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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o  	The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of  o
o  stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the  o
o  world.  Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups).   There is no  o
o  particular  order  other than offering them to you in  alpha-  o
o  betical directories.                                           o
o  	I don’t believe in categorizing things. "I don’t want to  o
o  be typed therefore I don’t type things myself."  I think it’s  o
o  a lot more fun to browse around and find  'little'  surprises  o
o  that you might not have even thought of looking for.           o
o   	Lest we forget!!!   This story was produced as adult en-  o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.   Kristen         o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

Meeting Jess (MF, mile-high)
From: mcasson@direct.ca (Michele)


I like travelling on airplanes.  As an airforce brat, I flew a lot as a 
child, and I'd peer out the windows for hours, staring at clouds, 
imagining that I myself could fly, if I'd only try hard enough. Flying 
is such an apt metaphor for imagination.  I remember reading Joyce's 
"Portrait of an Artist" and understanding clearly, for the first time, 
the meaning of the Daedalus myth. How creativity often demands our 
solitude and isolation, and how artistry can be a risky process, the 
possibility of failure always present.

As an adult, what I like about flying is the solitude and the anonymity 
flying affords.  Surrounded by strangers I am still alone, and I enjoy 
that feeling.  Floating above the earth, temporarily disengaged from 
worldly obligations and connections.  Free.

And on a practical note, I can enjoy some uninterrupted reading time.  
I generally buy as many magazines as I can carry from the newsstand 
before boarding.

Settling comfortably into my seat in first class, I slip off my shoes, 
snap on my seatbelt and open a magazine, then shut it abruptly.  This 
is an overnight flight, and I don't want to go through my cache of 
reading material too quickly. Instead, I peer curiously around the 
cabin, appraising my flying companions.

And then I see you.  Or, at least I think it's you, sitting across the 
aisle from me.  It's hard to tell; you are wearing sunglasses in the 
photo I have of you, so I've never had a clear picture of your face. 
But still, the profile is similar. The curve of your jaw, the shape of 
your nose.  Then mentally I give myself a shake. I'm only indulging in 
a little wish fulfillment here, sinking into one of my fantasies about 
how we might meet, if the circumstances were right. As the plane 
readies for take off, I flip open a magazine and begin to read, happy 
to note that the seat beside me is empty.  Sweet solitude.

But an hour later I still can't shake this impression that you are here 
on this plane with me. You too are flying solo, if indeed it is you, 
and I consider approaching you and introducing myself. But what if I'm 
mistaken, and the handsome man sitting across from me is not Jess?  Or 
worse, what if it is you, but you consider my presence an uncomfortable 
intrusion, an awkward violation of the boundaries that define our 
friendship? "Give your head a shake, girl," I mutter to myself, and 
return to my copy of New Republic.

Two glasses of wine and an hour later I am now certain that it is you. 
 You're reading an Italo Calvino novel; this alone seems like cosmic 
proof of your identity. Still though, I am afraid of approaching you- 
scared by what might happen.  Scared by what might not happen. 
Frustrated by my own passivity I utter an audible imprecation, and you 
turn your head.

Your eyes narrow for a moment as you look at me, as if I'm familiar to 
you.  Then I see you shake your head, as if saying, "no, it couldn't 
be," and you turn back to your book.

I spend the next half hour alternately berating myself for my cowardice 
and staring at your profile, silently willing you to look at me again 
and recognize a woman you have known only through letters and stories. 
What to do?  I imagine regretting for a long time this stasis that 
paralyzes me, can forsee regretting this missed opportunity.  One last 
sip of wine for dutch courage and I rise from my seat, approaching you. 

Sensing my presence beside you, you turn around, an enquiring 
expression on your face.  "Yes?"  Your voice is friendly and polite, 
but you obviously don't recognize me.

All I'm able to say is, "hello, Jess." My voice is far shakier than I'd 
like.

Hearing your pseudonym you start for a moment, and I watch the shifting 
expressions on your face cautiously. Puzzlement, comprehension, then 
pleasure flash across your face in seconds. "Michele?"

