Posts Tagged ‘Cleis Press’

Great review of The Mile High Club on Amazon

October 9, 2009

I loved this book review by Michael P. Hawkes,, which really captures what The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories is about!

With a name like “The Mile High Club,” should I expect notes on a song by Bow Wow Wow or a Liz Phair video? Knowing it’s an anthology of erotic short stories, I have a few ideas: sexy stewardesses in skintight skirts, proud pilots with prodigious… pants. Of course, I could be wrong.

The anthology edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel is more than pilots and stewardesses, although they do feature in a few stories. Most of the stories involve passengers. Lavatory trysts, alluded to on the cover of the book, are pretty common, though the authors get pretty inventive. Another common method for sex in the sky involves passengers seated next to each other while covered by a common blanket. However, these illicit affairs are unneeded in a couple of stories, such as “Flights of Fancy”, which features an airline devoted to sex, and “Get On, Get Off” which introduces the idea of Masturbation Class.

Getting away from the airlines, we are presented with “Bermuda Triangle” which features a female flight instructor and two male students who do everything she says. “Wing Walker” takes the idea of sex in flight to a new level, when a couple engages in activities on the top wing of a biplane. One story, “Planes, Trains, and Banana Seat Bicycles,” doesn’t involve sex in the skies. While it is a great story, it seems a bit out of place in this book.

All of the stories are good or great. Although they only averaged about 10 – 12 pages each, these nineteen sexy short stories only scratched the surface of the Mile High Club concept. I hope to see follow-up anthologies, because I think there is a lot of uncharted territory in this area. Maybe in the future we can read stories with helicopters. Flying boats. Dirigibles!

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Interview with The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories contributor Cheyenne Blue

April 1, 2009

What was your inspiration for your story in The Mile High Club?

My story, “Wing Walker” was inspired by a friend from some years back whose boyfriend was a stunt pilot. He traveled to air shows around the UK and Europe in his biplane. At one point, he was looking for someone willing to train as a wing walker. I was very, very tempted despite the fact that I am an absolute chicken with heights. I went along to the airfield with them, and while it cemented that fact that my feet are better kept on the ground, it was an awesome thing to watch. And then I read Rachel’s call for submissions for The Mile High Club and I’m afraid I took sex ON a plane rather literally.

Why do you think The Mile High Club has such a mystique?

It’s a bold and brazen statement of your naughtiness. Pretty much everyone knows what you’re doing. After all, why else would two people willingly go into a cramped airplane toilet together? And half of the plane have probably been listening to your pleasure as they line up outside waiting for the lock to slide over to “vacant”. And however subtle you think you’re being with that carefully positioned blanket, you can bet the flight attendants have you pegged. You need to be bold and brassy about it, and let’s face it, not all of us have the guts for that. There’s no way to join the Mile High Club discreetly, not unless you’re Barack Obama in Air Force One with a whole spacious plane to romp in, and only the Secret Service looking discreetly out of the window. Hmmmm, now that’s an idea for a story…

Do you have any tips for people looking to join The Mile High Club, whether from personal experience, observation or imagination?

Move to Denver? Somehow that mile-high city doesn’t count for this. So, wear a skirt. Smile sweetly when security pulls out your mini-vibe from your carry-on baggage. Select the two seats at the back of the airbus, so that you don’t have an inadvertent threesome with the person in the third seat. Wiggle your way onto Air Force One.

What celebrity would you most want to join The Mile High Club with and why?

Sexy tennis players Rafael Nadal and Amélie Mauresmo come to mind. Can I have both of them? At once? And now I’ve got Air Force One into my head, I’ll add Barack and Michelle Obama.

Are there any specific planes or airports you find particularly sexy?

Right now, I’m having major fantasies involving Air Force One and a certain president, but I have to say that normally planes don’t do much for me. That’s probably why I set my story “Wing Walker” ON a plane, out in the freedom of the cold open air, rather than in an air-conditioned tin can.

We all know that in real life, plane travel is often not very sexy at all. What’s your best piece of advice on how to make plane travel as relaxing as possible?

