The cabin of the Velvet Meridian settles into that particular hush that comes forty minutes after reaching cruising altitude, when the engines find their rhythm, and the air grows drowsy with the stillness of altitude.
Elowen stands at the forward galley counter, her left hand resting on the polished edge while her right adjusts the tortoiseshell pin securing her chignon.
Beyond the partial privacy screen, Senator Harcourt sleeps in the starboard club chair, his mouth slightly open, a half-empty tumbler of bourbon sweating on the side table beside him. The ice has long since melted.
Winsome emerges from the aft lavatory, her loafers silent against the carpeted aisle. She tucks a stray wave behind her left ear as she approaches, her bergamot-and-cedar fragrance preceding her by several feet.
"Still out?" Winsome asks.
Elowen doesn't turn. Her slate-blue eyes remain fixed on the cloud formations visible through the forward windows, endless white ridges that remind her of the Atlantic swells off Cornwall.
"You know what these flights need?"
"Any passenger who doesn't snore?"
"Or some entertainment. Four hours to Seattle!"
Elowen knows what Winsome has noticed.
Her first-rate boob job.
Hooters designed to catch a millionaire.
Pecker smothering cleavage.
Designed for: 'there he blows!'
The weight sits with awesome distribution.
Great new lacey bra.
"Honey, your eyes, you're dying to see them."
"They're spectacular," Winsome murmurs.
"Can I touch, press them?"
Elowen guides Winsome's hand inside her uniform, letting her cup the lace.
Well, that got two friends to insta-wet.
Straight into the new category, friends with benefits.
Winsome felt spongy perfection.
Elowen felt her nipples pebble.
Girls who wait miss opportunities.
Elowen unzips her uniform and presents in scarlet lace.
Winsome isn't on a shopping trip; she unhooks her friend's bra and wriggles down her knickers.
Elowen isn't behind with the stripping.
Black G-string and a pushy bra are tossed over a nearby seat.
They join the mile-high club in the jet aisle.
The Senator snores.
They snog.
Tongues dart, lips suck, and teeth nibble.
Big boobs and petite tits snuggle like bunnies in a cosy hutch.
Thumbs brush teats.
Wet fingers circle areolas.
"Perfect," Winsome whispers. "They're fucking perfect."
Smashing vulgar pashing.
Urgent, sloppy, messy.
Tongues probe and push deep.
They're cramped on a seat, opposite the snoozing Senator.
Mouths finding nipples.
Fingers ferreting into moist snatches between open thighs.
The best sex is reckless and inevitable.
"Fuck, you're dripping!"
"Says the girl who is sopping!"
Ungainly, cumbersome and awkward, but the reward outweighs the contortion.
Digits slot into pussies in a mutual squelch.
Reminding both of those college, lovers' lane, finger- fucking evenings.
Fingers coated in fem-jus.
The bitches taste each other.
The tarts make each other taste themselves.
Meanwhile, the senator nearly snores himself awake.
"Fuck!" from Winsome.
"Crap!" from Elowen.
The senator settles.
Two women jab fingers in slits and circle pretty pink private beads.
"Uhh! Uhh!"
"Ah! Ahh! Ahh!"
No rhythm, just pressure combined with probing friction.
They spit on each other's tits.
Aim gob-fulls of dribble onto exposed crinkled pleats and ridges.
Two fingers in a snatch, a spare one rimming their cracks.
The clit circling tease and the back door poke.
Orgasms swell in pouty puffy mounds.
Eyes glaze,
Breaths hitch.
Pussies squirt.
A puddle and a trickle down the aisle.
"Rragghh!"
"Orrggh!"
The senator's head nods. He scratches his chin.
Two flight attendants scramble for underwear and uniforms.
Redressing at the back of the jet.
The Senator stretches.
Elowen already has fresh bourbon and ice.
Like Winsome, she understands first-class is a state of mind.
Fuck, her pussy feels top of the world.
And her bouncing tits are soaring through the clouds.