I can only nod. Grasping my hand in yours, you gently urge me to sit 
down beside you.

The next few hours pass in a blur; to this today I cannot remember what 
we spoke about; I can only recall, with great intensity, my pleasure at 
finally talking with you.  Hearing your voice, seeing your eyes. 
Touching your hand. The casual act of sitting next to you was exciting. 
The literary lover I had evoked so long ago was here, with me.

With a start we both notice that the lights in the cabin have dimmed; 
our travelling companions are drifting off to sleep. For a moment we 
are both silent. Facing you, our bodies leaning towards each other, all 
I can imagine at this moment is making love with you. 

Slowly and gently I place my hand on your thigh, the question in my 
eyes easy to read, I'm sure.

With great tenderness you pick up my hand and bring it to your face, 
sliding my palm against your cheek.  You kiss my fingers one by one, 
then simply say, "yes."

Rising from my seat, I remove a blanket from the overhead compartment. 
Sitting back down beside you, I spread it across us, so that we have a 
modicum of privacy. You turn off the overhead light.

And now I feel your lips on mine, light and exploring, their movements 
slow and leisurely, and my own part to greet your tongue.  And it's 
like kissing you for the first time and kissing you as if we have been 
lovers for years.  You are my familiar stranger.  My imaginary lover 
made flesh.

We kiss as if we have all the time in the world, when we do not. As if 
there is no desperation behind the act, no knowledge that we will never 
meet and touch again. Underneath the blanket you pull my legs across 
your lap, so that we are as close as possible. I feel your mouth on my 
neck and shoulders and shiver a little, and you give a soft laugh of 
pleased recognition, remembering from our letters how that caress 
arouses me.

As we kiss my fingers slide through your hair and touch your ears, 
nose, eyes.  I want to be able to touch all of you, I am so eager and 
needy to explore the topography of our desire.  I kiss you with my eyes 
open; I don't want to deny myself the pleasure of looking at you as we 
taste and touch each other.

And now your hands are sliding under my sweater, loosening my bra and 
finding my breasts, cupping and kneading them, your thumbs brushing my 
nipples into hardness. I give a soft little cry and you whisper, "hush 
now."


Your erection strains beneath my lap, butting against my thighs, so I 
shift my legs so that I can reach down and trace the length of your 
cock through your pants. My fingers on your zipper shake with 
anticipation as I undo your pants, then slowly ease back the waistband 
of your shorts to free your cock.  It's so warm beneath my hand; heat 
seems to rise from your pubes and balls as I trace the length of your 
erection with an enquiring hand.  My thumb circles the head of your 
cock, dabbling at the pre-cum there.  Lifting my hand from underneath 
the blanket I bring it to my mouth and lick away the evidence of your 
need.  And now it is you who groans, and me who whispers, "hush."

Really what I want to do is take your cock in my mouth, but I haven't 
the nerve, here on the plane.  I want to bury my head underneath this 
blanket and smell you and taste you, rub my face against the wiriness 
of your pubic hair, against the softness of your sac.  Lick your 
thighs.  But we have so little room, and even in the midst of our 
desire I am frustratingly conscious of our lack of privacy.  If only I 
were braver.  If only I didn't care.

As my hand strokes your cock, giving it a little squeeze each time it 
reaches your glans, your fingers drop from my breasts to delve under my 
skirt, stroking my crotch through my panties, rubbing at my mound.  I'm 
trying to keep my breathing slow and regular, but as your finger eases 
past one leg hole to wriggle inside my pussy,your thumb stroking my 
clit, I let out a huge sigh, and bury my head in your shoulder.

"You're so wet, Michele," you whisper, kissing my forehead and hair, 
and even though I'm sure only I can hear you, your voice seems very 
loud on this silent plane full of sleeping strangers.

Now I want you inside me, somehow; I'm feeling greedy and brazen and 
hungry and defiant.  So silently I indicate to you that I want to 
change places,  so that I have the inside seat. We ease back our seats 
a little further, and I turn to face the window.  You pull me back 
towards you and then we lean back against the seats, so that now we are 
spooning, my ass resting in the well of your thighs. Once again I cover 
us with the blanket, which has fallen to the floor.

