Red Eye
"Overnight flight, nearly empty plane. She's in the seat next to him. Blankets. Darkness. Whispered conversation that gets dirtier as the hours pass."
The red-eye to Seattle is almost empty.
I count maybe fifteen passengers scattered across the cabin as I find my window seat—row 23, all the way in the back. The kind of seat you end up with when you book last minute because your meeting got moved up and you had three hours to pack.
I settle in, expecting to stretch out across all three seats. Sleep the whole flight. Wake up somewhere over the Cascades.
Then she appears.
"Is this 23B?"
She's standing in the aisle, boarding pass in hand, looking down at me with an apologetic smile. Early thirties. Brown hair pulled back in a messy bun. Full face, soft jaw, lips that look like they're always about to say something.
And she's big.
Not just curvy—big. The kind of big that makes airline seats a negotiation. She's wearing a loose cardigan over a tank top, black leggings that strain against thighs thick enough to fill the seat entirely on their own. Her hips are wide. Her belly rounds out beneath the cardigan. Her breasts are large enough that the tank top fights a losing battle.
"Yeah," I manage. "That's you."
"Of course it is." She sighs, stuffing her bag in the overhead. "Empty flight and I still end up in a middle seat."
She squeezes past me—her ass brushing my knees, her hip grazing my shoulder—and settles into the seat. Or tries to. Her curves spill past the armrest between us. Her thigh presses against mine, soft and warm through the thin fabric of her leggings. Her arm touches mine, and she doesn't pull away.
"Sorry," she says. "I take up space."
"Don't be."
She looks at me. Something flickers in her eyes.
"I'm Rachel."
"Marcus."
"Well, Marcus." She buckles her seatbelt, and I watch it strain across her belly. "Looks like we're stuck together for the next five hours."
The plane takes off.
Rachel grips the armrest—the one between us—and her knuckles go white. Her breathing gets shallow. Her thigh presses harder against mine, like she's anchoring herself.
"You okay?"
"Fine." She's not fine. "I just hate flying. Hate takeoff. Hate landing. Hate turbulence. Hate everything about this aluminum tube of death."
"Then why—"
"Work." She laughs, but it's thin. "Can't exactly drive to Seattle from Boston."
The plane shudders through a cloud, and she grabs my arm. Her grip is strong, her fingers soft, and she doesn't let go even when the air smooths out.
"Sorry," she whispers. "I'm a mess."
"It's fine."
"I'll stop touching you."
"Don't."
She looks at me again. That flicker is back.
The flight attendant comes by with a drink cart. Rachel orders wine—two small bottles, one after the other. I get whiskey. By the time the cabin lights dim, we're both warm and loose.
"What do you do?" she asks. Her voice is lower now. The wine and the darkness make everything feel closer.
"Consulting. Boring stuff."
"And what do you do that isn't boring?"
I turn to look at her. In the dim light, her face is shadows and curves. Her eyes catch the glow from the emergency exit sign.
"I'm still figuring that out."
"Me too." She shifts in her seat, and her breast presses against my arm. She doesn't move away. "Thirty-two years old and still figuring out what makes me feel alive."
"What have you tried?"
She smiles. "You really want to know?"
"We've got five hours."
The conversation starts innocent.
Work stories. Travel disasters. The kind of small talk that fills time but doesn't mean anything. But Rachel keeps ordering wine, and I keep ordering whiskey, and somewhere over Pennsylvania, the questions get sharper.
"When's the last time you did something reckless?" she asks.
"Define reckless."
"Something you couldn't take back. Something that made you feel like you were actually living instead of just existing."
I think about it. "Too long."
"Same." She finishes her wine. "I'm so fucking careful all the time. Good job. Nice apartment. Don't rock the boat. Don't take up too much space."
"You can take up space."
"Can I?" She laughs, but there's something raw in it. "That's not what most people tell me."
"Most people are wrong."
She's quiet for a moment. The plane hums around us. In the row ahead, someone snores.
"You're not what I expected," she says.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone who'd ask for a different seat. Someone who'd angle their body away from me all flight." She looks at me, and in the dim light, her eyes are serious. "Someone who'd make me feel like an inconvenience."
"You're not an inconvenience."
"No?"
"No." I let my thigh press back against hers. "You're the most interesting thing on this flight."
She asks the flight attendant for a blanket.
"I run cold," she explains as she spreads it over both of us. "Hope you don't mind sharing."
"I don't mind."
Under the blanket, her hand finds my thigh.
I go still. She doesn't move. Her fingers rest there, warm through my jeans, and I can feel her pulse racing in her touch.