Assuming you’re traveling Cattle Class, and can’t sashay your way into an upgrade, my patented method for making plane journeys fly by, is white wine, loose clothing, no shoes, toothbrush and toothpaste for those long haul flights, and of course a good book. Personally, I love long haul flights, and consider them prime story-writing time. And the expression of the person in the next seat as they read what I’ve written over my shoulder? Priceless.

What’s next for you?

I’m eyeing Australia again, and expect to be living back there by the end of the year. Writing wise, right this second I have twitchy fingers to write about Air Force One. I’m also taking second (Third? Fourth?) looks at some unfinished stories that stalled for various reasons, and I’m working on a novel with bisexual themes. My website http://www.cheyenneblue.com has details.

Below is an excerpt from Cheyenne Blue’s story “Wing Walker.” Read the entire story in The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories.

The conversations go something like this:

“I’m a wing walker,” I say, demurely twiddling my glass of chardonnay.

“Oh?” he says, and his eyes flick over me dismissively, no doubt picturing me in thick overalls wielding an industrial hose of airplane deicer at DIA. “You don’t look the maintenance type.”

“I’m not,” I say. “I wear a catsuit, not a boilersuit, and I dance on the wing of the plane as it flies along.”

That always gets their attention, at the very least a double take, while they decide if I’m serious or not. And if they decide I am, then I have their interest for as long as I want it.

Wing walking goes something like this:

I dress warmly—a layer of wicking thermals because it’s colder than the moon out there, with the wind whipping away every thought of warmth; then the catsuit. It’s a patriotic red, white and blue, a line of stars down the thigh, diagonal stripes over the torso. Patriotism goes down well with the air-show crowds. I wear goggles against the wind, soft slippers on my feet so I don’t harm the fabric of the wing.

Bob is our pilot, Buttercup is our plane. Bob is sixty-eight and has a steady hand on the controls. Buttercup is also sixty-eight and she’s a Boeing Stearman biplane, a game old girl painted as sunny as her name. Bob and her, they have a long history together. I often think they’ll go together in a burst of flame on a hillside. I just hope I’m not on the wing at the time.

We take off from a back strip, away from the crowds. I’m already on the upper wing in my safety harness, securely fastened to the upright struts that protrude from the center of the plane’s structure. Surely you didn’t think I’d do this without a harness? Some people used to, but they tended to have short careers.

We circle the air show once, up high. We’ll talk a little on the radio. Bob worries how long he can keep doing this. The maintenance on the old girl gets harder every year. Then we get the signal to go and we come in fast and low. I’ll be in a pose: arm extended gracefully, my long hair streaming behind me like Boadicea the warrior queen. Or Xena the warrior princessæI guess more people have heard of her. One leg cocked up, I’ll hold the pose and wave to the crowd as Bob takes us up in a hard spiral. And for the next fifteen minutes or so, Bob will twirl with Buttercup, looping the loop, flying upside down, flipping her from side to side, always within sight of the crowds, of course. And me? I’ll be up there, posing, slow-motion dancing, sometimes doing a handstand, although Bob has to keep her totally steady for that one, so I only do that when he’s been dry for a few days. The wind pummels the breath from my body, and moving a limb is like pushing against cement. The roar of the air and the rumble and creak of the plane beneath my feet fill my head. There’s a crowd? I honestly couldn’t tell you. It’s just me and Buttercup and Bob, flying in our little space-time continuum.

FREE Mile High Club story: “Wild Child” by Matt Conklin

March 23, 2009

If you like this FREE erotica story, do check out all the hot plane erotica in The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories. TODAY, March 23rd only, buy The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories from Amazon.com and get any of Rachel Kramer Bussel’s Cleis Press titles free! 2 for the price of 1!

Details:

I’m running a special promotion: order The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories from Amazon.com anytime on Monday, March 23rd, and I’ll send you any of my Cleis Press books you want, for free (Do Not Disturb, Tasting Him, Tasting Her, Yes, Sir, Yes, Ma’am, He’s on Top, She’s on Top, Rubber Sex, Crossdessing, Hide and Seek, Caught Looking, Rubber Sex, Best Sex Writing 2008, Best Sex Writing 2009).