Impatiently I ruck up my skirt and slide my panties to my thighs.  
Reaching behind me I find your cock and give it an encouraging squeeze. 
 "Please," I whisper.

I feel it butting against my ass, then sliding downward, searching 
awkwardly for my cunt. It's almost as if we are teenagers, shyly 
fucking, too scared to look, content to grope and search for a while. 
Arching my hips a little higher I capture your cock, and feel it begin 
to slide inside me, easing past the elastic tightness to find the 
welcoming heat and wetness of my pussy.

Your hands on my hips, you pull me backwards towards you, until you are 
in me as deeply as you can be. The zipper of your pants rubs against my 
splayed labia, biting in a little, but even this discomfort I drink in 
and absorb and enjoy.

Given our lack of room, you can't thrust much; but your hips begin to 
move in a slow, shallow rhythm that has me rocking back against you, 
our legs entwined.  It feels so good to have you inside me, but I want 
so much more; I'm frustrated by all these goddamned clothes.  I reach 
behind me to touch you and I feel clothing when I need to feel skin.  I 
need to feel your bare legs pressing against mine, your nipples hard 
against the bareness of my back.  I sob a little, in frustration and in 
anger at myself, that I can't be happy with what we have now.  You 
continue to ease in and out of my pussy, your arms wrapped around my 
waist, your head buried in the join of my shoulder and neck.  "I know. 
 I know,"  you whisper in consolation and recognition.

And now one of your hands falls from my waist to burrow under my skirt, 
finding my clit; and of course you know precisely how to touch me; 
already and always your fingers know best what pleases me, the light 
tapping motion, the insistent rub.  Is this the first time we have 
fucked, or the hundredth?

Your breath against my neck has grown shallower and deeper, and I know 
you are close to coming.  I can feel my own orgasm building, 
threatening to spill over all too quickly. Suddenly your body stiffens 
and your arms tighten around me, and clenching my pussy around your 
cock I cum too, rocking against your cock and your hand. As the 
contractions ease, you turn my head back toward you and kiss me twice, 
once very hard and deep, then a softer,more lingering caress that is 
almost chaste. I twist my head back to face the window, tears springing 
to my eyes.

We remain embraced like this for a minute or two, then, with a 
regretful sigh you ease your softened cock from my sex.  As it slips 
out, some of your cum puddles on the leaves of my cunt and the airplane 
seat. I reach between my legs and wipe some up, bringing my fingers to 
my face so that I can smell it, then lick it. Gently you grab my hand, 
and suckle our juices from my fingers. Then slowly we fall asleep, your 
arms still wrapped around me, our bodies covered by the blanket.

I awaken to feel you awkwardly trying to right my clothes, tugging at 
my panties, pulling my sweater down over my breasts.  I turn to you and 
smile, but can't think of what to say.  Is there anything to be said? 
I'm afraid even to touch you right now. Instead, I shrug off the 
blanket and return to my seat.  We will be landing soon.

Before the plane descends I try to restore order to my universe, 
heading to the bathroom to wash my face and put on some makeup.  I wash 
my hands with regret, feeling like I'm removing all proof that we have 
met and touched. Hiking up my skirt I slip a hand into my panties, 
exploring the tender, swollen lips of my cunt. I feel a passing sadness 
that all too quickly, all evidence of you will fade.

As I return to my seat I see you watching me as I walk down the aisle 
of the airplane.  As I pass you, your hand grasps mine, and you bring 
it briefly to your lips, kissing my palm.  Then I move past you and sit 
down.

And now I'm watching you disembark.  Your back is very straight and you 
seem so resolute. I exit behind you, deliberately letting a few people 
leave before me. I just want the pleasure of looking at you, 
unobserved, in these last few moments.

As we enter the terminal I lose you for a moment in the crowd.  Frantic 
for one last glimpse of you I crane my head, then spot you as you move 
toward the woman who is waiting for you.  I watch as you bend your head 
towards her to kiss her, your arms enfolding her in a familiar embrace. 
And then the two of you walk away.  You never look back.