"Is this okay?" she whispers.
"Yes."
"I don't usually do this."
"Neither do I."
"But there's something about tonight—" Her fingers trace higher. "—something about being thirty thousand feet in the air with a stranger who looks at me like—"
"Like what?"
"Like you want to devour me."
I turn to face her. She's so close. Her breath smells like wine. Her body is warm against mine, soft and substantial, and I can feel every inch where we touch.
"What if I do?"
Her breath catches.
"Then maybe—" Her hand slides higher, finds me hard beneath my jeans. "—you should stop holding back."
Under the blanket, I touch her.
My hand finds her thigh—so thick, so soft, my fingers sinking into the flesh. I squeeze, and she inhales sharply. I slide higher, toward the heat between her legs, and she spreads her thighs to make room.
"We can't," she whispers. "Someone will see."
"Everyone's asleep."
"The flight attendants—"
"Are in the galley." I lean closer, my lips brushing her ear. "And you're going to have to be quiet."
My fingers find the seam of her leggings. The fabric is thin. I can feel the heat of her through it, the dampness already spreading. I press, and she bites her lip.
"Fuck—"
"Shh."
I rub her through the fabric. Slow circles over her clit while she squirms in her seat. Her thigh presses against mine, her breast against my arm, her breath hot and ragged in my ear.
"What do you want?" I whisper.
"More."
"More what?"
"I want—" She's struggling to stay quiet. Someone shifts three rows ahead, and we both freeze. When the snoring resumes, she grabs my wrist and pushes my hand down, under the waistband of her leggings. "—I want your fingers inside me."
She's not wearing underwear.
My fingers slide through slick heat, and she's soaking. Dripping. The kind of wet that makes noise if I'm not careful. I find her entrance and push two fingers inside, and her whole body clenches.
"Oh god—"
"Quiet."
"I'm trying—"
I curl my fingers, find the spot that makes her thighs shake. She grabs my arm with both hands, nails digging in, her face buried in my shoulder to muffle her moans. Under the blanket, my hand works between her thick thighs, pumping into her while my thumb circles her clit.
"You're so fucking wet."
"I know—" She's panting. "—I've been wet since you told me not to apologize for taking up space—"
"Yeah?"
"No one talks to me like that." She's grinding against my hand now, desperate, her hips rolling in her seat. "No one looks at me like I'm something they want—"
"I want you."
"Show me."
I add a third finger. Stretch her. Fill her. She's so tight around me, so hot, and I can feel her walls fluttering as she gets close.
"That's it," I whisper. "Come for me. Come on my fingers at thirty thousand feet with a plane full of strangers sleeping around us."
She shatters.
Her whole body goes rigid. Her cunt clamps down on my fingers, pulsing, and I feel the gush of wetness flood my palm. She bites my shoulder to keep from screaming, her teeth breaking through the fabric of my shirt, and I keep fucking her through it—drawing it out, making her ride every wave.
When she finally goes limp, she's trembling.
"Fuck," she breathes. "That was—"
"Not done."
I pull my fingers out of her. Bring them to my lips. Taste her.
She watches, eyes wide in the darkness.
"Bathroom," I say. "Two minutes."
I get up before she can respond. Walk down the aisle, past rows of sleeping passengers, to the tiny lavatory at the back of the plane. I step inside, leave the door unlocked, and wait.
It takes less than a minute.
The door opens. Rachel slips inside, and suddenly the tiny space is full of her. Her breasts press against my chest. Her belly against mine. Her thick thighs bracket my hips as I back her against the wall.
"This is insane," she whispers.
"Do you want to stop?"
"God, no."
I kiss her.
She tastes like wine and want. Her mouth opens for me, her tongue sliding against mine, and her hands fumble with my belt. I reach under her cardigan, push up her tank top, and her breasts spill out—heavy, soft, bigger than my hands, her nipples hard against my palms.
"Yes—"
I squeeze. Pinch. Roll her nipples between my fingers while she moans into my mouth. She gets my belt open, my jeans down, and her hand wraps around my cock.
"Fuck," she breathes. "You're big."
"Think you can take it?"
"I can take anything."
She proves it.
I spin her around, press her against the tiny sink, and pull her leggings down over her ass. It's massive—round, soft, each cheek overflowing my hands. I spread her, and she's still dripping from before.
"Hurry," she pants. "Someone might—"
I push inside.
One thrust, all the way to the hilt, and she has to cover her mouth to keep from screaming. Her ass presses back against me, warm and heavy, and I feel her cunt stretching around my cock.
"Fuck—" she moans through her fingers. "—you're so fucking deep—"
I start to move.