Instructions:

1. Purchase The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories on March 23, 2009 from Amazon.com (MUST be on that date and MUST be from Amazon.com)

2. Forward the receipt to milehighantho at gmail.com AND tell me which of the above books you’d like

U.S. addresses only (sorry!)

Thanks for your support! Read the book’s introduction here

Wild Child
by Matt Conklin

Sex on planes is stupid. These people think they’re so cool for joining the “Mile High Club.” They probably think that sneaking a joint makes them oh so rebellious too. Whatever. Fucking on airplanes is overrated. They’re just dumb conformists who want to do it because they read about it in a magazine. I just want to get to L.A. already. This whole thing is stupid….

I couldn’t help looking over her shoulder. She was sitting right next to me, after all, and I’ve never been one not to notice a woman, even if she is fifteen years my junior. But even if I weren’t the type to try to see what my seatmate was reading or check her out, the furious way this girl was scribbling in her notebook, a loud, angry kind of scrawl, was the equivalent of pounding a piano keyboard, hard, and it was difficult to ignore.

Her entire aura was angry, and she was dressed in typical post-teen fashion–black tank top over jeans, with a black hoodie, plenty of black eyeliner, an eyebrow ring and a scowl. Oh, and dark green Converse sneakers. As I took in her words, I knew immediately that she was a all but a virgin. She was too fired up, too cocky, to have ever fully surrendered to a boy–or a girl. She had all the charm of a young woman whose sensuality is hidden not so deeply beneath the surface, who just hasn’t figured it out yet.

She made me want to smack some sense into her, or fuck her. I could’ve told her to grow up, but what would be the point? So she could become jaded, I mean, “mature,” like me? No, I figured I could have some fun with her, though, and maybe let Miss Attitude know that there’s more than one way to get screwed on an airplane.

Her eyes, once you got past the shaggy bangs and overdone makeup, were almost sexy. And yes, I was now officially a dirty old man, likely twice her age or damn close, for even considering what she had going on under that hoodie. But she started it, and I felt like it was in both our best interest to pursue it.

“You’re wrong, you know,” I said in as snotty a voice as I could muster. Like meets like and all that. “It’s not just about yuppies sneaking off for a quickie and calling it the best sex of the year. There are all kinds of ways to fuck on a plane. You’re just too young to know about them.”

She glared up at me, and let me tell you, it was the sexiest glare I’d ever seen, the kind of sneer that says “Leave me alone” and “I want to suck your cock” at the very same time, the kind of stare that made my dick even harder. “Like you’d know,” she muttered, then cut me with her eyes before turning to face the window, deliberately closing her journal and curling up into a ball as best she could within the confines of the seats. Normally, I don’t care what my neighbors are reading or eating or doing on a plane; I’m intent on getting where I’m going as quickly as possible. I’ve had my share of fun on planes, but for the most part I think they’re utilitarian vehicles, the fastest way to get from point A to point B, nothing to get too excited about.

But I was excited about this girl, because she was definitely a girl, not a womanænot even close. I’d been spending my time with women who’d been around the block, who knew exactly how to give a blow job designed to make me melt, who approached sex like a sport they’d already won several medals in. Maybe that’s not totally fair, but I was bored. I was on the plane because I wanted to shake things up, not necessarily with a wild fling, but with something different. I’d been certain a quick trip to Miami would snap me out of my rut. I’d fantasized about somewhere more exotic, but time was even tighter than money and I just wanted to be in the sun, soak up a few rays, ogle some chicks in bikinis and flirt and drink and not think about my latest breakup or my job performance. Things were salvageable at work, but I wasn’t exactly going to be made employee of the year. I’d been drinking too much and had taken some of my frustration out on Heather, who’d finally had enough. But looking at this girl full of smoldering sex appeal buried beneath layers of goth indifference, I wondered if maybe I didn’t even need to get to the land of beaches, sunshine and Cuban flair for that to happen. This wild child seemed tailor-made for that, and like she could use someone to talk some sense into her before she became jaded like all the others.

