Our First Flight

[All characters are, of course, quite comfortably over the age of 40 and, therefore, not minors, not even a little. And, in addition, they are all imaginary and fictional, as are the occurrences in this story. In fact, the only things that are real in this story are the museums and their exhibitions and the airplanes.]

* * *

I looked across the table at Dianne. She was examining a piece of shrimp stuck on the tines of her fork, looking at it rather critically.

"You know," she said, raising her eyes and meeting my gaze. "This thing has the consistency and taste of a fairly mediocre piece of rubber. And the flavouring is significantly inferior to some of the strawberry and peach rubber I had occasion to nibble on in the past."

The rather severe-looking lady to her left, name tag identifying her as Rebecca Crawford, choked on her orange juice and started coughing. The whole table looked at her. Even Dianne. Rebecca continued coughing, face flushed and eyes closed and watering, for a few moments more, before finally managing to defeat the juice. Dianne leaned lightly in her direction and stage-whispered, "Sorry about that."

I picked up my piece of shrimp off my plate and bit into it. Indeed, Dianne was right. Looking her straight in the eye, I arched my eyebrows at her. "Yup, right. Can't comment on the experience, but it is rubber." But, rubber or not, Dianne and I continued munching our forgettable shrimps, covered in oversweet sauce. Teeth, gift horses, et al., alas.

"That joke was very inappropriate." The Crawford woman was glaring at Dianne and me. "Completely inappropriate. I wish I could report you to the conference management. Sexually explicit childish jokes, at your age. Childish!"

Dianne burst out laughing and rolled her eyes in mock chagrin. I looked at the Crawford woman with as straight and serious a face as I could manage and asked, "Would you prefer the two of us to be as dried-up a prune as you are?" She seemed to almost splutter again.

Still smiling, Dianne looked at her, agreeing. "No, I do not ever think we could become that. I think inappropriate jokes will keep our skin young. I think you might want to try that, Ms. Crawford." I was about to echo assent when I suddenly felt a foot touch my shin, caressing lightly up and down. Across the table, Dianne smiled a sardonic smile at me, as her foot started climbing up my shin.

* * *

A hand touched, shook my shoulder, more insistent than I wanted. "Please straighten your seat and open the blinds," said the stewardess, and passed on, down the aisle. I fought to open my eyes and reorient myself. The dull hum of the engines filled my head with cotton candy. Dianne, in 13A, was still asleep, her head on my shoulder, her hair tickling my nose and ear. I guiltily inhaled its scent. She smelled of apple shampoo and of Dianne. I smiled, inwardly. How not appropriate for a first work trip, true, but her weight on my side and shoulder was warm and surprisingly nice.

I gently rubbed her hand and whispered "We are landing, time to wake," into her hair. It took her a moment to start waking, but she was soon up and aware enough to sit up and straighten her hair. "Sorry about that," she said, looking at me somewhat strangely. "I fell asleep and dreamed a weird dream. Sorry about drowning you in my hair."

"All good. And, you have nice hair," I patted her hand. "But we need to get our little cards filled in, before the landing, so let's." Over the next few minutes, we fiddled with the little cards, promising that we are neither wanted for human trafficking, nor are members of proscribed military organisations nor are importing fresh fruit into this great and fragile nation. We harbour no nefarious plans to cart in a dastardly mango. Just a quick fly-in, a conference and a short presentation to angle for an MOU and tech co-op with one of the presenters. So, an overnighter and 36 hours and an overnighter back. Hell on earth. But, at least, we were landing early --- might have time to snatch a museum visit today.

The plane banked and... landing and deboarding, waiting and shuffling, border controlling and passport stamping. The usual and enough time to cause a severe headache and annoy us --- and then we were finally in and looking for an Uber.

The field and terminal were busy and we were quite lucky that a trolley each was all we had, wheeling it to the cab ranks outside. But easy enough, true, to call one in. It came quickly enough and we piled in. "I am dying for a shower," I told Dianne. "Then, a normal something, lunch maybe. And, we are early enough to hit a museum. Join me?"

"Join for lunch? Museum? Both?" Dianne arched an eyebrow at me. "Both, as far as I can call it. The Rodin museum, wanted to see it ages. But anything you want," I answered. "Or do you prefer Mid Atlantic?"

