I was flying home from a trip over the weekend when my mind decided it was time to recreate the hottest moments from a past relationship in tremendous sensory detail. Warmth of his fingers against the sensitive skin of my throat kind of details. Stretch of his precum between the tip of his perfect dick and the tip of my index finger as my tongue moved closer to taste kind of details.
Naturally, before I knew it, my body was aching to move to satisfy the wet, hot demand of excitement making a mess of my panties. I was wearing jeans, so I arranged myself like I was trying to get comfortable enough to take a nap against the headrest of my middle seat. I made sure that one leg was crossed over the other in such a way that each time I took a deep breath, I could feel just a little friction of the denim against my clit as my torso rose and fell to accommodate my breathing pattern.
It was more torturous even than the memories of being passionately fucked that were undulating in my head. I craved more pressure, more urgency of movement. I kept that deep breathing rhythm and felt the impatience of desperation grow inside me—a bratty, horny resentment brewing over the fact that I couldn’t do more without drawing attention to myself.
I never did get close to orgasm, so I suppose I never reached proper edging, but I did enjoy/detest that barest indulgence for a good 15-20 minutes of my flight; I could feel how slick and needy I made myself later when I uncrossed and recrossed my legs and felt the wetness against every motion.