Just then the stewardess came by and asked about drinks. My companion surprised me by ordering a club soda. I opted for wateræwith extra ice, and a whiskey. I smiled politely even as my mind formed deviant plans. My seatmate continued to pretend to ignore me, but I sensed her eyes peering at me over her shoulder. I pulled out a book, some thick thriller on the bestseller list I’d grabbed off the shelves. I used to have a stack of books just waiting to be read, and would sometimes rush home to them like they were old friends, but lately all I’d been reading were labels on jars and captions on my TV screen.

I tried to act like I was immersed in the book, playing hard to get, if you will, but when the stewardess returned with my requested cup of ice, I was grateful for the chance to pull out my tray, and grinned up at her. I think she thought I was flirting with her, from the way she leaned down, thrusting her tits in my face. That brief nearness made my seatmate a little jealous, apparently, because she scowled at the woman and demanded both a Coke and a tomato juice. “You better not spill on me,” I said to her like she was eight.

“Why don’t you just mind your own business?” she snapped back.

“Are you sure that’s really what you want…Donna?” I asked, having copped a glance at the copy of Bust with its address label still attached she’d been rifling through.
“You’re damn nosy, you know that?”

“You were the one writing about something that I happen to have a vested interest in.”

“I was writing in my journal, you idiot.”

“Fine. Stay young and uninformed, I don’t care,” I said, sipping the whisky I’d so wisely had the busty stewardess bring me. I reached for my book again and tried to imagine I was in first class. But my cock was insistent that I not let this one get away.

I ignored her for as long as I could stand it before turning toward her. She now had her headphones on full blast, her hoodie hiked up around her ears, and her body turned all the way away from me, her petite build allowing her to sit with her legs tucked against her as she faced the window, staring into the darkening sky.
“The ice is melting. Such a shame,” I said quietly.

“Why?” She wasn’t exactly gracious, but I was pretty sure I had piqued her interest.

“I don’t know. Some people, you know, those stuffy, uptight dickwads you think so highly of, might be interested in playing with ice, like a sex toy. I’m sure that would be way beneath you, so there’s no point in even going on about it.”

There was silence for a few minutes as I sipped my drink and actually let myself get sucked into the mystery novel, the first clues making my brain spin with possibilities. Just when I thought I had a lead on who the killer might be, she spoke again. “Not that I actually care or anything, but what exactly would you do with the ice? And how do you do it without getting caught?”

I turned to look at her and her eyes seemed wider, the makeup seeming to fade as she stared up at me. “Well, the only real way to tell you is to show you. Otherwise it’ll just sound boring. Do you think you’re up for it? I’m not so sure a delicate flower like you could stand it. It’s really more for the…masochistic sort of girl.” Of course I already knew that she was as submissive as they come. It’s the bratty ones who always need a good spanking, and the sniveling, simpering ones who are actually the biggest bitches once you scratch that outer layer. Time and time again, my theory has been proven right, as ballsy babes who’ve busted my nuts at work or among friends have begged to have their hair pulled, to choke on my cock, to be degraded in ways even I hadn’t thought of.

Donna looked up at me and nodded. “I can take it.” She said it like I was about to take her before a firing squad, rather than make her more aware of her nipples than she’d ever been.

“Try not to sound too enthusiastic,” I said right into her ear. She shivered, and I made my lips brush against her lobe. “Cold?”

“No, I’m fine,” she said.

“Good, because you’re about to get a lot colder.” And with a practiced move, I took one of the pieces of ice in my hand, put my arm around her, and quickly worked it below her T-shirt and into her bra. I made sure it was secure there, as I felt it start to melt just a little. I allowed my fingers only a brief meeting with her already-hardening flesh before removing my hand and patting her on the shoulder.

She looked at me again, her mouth open, fishlike. “Don’t say anything. It’s better that way. Just take deep breaths and focus on the sensation. And get used to it because I’m about to add another one,” I told her. Her face could not have looked more shocked. Having ice melting against your nipples is one of those things you can’t really prepare for. Even if you think you know what you’re getting into, the reality is more painful, chilling, and exciting than you could have expected.