She laughed, loudly enough for the driver to raise his eyes at us, in the mirror. "Is that a ship museum? Sounds vaguely so. What is that?" I laughed back, "No, it is aircraft. A bit further away. Not as good as Udvar-Hazy, but has nice birds. Udvar, though, has the Enola Gay, the shuttle, some lovely Nazi birds, too! Would be a blast... Is quite far, though." But, I knew the answer, ahead of time --- she shook her head. "You and your Nazi plane fetish. Come on! If I need to choose between Rodin and Nazis, the choice is simple. It is Rodin. And yes, after lunch."

"Done and done." I nodded and stuck a hand out. "Date!" She smiled and solemnly shook my hand. "Date."

The ride to the hotel hit the midday traffic, and we sat in the car, looking out of the window at the traffic and the buildings. The post-flight grogginess dissipating slowly. "I'd almost kill for a coffee," mumbled Dianne. "But we are in the land of no coffee and no hope."

"Ah! I am magic," I patted her knee. "I never fly without a manual espresso maker and a few Kimbos. Number tens. Brought a full pack, this time around, so you and I are in luck. And, in coffee."

"Oooh." She laughed again, putting her hand on mine. "A magic trick of a manual machine. Well, dibs on a capsule or three, if you will share." She squeezed my hand, a fleeting squeeze, and smiled at me. "I would almost kill for a coffee, but there are other options."

We rode the rest of the way more or less in silence. Dianne, more tired than me, nodded off from time to time, in the end resting her head on my shoulder, unaware. I shuffled a bit closer, enjoying the contact and the scent of shampoo and apples and her. Stolen pleasures, indeed, I smiled inwardly, stolen pleasures. Her hand and hip radiated pleasant warmth and I wondered, briefly, if I might caress her hip. But, no. We are both safely married and no matter the racy workplace banter, this is not a line I wanted to cross.

The Uber slid to the hotel entrance. Conference in town and, therefore, a queue at the check-in counter and the lobby cafe-restaurant full to the brim with dorks and dorkettes already. Noisy dorks and dorkettes, too. Theatrically rolling my eyes at the lobby and dorks, we stood for the virtual hours until the reception processed us, while I regaled Dianne with promising tales of the soon-to-be had coffee, just as soon as we get our rooms. But, of course, her room on floor 9, mine on 4, so no coffee proximity.

"We can have the coffee later --- we have time for Rodin. Let's meet here in an hour and go? We can even walk, if you want. Do supper together?" She nodded and off to the elevators we went.

A quick shower, a quick change --- now almost human --- and down in the lobby in 30 minutes. Time enough to watch the nerdstream assaulting reception and being sorted into their rooms. This hotel must have been the best and nearest to the conference centre --- so many "industry-stamp" people are arriving at the same time, all with slight airport-daze looks. I looked at the cafe again and, noting a momentary lull, dashed in and bought us two coffees and what passed for croissants. American coffees, but sometimes one compromises on principles. Even dearly held ones.

Dianne came down just as I returned to the lobby. "A poor bribe is better than no bribe," I suggested, handing her coffee and pastry. "Let's. Uber or walk?" She smelled the bribe, grimaced, and walked to the revolving doors. "Walk, we'll have more time to moan about the coffee."

Which we did, with relish, on the way to the museum.

There were so many lovely hands, in the museum --- caught in the moment, we mimicked the conformations and the contortions of the sculptures, laughing at the results, successful or not. I tried to do the clenched hand and Dianne helped. Her fingers, long and warm, manipulated mine, moving them into the correct positions and better angles. As she held my clenched hand, I was suddenly struck by the texture of her skin, soft and gentle against mine.

We hardly noticed the three hours until the chime and PA sent us out. Dianne and I looked at each other and, simultaneously, said, "Uber!" and laughed.

The ride back was briefer than brief, but we were utterly bushed. "No supper, all I want is a sandwich and a tea," said Dianne, stifling a small yawn. "Just not to queue again." I nodded. Luckily, the cafe --- while busy --- was willing to provide a quick sandwich and tea, as long as we did not want a table. Which we did not. Equipped with a goat-cheese sandwich and a tea each, we summoned the elevator.

It chimed and the doors whooshed open. Floors selected, Dianne turned to me. "Thank you for the lovely museum run, it was a lot of fun." She leaned in to hug me and I hugged her back, breathing in her familiar scent of apple shampoo. For a second I was aware of her breasts, touching my chest. "It was fun indeed. Have a nice sleep, see you morning, seven?" She nodded, just as the 4th floor chimed.

