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Page 8.
"I see." I was perfectly satisfied with her explanation that wasn't an explanation so much as a down-boy or down-girl. "I will do everything I am told, to make you happy."
"I know," she said warmly. Somehow, it was as if she moved her warm hand full of blessings and hosannas over my poor little head, and rested her hand on my back for a moment. I felt filled with happiness and satisfaction. That is how it is in the dreams when you are on a mission. I'm not talking just ordinary raggedy ass dreams that people have where they are shivering and scared and crying for their mommy, or screaming as they fall out of fifty-story windows but wake up just before they go smack on the concrete. I understood that all people have good, busy mission dreams like these but most people are just tiny bit players in the great nocturnal drama of the night city blues and they never have any idea that we all live extra lives at night in our sleep. I had some special talents and that's why I was chosen for more important night work. At the same time, on that particular flight, I was still a young, raw newbie and had not a clue. That kind of made it all extra sweet and fresh and exciting.
My dream within a dream switched back to the outer dream, in which I was curled up on one side like a child, under my toasty quilt, with my hands folded under my cheek while Benoit or Bonuit was fussing over me.
"How are we doing here?" he said in a sweet, dark voice like forest honey that matched his five o'clock shadow (or whatever time the clock of facial hair reads).
"Mmm…" was all the noise I could make. I felt as if I had a huge marshmallow in my mouth, in a pleasurable kind of way.
"That's good," he said in a soothing tone, almost like a nurse bathing a patient. He took an extra long time about tucking me in, because I suppose it was a long night flight and that was really his job to make all of us passengers feel cozy and warm.
I became once again aware of Bonuit, standing over me as if he were frozen in time, slipping that pillow under my head, but I think he was tucking me gently in at the same time with big, dry, gentle hands. He had fingers like a pianist, like a musician, who knew how to strum my strings. He stood leaning over me, with both arms extended, fussing with the corners and edges of that soft, fluffy, airy quilt. He was a tall, muscular, wiry man with a narrow waist and a large shoe size. I could smell the warmth of that leather, and the cotton of his socks. He smelled nice, as if he'd just taken a shower with a very faintly fragrant, manly soap not long before. I made a mental note to ask him if he'd slept the night in a lovely, modern hotel in Paris or London, in L.A. or Montreal, or maybe someplace more exotic with palm trees and islander girls the night before planing. He had some s'planing to do.
"Can I get you anything else? A stuffed animal, maybe?"
As he leaned over me, I caught a gleam of his zipper and started salivating a bit.
Yes, I thought, eyeing his bulge. A stuffed animal would be perfect right about now. A toy goose with a long neck, or the swan that fucked Ledo in the myth of Zeus and the swan. Or was it Zeus and the Goose?
Getting goose bumps, I felt waves of desire pumping up from the well of, well, my well, for lack of a better term. Maybe those were memory waves of the earlier orgasm. Where had that been? Maybe in my bed at home in the waking (sleeping) world. In these dreams you remember little, usually nothing, so you have no idea if you are married or single, alone in bed or with someone, homeless in a ditch or lying in a mansion where every bedroom is as big as a city apartment.
Bonuit said nothing but made a cooing, approving noise, a little groan from the depths of his throat, of pleasure and approval, as my slender fingers with their faintly pink nail polish pulled down the hasp of his zipper. With my other hand still trapped as if glue between my cheek and the pillow, my free hand reached into the mysteries of his fly. My fingers fished around, familiarizing themselves. I felt warmth, and moisture. I felt hardness, soft around the stem but rigid as his desire complemented my feverish curiosity.
My hand found the trunk of his manhood and held it. He groaned. The stiffness was his desire for my touch. He wanted my lips there but in dreams we take our time. Everything flows at a different pace, like on a current in a stream glittering with moonlight. Only there was no glitter here. I had the quilt over my head, like a child in a tent, and nobody could see anything. As the lady said, my dreams are private. My dreams are the one place where I am completely in charge and there are no rules except what I want, and the limits I put on myself, only to stay out of danger if there is any. Flying is dangerous, let's face it. Dreams have their dangers, which is what makes them all the more exciting.
Fondling his Johnson, while he stood still over me, gripping the seat back behind my head with both hands. I needed for my hand to be wet, but my skin was as dry as his shaft. I sat up in the tent under my quilt so that both my hands were free. My dark, rich, full black hair hung down around me like a veil. I had become his island girl, and wanted to serve him while I took all that he had. I undid his belt, smelling fragrant leather. The gilded buckle twinkled and clinked faintly in the gloom under my quilt. I pulled apart the flaps of his trousers, finding white cotton shorts which I pulled down. I yanked them down with both hands, gripping the elastic band with my womanly paws. There it was, Mr. Glans, sproinggg, wobbling before me like a stiff tree in a breeze. It was big. I put my hands around it and pulled it to me, resting first one cheek against it and then the other. I puckered my lips and ran them up and down his shaft while he gave out a faint cry of surprise and pleasure. I felt one large, gentle hand kindly massaging my poor back while I devoted myself the worship of his crank. If our skin had been too dry—my hands, his saseech—I licked and kissed it up and down. It smelled faintly like the sea. There was also subtle coconut something, his soap on a rope probably in the shower, leaving a hint of tropical atmosphere in the hot box of his shorts. Hungrily, like a pig snuffling for truffles, my nose dug into the darkness and my lips sought whatever skin they could find amid the hard, crisp hairs. I held his balls in the palms of my hands and lifted them toward me, kissing them and licking them while his shaft stood straight up. Yes, he reached down and held it to give me access to the lower parts. Holding his manliness worshipfully, feeling their weight and fullness, I kissed my way up his throbbing mast (a long journey, taken slowly and with pleasure) until my lips fastened around the mushroom head and sucked, as if I were mouthing a lollypop.
At this, he held my head in both hands while he began to shake and quiver with growing passion. His large palms contained my face as if it were the most precious beautiful thing he had ever seen. At that moment, I am sure it was. I am pretty in a plain way, very pretty in a kind of scrubbed young way, and I was his goddess at that moment as he was carried helplessly on the current of his pleasure, the stream of his ecstasy, toward the thundering falls of his Niagara. He might have wanted to slip that slippery alligator in my mud, but he was too far gone by then. I put my hand between my thighs to form a tight knot for my muscles to squirm and turn around, fiery and flaming with their own need. I heard a great sob or a groan fly from my lips even as I pumped his head with my mouth as if it were a suction or a pussy or a hot vacuum perfectly fitted for what it was doing. I almost cried with desire, and could not get enough, as I swallowed the wads of spit and come that bubbled up inside, choking me. With both hands, I pressed against the hard wall of his steely abdomen, while his powerful hands gripped my skull, with my hair oozing through his fingers, as we both orgasmed at the same time.
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