“Yes, there’s going to be another one…unless you can tell me you hate it. Can’t stand it. Wish I hadn’t done it.” The more I talked, the faster the words bubbled out, the stiffer my cock got. I’d wanted to try to play it cool, but I was just as aroused as she was. Initiation should be its own fetish, its own niche in the world of sex.
Watching a woman go from barely knowing where her clit was to realizing that her nipples were way more sensitive than she’d thought, and could take all sorts of torment, was as beautiful as watching the glorious sunset going on outside our window.

“No. I mean, I can’t say that. I don’t know…I wouldn’t say I like it, but I’d be disappointed if you didn’t do it again.”

“How disappointed?” I asked, stroking her cheek with one rough thumb.

“Well…I’d think you were a big mean bully,” she said. Now she was just toying with me.

“But would that really be such a bad thing?” I asked her before reaching down to pinch her icy nipple. She let out a sigh, then a hiss, as I manipulated the ice through the fabric of her T-shirt and hoodie so it was more directly in contact with her nipple.

“Oh, Donna, this is only the beginning. Because in a little while, I’m going to hand you three pieces of ice and tell you to go to the bathroom and insert them inside your pussy. And yes, you’re going to do it, then walk back here, sit down, and make a big puddle in your seat. It’s going to look like you’ve peed your pants. You’re going to almost wish you had peed your pants, that it had all been an accident, because even though the ice is cold, your pussy’s going to be on fire.” I let my words sink into her stubborn little brain.

“But what about you?” she asked, clearly stalling for time.

“What about me?” I asked back, even though one look down at my crotch revealed just how hard this discussion was making me.

“I mean, why do I have to be the one to suffer? Don’t you get to be iced up too?”

“Oh, little girl…” I said, then reached between her legs so she could feel my heat and I could feel hers. “There’s so much you still have to learn. That is, if I’m not boring you by being a, what was it…?” I paused and shifted my fingers. “Oh yeah, a ‘dumb conformist,’ ” I said as I pressed my palm flush with her pussy.

“No, you’re not. You’re not, I promise. I didn’t know,” she said, then clutched my arm tightly.

“What didn’t you know, Donna?” I asked calmly as I plucked another piece of ice out of the rapidly melting pile and put it in my mouth. I held it between my teeth and smiled at her, waiting for her answer.

“I didn’t know it would feel this good, or that I’d get so turned on. I’ve only been with one guy, Rich, my ex-boyfriend. He was always all about the in-and-out—he said anything fancier was dreamed up by people with nothing better to do, who were never going to change the world.”

“Ah, my dear, that’s where you’re wrong. If anything’s going to change the world, it’s going to be sex.” I pried her fingers off my arm. “I think you need some more ice cubes,” I told her.

She didn’t object, didn’t shrink away or glare. She watched, her eyes glued to my hand, as I took another cube and quickly slipped my hand down her shirt and into her bra, dropping my little gift, then extricating myself. My wet fingers dripped onto her neck as I massaged it.

“Now you,” I said. “Rub it directly against your nipple. Think about what I could do if I had you alone, your breasts hanging out of your bra, your nipples straining in the air.” Silently, she held one hand over her breast, using her hoodie to massage it into her. “After that melts, it’ll be time for you to go to the bathroom,” I whispered. She didn’t say a word, but her shudder said it all. If you’re tuned in to body language, a careful movie-watcher, a reader of the book of humanity, you can tell a shudder of horror from one of pleasure. They are oceans apart, gestures similar only in name. This shudder said, “I never thought it could feel this good. I don’t care that we’re on a plane, who knows how many feet in the air, in public, strangers. I just want more.” Watching Donna was a pleasure all its own, a visual feast as my words and fingers coordinated to untangle her, unwrap her, unleash her. I, too, was changing, from dirty old man to enraptured seducer, her pleasure humming through my body as if we were attached by a wire.

“I bet you’re very wet right now. I bet you’re not thinking about how fast this plane is flying so it can get you to Miami and away from me.”

“No…I’m not.” There was a pause, while I breathed against her neck, out, then in, inhaling her scent, musky and flowery at once. “I like this,” she said quietly. It was a simple statement, and from someone else might’ve been a small admission. But from her, it was everything. I had her. I cupped her pussy once more through her jeans, grinding my palm against it. She sunk lower in her seat, pressing back against me.