I exited the elevator and waved to her as the doors closed. Oh, my. That was... interesting. For a moment, the sound of rushing waves sloshed in my imagination and subsided. Bed. I had to get to bed, I was starting to imagine things.

* * *

Dianne stands naked, back to me, knee deep in the water. Her arse glistens with lotion that somehow emphasises her tan lines. Little eddies are playing and swirling around her legs. The white sand of the beach stretches in all directions, empty of other people. "Do you like what you see?" she asks, looking at me over her shoulder. Swivels. Her breasts, nipples large and pink and erect, swing into view. She continues to swivel. Her back is taut and muscled, flexing as she shifts weight from one leg to another. A light breeze caresses my shoulders and back. I step forward, proffering a small glass, equipped with a toy umbrella. A small blue and white ultralight plane flies overhead, trailing a streamer and beeping incessantly. Beep-beep-beep-beep. I try to read the streamer. "6:30am!" it says. Beep-beep-beep-beep.

Damn. I whacked the bedside clock and got up, groggily. Thirty minutes to breakfast. Ignoring the morning erection, got ready as quickly as I could and raced to the cafe, to call dibs on a table. Dianne was not yet down, and I had time to ask for a small pitcher of boiling water. By the time she appeared, two Kimbos stood ready on the table, as well as the little manual espresso pump.

"Coffee! Proper! Here!" She smiled at my announcement and took a seat across the table from me, looking at the espresso pump as I loaded it and made a proper coffee for her. And, while she watched the machine, I examined her. A change indeed. Instead of the usual dark work jeans and blouse, she wore a somewhat summery dress. What was the term, "office wear"? It was bottle green, with muted outlines of darker-green floral patterns. Never have I seen her in such. Liked it better, too, than the jeans and beige.

Handing her the little white cup, I looked her up and down. "My, my. I will trade you my Kimbo," I suggested, "for you never again wearing anything but these dresses to work. You look smashing."

She smiled and patted my hand. "Thank you! You can compliment me more, whenever you want. And I will consider your request, even if a single Kimbo is not enough."

"Ah, so we are in the negotiating stage?" Her hand was warm and dry and nice on mine. "Well, omelette and conference before further negotiations, I am afraid. Let's."

The breakfast banter was on work --- especially the MOU meeting. But before we finished, I reached across the table, gently took her hand, looked her in the eye and husked dramatically --- "Another coffee, before the salt mines?" And she nodded and laughed. Laughed so brightly that I wanted to say something funny again. And, then, again.

"Yes, give me more coffee. Give me more!" She laughed again. Her hand stayed in mine, squeezed my palm just for a moment, and I squeezed back, watching her face. Her hand lingered in mine then withdrew.

Another coffee and a light breakfast later, off we went to the conference. Our agendas were not synchronised and, until lunchtime, we saw each other only as we changed halls. The first such switch-meet --- passing in the hall --- I leaned in and whispered into her ear, "Well, that was a bloody waste of a session, hope yours was more useful." She nodded, threw an arm around my back and squeezed my shoulder, and sauntered on to her next session. As did I to mine.

Coming out of the next session, I did not see Dianne. I stood in the main hall, looking around and trying to find her in the press of people, when her hands suddenly were on my shoulders, from behind. "Missing me in the crowd?" Her lips brushed my ear. Breath warming me. I froze. Did she feel the freeze, I wondered. It took me a second to both nod and lean back, turning her gesture into a hug. Her breasts brushed against my back, and my dream flashed through my mind. Momentarily.

"One more session before lunch," she whispered in my ear. "Behave." I nodded and turned around, feeling her breasts brush, soft, against my back and then arm. "I promise to behave, at least until lunch." Stepping back, I flicked my eyes to her breasts and pursed my lips. "See you after the session." Her eyes followed me, I could feel them as I went.

* * *

The session was a bore. Not bad, but delivered with all the verve of a sea cucumber. My eyes were rolling back repeatedly as the speaker mumbled slowly that the best thing about industry standards was their multiplicity, diversity, and complexity (this was implied) since that allowed consulting companies like the one the humble presenter worked for to assist clients in their unrelenting, but oft misguided or sub-effective, efforts to comply with said standards in order to gladden the leaden hearts of bodies regulatory as well as powers that be. Oh, but I prayed for a meteor strike.

