanted a naughty
story to tell my husband   not quite this naughty, mind you   but I
won't regret it. Someday I'll probably regret stopping now, but not
tonight. Tonight I regret nothing." And then she kissed me one last time.

We cuddled for a few more minutes, and then the intercom dinged.
The driver informed us that we would be at Natasha's hotel in a few
minutes. We scrambled to dress in street clothes, giggling and
playing like children. The limo stopped, and the door opened. And
then she was gone. I haven't seen her since, but one of these days
we'll be on the same flight . . . and we'll share a secret smile.

Or perhaps she did continue her hip thrust, and buried me in that
extraordinarily tight sheath, moving up and back until I took over
the rhythm. Telling me not to come inside her. Me telling her it was
inside her or in her mouth. And it was, one or the other.

Or maybe coming up to my suite, murmuring, "Might as well be
hung for a sheep as for a lamb . . ." And after mutual oral
resuscitation, considerably more pleasant than what I experienced
on the airplane, reprising our performance in the limo.

Maybe she was tied face down and spread on the bed, with her
charmingly reluctant consent, while I took what she said was her
last virginity.

Or maybe a just peck on the cheek after dinner was all that
happened. She was a faithful wife, you know.

The story ends differently each time I tell it to my wife. By the way,
I was pleased that my wife found the story erotic, and doesn't seem
threatened by it. Whether I will ever get her to come through with
her side of the deal remains to be seen. I am not holding my breath.

Well, that is the story, told in just the manner I think they wanted
me to tell it. Most of it, or maybe all of it, is even true. Or at least,
that's what I tell my wife. I don't know what Natasha tells her husband.