I leaned over and pressed my forehead lightly against hers, kissed her cheek softly. Kissing on planes is highly underrated. My lips met the soft skin of her cheek and I was reminded of just how young she was, her skin perfectly smooth, so tender I could practically sink right inside it, full of promise. I was too old for her in real life, whatever that was, but here, on this plane, I didn’t mind making her feel hot and cold and aroused and wanted for a little while. She turned toward me and our lips met tenderly, like two teenagers making out in a movie theater, even as the ice wet her shirt and her pussy begged for more.

Her tongue insisted on entering my mouth, though her movements were small and tentative at first. I let her explore me before grabbing her hair and shoving my tongue into her mouth, as quietly as I could, the invasion swift, decisive. I knew our fellow passengers had to notice something amiss. It’s hard to ignore two people in the throes of passion; even if you think you’re not listening or observing, those telltale shifts, those familiar sounds rise up into your consciousness. I reminded myself that for all these people knew, she was my wife—my very young trophy wife, with me cast as the dirty old perv.

I didn’t mind though, and when we broke apart, panting, I held my hand to her lips. She kissed each finger in turn, then unbuckled her seat belt and slithered over me, making sure to pause when her legs were straddling mine, a look on her face that, for a moment, made me question whether she was, indeed, as innocent as I’d painted her in my mind. She reached into the cup of ice and grabbed a handful, then winced as the shock of its cold sting greeted her. Then, still poised above me, Donna took a piece of ice and traced it over my lips, making them tremble, then part. She pressed it against my tongue and it felt heavy, solid.

She didn’t want to be in charge, I could tell, but she wanted to at least let me know she could be. Then she turned and walked toward the back of the plane.
I swallowed hard. When she’d been right in front of me, I could easily let myself forget our surroundings. With her gone, I tried my best to stare straight at my hand, examining imaginary hangnails, my cuticles, my skin, memorizing the hairs on my knuckles. I was embarrassed, a new emotion for me. I didn’t ask myself whether it was wrong to corrupt her, whether I should have waited for some other clueless kid her age who’d maybe banged one chick to show her what she was missing.
I was too horny for that. Her virginal yet knowing body was already haunting me. It had been, what, five years–or maybe more–since I’d been with a girl who was truly innocent, almost ignorant, about sex. Showing her not only how to please me but especially, how to please herself, the uses for her cunt and her clit and her nipples and her mouth, even the simple act of stroking the back of her neck: that’s what I wanted to do for Donna.

All of a sudden, I knew she was on her way back. I turned around and saw her practically limping. She had done it; she’d really done it. Until that moment, I hadn’t been totally sure, hadn’t trusted that she was a) curious enough to continue and b) able to get those cubes into her pussy. Cunts don’t exactly welcome freezing cold objects, but hers had. She walked around me and sat down, a look of heaven and torture across her face.

“You’re an asshole, you know,” she said.

“Am I? Really?”

“I bet you’re single. I bet all your girlfriends break up with you.”

She was taunting me, teasing me, and despite knowing better, it worked. I reached between her legs, feeling the cubes threatening to pop out. She continued to try to badmouth me, but I knew she was just putting up a front. I knew from the way her hips lifted against my hand, the cold wetness alive against my fingers. I didn’t even feel that sorry that I couldn’t slide my way inside her just then. I could have, but I liked the tension between us, liked seeing her react, almost despite herself.

“I think it’s time for a nap,” I said, smiling at her wickedly as I took my wet fingers and brushed them against her cheek. My index finger roamed over her lips. She let me inside, only to bite me, and I gritted my teeth. There’s nothing I love more than being bitten by a woman in the throes of ecstasy, when she hardly knows her own strength, and wouldn’t care if she did. I could tell Donna was a biter. And a screamer. And a gusher. Don’t ask me how; I just knew.

“Take it back,” I said. “What you wrote before. Take it back and maybe I’ll make you come.” I could see I don’t need you to make me come, flash across her mind, but she didn’t say it.

“I guess you were right,” she managed.

“You guess?” I asked, letting my hand rest against her neck, lightly, but with the promise of more.