There's no room in here. Every thrust presses her harder against the sink, rattles the walls, fills the space with the wet sound of our bodies meeting. Her ass ripples with every impact. Her belly presses against the cold counter. Her breasts swing beneath her, and I reach around to grab them, to fill my hands with her flesh while I fuck her.
"Harder—"
"Quiet—"
"I don't care—" She pushes back against me, meeting my thrusts. "Harder—"
I fuck her harder.
The plane shudders—turbulence or our movement, I can't tell. I grip her hips, those wide, soft hips, and slam into her while she bites her own hand to keep from screaming. Her walls clench around me, so tight, so hot, and I can feel her getting closer.
"Come again," I growl in her ear. "Come on my cock in this tiny fucking bathroom—"
"I'm—fuck—I'm—"
She comes.
Her whole body shakes. Her cunt grips me like a vice, pulsing, milking me, and the sound she makes is barely human. I feel her wetness running down my balls as I keep fucking her through it, chasing my own release.
"Inside me," she gasps. "I want to feel it—"
I come.
I bury myself to the hilt and explode, pumping into her while she pushes back against me, taking every drop. Her cunt keeps pulsing around me, and I feel my cum mixing with her wetness, flooding her, dripping down her thighs.
We stay there, pressed together, breathing hard.
"Jesus," she whispers.
"Yeah."
We clean up as best we can.
She pulls up her leggings, and I know my cum is still inside her, leaking into the fabric. The thought makes me twitch. She notices, and laughs.
"Already?"
"Give me ten minutes."
"We've got three hours left."
She's not joking.
We slip out separately—her first, then me two minutes later. When I get back to our row, she's under the blanket, her hand already between her thighs.
"I couldn't wait."
I slide in beside her. Under the blanket, I replace her hand with mine.
"Tell me what else you want."
"Everything." She spreads her thighs wider, lets me push my fingers back inside her cum-filled pussy. "I want everything you'll give me."
The hours blur.
Three more trips to the bathroom. Once with her on the tiny toilet, riding me, her hand over her mouth while her breasts bounce in my face. Once with me sitting on the closed lid, her kneeling in front of me, taking my cock in her mouth until I come down her throat. Once bent over the sink again, faster this time, desperate, her ass slapping against my hips while she begs me to fill her again.
Between trips, we talk.
Real talk. The kind you can only have with strangers in the dark. She tells me about her divorce, her loneliness, the way she's forgotten how to feel wanted. I tell her about my empty apartment, my seventy-hour weeks, the way I'd started to forget what human touch felt like.
"We're both disasters," she says, her head on my shoulder.
"Perfect disasters."
"Is that what this is? Perfection?"
"It's something."
She tilts her face up. In the dim light, I can see her eyes searching mine.
"I live in Seattle," she says.
"I know."
"I don't want this to just be—"
"A one-time thing?"
"Is that pathetic? Wanting more from a stranger I fucked in an airplane bathroom?"
I brush my fingers through her hair. Feel the warmth of her body against mine.
"My meeting ends at three tomorrow. Dinner?"
She smiles. Really smiles.
"Dinner."
The plane begins its descent.
Rachel grips the armrest again, but this time I take her hand. Lace our fingers together. Let her squeeze as tight as she needs.
"Still hate landing," she mutters.
"I've got you."
"Do you?"
"For tonight." I kiss her knuckles. "And maybe longer."
The wheels touch down. She exhales. Turns to look at me with something new in her eyes—not just desire anymore. Something softer. Something that might be hope.
"I don't even know your last name," she says.
"Reeves. Marcus Reeves."
"Rachel Okonkwo." She squeezes my hand. "Nice to meet you, Marcus Reeves."
"Nice to meet you, Rachel Okonkwo."
The plane taxis to the gate. Around us, passengers stretch and yawn and gather their things. But Rachel and I stay in our seats, fingers intertwined, not ready to let go.
"This was—" She shakes her head. "—I don't have words for what this was."
"Life," I say. "Finally feeling alive."
She laughs. Leans over. Kisses me one more time—soft, slow, a promise.
"See you at three?"
"Three."
We gather our things. Walk off the plane together. In the terminal, she writes her number on my boarding pass and disappears toward baggage claim with one last look over her shoulder.
I watch her go—those wide hips swaying, that round ass rolling beneath her leggings, all those curves I spent five hours learning in the dark.
My phone buzzes.
Couldn't wait. Already thinking about dinner. —R
I smile.
The red-eye was supposed to be five hours of sleep.
Instead, it was the beginning of everything.