I ran away. I skipped early, and ran away. I never wanted to hear another line about standards, regulators or powers. So, I messaged Dianne that I skipped out and raced to grab a table at the lunch hall, well ahead of the general conference press. I did notice that, unsurprisingly, many other early lunch birds came from my last session.

So here we were, Dianne, Ms. Crawford and me (and others, indeed), sitting around a white-tableclothed lunch table, all munching on indifferent conference food. All of us indifferent as the food itself. All but Dianne and me, that is. She, smiling at me as her foot caressed my shin, up and down, up and down, up. And up. Smiling at me, holding a shrimp, impaled on her fork, just touching her lips. Me, frozen, looking at her across the table and most definitely not letting myself choke on water.

Her foot climbed higher, up my leg and above my knee. My eyebrows also tried to climb up, or so it felt. "You know, Ms Crawford," continued Dianne. "I find racy surprises to sometimes be welcome ones." Her foot climbed higher. I half-nodded and moved forward in my seat, helping her foot reach higher. Dianne would not let the poor woman off, "Sometimes racy surprises come even at the most boring of conferences." Her foot fluttered against my inner thigh, almost touching my penis through the trousers. I was already half-erect, and wondering how I could reseat my erection before getting up. Dianne's eyes were laughing at me.

The Crawford woman harrumphed, got up and left the table, giving the two of us a poisonous stare. "Ah, such a pity she left," said Dianne. "I was enjoying myself. Were you? I do so like these back and forths." Her foot moved to my other leg, then back to my penis, caressing it in a left and right motion.

"Yes, very much so," I answered. "The back and forth are the most fun, but sometimes they result in... well, in the unexpected. You do know what I mean." Dianne's foot left my crotch as she straightened and winked at me.

"I think I will run early to grab a seat close to the speaker," she said loudly and, getting up, went around the table. Leaning close to my ear again, she whispered, "this is for you." I felt her hand reach into my trouser pocket, leave something and withdraw. "See you after the next session."

I waved at her airily as she walked away and sat back to finish my lunch. The whatever she left in my pocket was a presence, a small lump demanding attention. What is it, I wondered. As soon as I felt that the others around the table were sufficiently concentrated on their lunches, I stole my hand into my pocket and tried to feel the lump, to touch it. My hand encountered material, slightly ridgy and patterned. Knickers. I just knew these were her knickers.

The next session passed in a haze of imagining. Nor did I care what it was about, Dianne's foot and her knickers in my pocket occupied my mind. All I could think about was meeting her after the session.

After the session ended, I took a position near the biggest, thickest and furthest column in the hall and texted Dianne --- "Waiting here for you to come." A thumbs-up was the only answer.

A few moments later, Dianne appeared at my side. Wordlessly, I grabbed her hand and pulled her behind the column, sliding in behind her and running my hand up her thigh. Smooth, under the dress. No knickers. Oh, my, that ran my pulse higher, it did. Her thighs were warm under my hands as I caressed her, wrapping my hands around to cup and knead her bum. "Show me what you gave me," I whispered leaning forward, waiting for her breasts to touch my chest. They did and I pulled her closer. She swayed her hips against me, leaning against my thickening erection, and I ground against her. Blast, the security camera people may be having a bit of a day, here.

Her hand dipped into my pocket, grabbed and pulled a small burgundy square. It fluttered in the air under my nose, allowing me to inhale her scent. She touched the knickers to my lips. "The rest," she whispered as she pushed the knickers back into my pocket, "comes later."

The last session and the MOU meeting were a bit of a distracted whirlwind --- the session I did not care about and the MOU meeting was so well rehearsed by Dianne that she breezed through it, with me just bobbing and nodding, a support leg. There will be an MOU, indeed, signed. Emails will be sent. Management will be... well, probably managed. All we wanted and waited for was an Uber and when it finally came, we were out of the conference hall and into it faster than a speeding cartoon bird.

The Uber driver turned out to be a chatty one. Chatty while driving, glancing into the mirror at that, while explaining the nicer points about Philadelphia and its history and environs. I love an occasional near death experience as much as any man, but this was the very wrongest drive for one. Dianne and I could only hold hands and, occasionally, touch one another's leg as the Uber tried to kill us.

The near death ride ended, with no deaths or nausea resulting. In the dining area, dinner was just being laid; I steered us towards a free table. We were early enough to pre-empt most of the conference horde. "Let's have a light dinner," I suggested, "and then..."