“You were right, I see that now. This is exciting, it’s not what I’d thought it would be.”

“Neither are you, Donna,” I said, and leaned down, pressing my lips against her forehead. Her skin was warm there, and I rested like that for a moment before telling her to reach down and fish out the cubes.

“What?”

“You heard me. I want them. I’m gonna eat them.”

That seemed to be the most shocking thing I could’ve told her. I wanted to eat the melted ice cubes that were in her pussy. I would be tasting her by proxy, but she would have to touch herself to make it happen. “I’ll guard you,” I said, and shifted in such a way that she’d be hidden from full view. She didn’t protest anymore, just reached down and shifted enough so that she could retrieve the cubes, which were about half the size they’d been earlier. Water streamed down her hand and onto both of us. “Put them in my mouth,” I instructed her.

She did as commanded, our eyes meeting as her hand and the cubes entered my mouth. The truth was, I wanted to devour her: lick her all over, keep her naked in my apartment overnight, or, hell, for a week. But I let her fingers slip out, before taking them in my own and this time, settling a magazine across her lap and a blanket across mine, before delving into her panties with both our hands, mine atop hers. I steered her and guided her, letting her fingers show us both what felt good.

“I’ve never…”

“I know,” I assured her. This was a hell of a place to start, and as fluffy white clouds raced by our window, I taught my own sexy wild child how to masturbate: how to make herself come, how to touch her pussy in a way that could transcend any number of bouts of bad sex or heartache. I stayed with her as she trembled, turning her face into my shoulder and leaning toward me.

She asked for my number, but I didn’t give it to her. I didn’t want to totally tame her wildness, and I figured this was like that “if you give a man a fish…” saying. I had taught her what her body was good for; now it was up to her to go out and use it. That’s not to say it was easy to step off that plane and feel the culture shock of heading back to my real life, where wildness was certainly in abundance, but never paired with such innocence. I let her use my sweater to wrap around her waist, where a big puddle sill remained.

I hope Donna learned a good lesson that will make her a better lover, to herself and others, someday. I learned that you’re never too old to learn new sex tricks, and that sometimes it’s the least likely strangers, on a plane even, who can show you a new side of yourself.

Like what you read? Buy

The Mile High Club lineup!

December 2, 2008

Woo-hoo! I just got the lineup for The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories approved. I will post my intro once it’s back from the copyeditor, and will hopefully get some teasers in here and down the road interview some of these fabulous authors! I’ve been having so much fun digging into plane factoids and other fun stuff. And maybe I’ll actually get to join (or rather, rejoin) the Mile High Club in 2009!

The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories
Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Introduction: Flying High

34B by Bill Kte’pi
Instrument Flight Rules Zach Lindley
A Brief Respite Desiree
Get On, Get Off Jeremy Edwards
The Scream Queen Sommer Marsden
Wild Child Matt Conklin
Bermuda Triangle Vanessa Vaughn
Top Banana Craig J. Sorensen
Nasty Little Habit Donna George Storey
Urgent Message Rachel Kramer Bussel
Obedient Teresa Noelle Roberts
Aisle Seat Stan Kent
Game in the Sky Elizabeth Coldwell
Executive Decision Jeff Worth
When Your Girlfriend Wears a Very Short Skirt Thomas S. Roche
Planes, Trains and Banana-Seat Bicycles Alison Tyler
Flights of Fancy Geneva King
The Girl Most Likely Kristina Wright
Bert and Betty Ryan Field
Wing Walker Cheyenne Blue

Welcome to The Mile High Club!

October 30, 2008

My name is Rachel, and I’m a member of the Mile High Club. Well, only kindof (you can read about my real-life plane sex adventure here).

I did edit this super-hot book, The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories that’s coming out in March, with stories about airplane sex that’ll make you want to rush to your nearest airport. If you have a story to share, email me at rachelkramerbussel at gmail.com (put “Mile High” in the subject line).

I’ll be blogging about the mile high club in the news and keeping you posted about events for the book and other items of interest; I hope to do readings at airport bookstores. I can certainly say that working on this book has made every plane trip more memorable as I look around and imagine what everyone around me is up to!