The night flight
From Paris to New York
This story is about an adult subject. If you are under 18 and happen to read this, talk to an adult afterwards. And ask lots of questions.
February 4, 2002
The following piece of erotica is from a woman's point of view. An Iranian woman's point of view. It goes beyond anything that has appeared by any Iranian on the net. Some will, no doubt, find it to be vulgar. But I am presenting it to the readers of iranian.com because I believe it is both beautiful and important. It is beautiful because it describes an episode of the most pleasurable sex. It is important because it takes one step, however small and distant, towards erasing the stigma attached to sexuality, and especially female sexuality in our culture. This is for all of you who think ordinary women do not have sex for pleasure, and/or that if they do they are shy or afraid to talk about it. Here is one episode in the life of an Iranian woman who enjoys writing about sex as much as having it. Enjoy!
It was Paris Charles de Gaulle airport at the end of the summer. I was waiting in line to get on the night flight back to New York. I had slept the entire trip from Tehran to Paris and was feeling refreshed. It was a tearful goodbye leaving Farhad, my fiancé. But the minute I got on that flight I felt an enormous sense of relief. I loved Farhad once but the more my mother approved of him, and the more he became a de facto member of our family the less I really wanted him. I no longer desired him. When I waved the last good-bye to him earlier that day I knew that I would never marry him.
Sitting in that Air France plane flying away from mother, fiancé and Iran, I felt happy, light and giddy. Once the pilot announced that we had left Iranian air space an almost physical feeling of optimism spread through my being and appeared as a smile on my face. It was, quiet simply, freedom that I felt. I was young and the world was mine to conquer! I celebrated this pure, simple, and intoxicating feeling of being free with a Black Label on the rocks brought to me with a knowing smile by the French stewardess. How many others, I wondered, had this feeling of elation when leaving Iranian air space ever since the revolution? I thought of the overly eager searching hands of the Khahar who had searched me at the last checkpoint and wondered has she ever been abroad? Has she ever crossed then Iranian Air boundary? Does she want to? I drifted to sleep and woke up as we were landing in Paris.
I noticed the American as soon as he walked into the semi-circle of the boarding area. He had Dirty-blond, nicely cut hair, not too neat, not too long, one-day stubble. He was tall and handsome. The look was blue-blood Maine with a touch of Paris: crisp, white, Faconnable shirt with a pack of Gitanes in the pockets, jeans, penny loafers without socks and a Tag Hauer on the wrist. At the time I considered myself a socialist, but all of the above I noticed non-the-less. Though believe me the height meant way more than the watch.
He gave me an unashamed "I am undressing you" look from our first eye contact. In Airports, where people come just to pass through, everything is so ephemeral and fleeting that rules seem to become suspended. There is a non-threatening quality to the encounters that one has in Airports and Airplanes. Relationships formed here are easier to abandon.
I looked back at this gorgeous creature and smiled thinking of an Airplane-sex scene in some Harold Robbins novel of my Mom's where I learned about both sex and English. In my early teens I used to steal one of her books, go to the swimming pool of our Daroos home, and read under the shade of the walnut tree as I sipped cool tall glasses of Sharbate Albaloo.
Once air-bound, before the seat belt sign went out, and while the plane was still moving upward and at a slant, he made his way to my seat. I smelled his cologne first. Vetiver, I knew it because my much older brother and most of his boarding school friends had worn it for years-- I still associate that scent with male sexuality. I turned and there he was hovering above, with the friendliest smile and these sea-blue eyes that were no doubt trying to drown me. He introduced himself in a raspy voice and a ''many years abroad'' American accent that increased his over all sexiness a hundred folds. He stood there leaning towards me with the cocky confidence of good looks.
His body was touching my arms; he straddled my seat and the one in front with rowing-team strong arms, leaning over me with the full imposing slouch of his torso. He asked if he could take the seat on my side with a pleading look in his eyes, as though, if I refused, he would burst into tears. This boyish yearning in his eyes softened his macho, aggressive, physical confidence and made him seem at once safe and irresistible. I felt like all I had to do was to take him in my chest and all that masculine eagerness would become mine to satisfy, direct and command as I wished. I instinctively knew that with this stranger every accepting gesture or move on my part would be reciprocated with a grateful gesture on his.
I replied to him softly, afraid that if I opened my mouth my heart might come leaping out. He dropped into the seat next to me and slouched, his legs wide apart and already touching mine. We exchanged who and where and whats over scotch on the rocks, as if these mundane questions and answers were so many kisses on each other's necks. After one of these questions he took my hand and put it to his lips. He kissed my fingertips ever so gently like you do a newborn baby's. He slowly marked every centimeter of my arm with disappearing-into- thin-air kisses. Until he reached the hollow inside of my elbow, and he dug a piercing tongue into it-- wet and violating. This made a shudder run through my entire body and spiral inside, through my koss, which became instantly wet, making me gasp for air. He put his lips on mine as if to claim the gasp, the longing.
His tongue was shameless, searching, caressing, and penetrating every corner of my mouth. I tried to slow him down half-unwillinglyñmy hands grabbed his head gently pulling his hair and moving his face away from mine.
I took a quick look, smiled and started kissing his face, his nose, his eyes, his lips. His hands freed, he started feeling my breasts from over my button down shirt. I was very glad I had opted for the skirt and shirt rather than the jeans that morning. With his thumb and forefinger he held my, by now, very hard nipples and gave them a sure and firm squeeze, which buffered by the shirt and the bra, was pure pleasurable pain. Another wave through the body and up the hole and all over the inside, and gasp.
He pulled away, turned off the over head light, put up the hand rest between us and placed the airline blanket over us in one unfolding gesture that betrayed that he had done this many times before. I knew I was in good hands.
I pulled him down unable to wait and resumed the kissing or rather the tongue-tango, letting my hands slip into his surprisingly hairy chest, finding his nipples and caressing them. He undid my bra letting my heavy breasts fall into the cup of his large hands as if they were created for this and only this. He handled them with the care you take in holding a crystal snifter. He caressed and teased my breasts starting from the bottom moving with circular motions of his fingers up to the areola and above the curve of the nipples ending with a gentle squeeze of them between two fingers. I let my hand work its way to the bulk of his hard penis bulging under his jeans. Nothing is sexier than a bulging, hard penis, a beautiful kir, under blue jeans--like the album cover of Rolling Stones' Sticky Fingers. I love to run my hand over it and see the beautiful male organ magically grow as if responding to my deepest wish.
I caressed his penis and I could feel its desperation to be let out, to be freed from the oppressive pull of the blue jeans and wrapped in the warm, wet, welcoming embrace of my cunt. His mouth was on my breast sucking my nipples almost like a baby suckling.
I no longer cared if the passengers next to us could see. I just did not want all this to stop. His tongue slapped my nipple with short fast, wet, strokes, and there went the shudder this time vibrating under the skin up the opening between my legs and through every inch of my body. I had to suck up air to hold that shudder and keep it from making me moan. I kissed his ear as if to thank him for this last move. I blew into it gently. At this he slipped his long, slender hands into my panties, when he touched my pubic hair, he let out a little moan of approval in my ear. He let his hand discover my clitoris, touched it firmly as if to book mark it, and slipped into my kos ever so gently. I grabbed his hand with both thighs not wanting to let go, afraid that he wanted to lift it. He pulled out his fingers and slipped them into his mouth in a devouring gesture that made me smile. I took his forefinger out of his mouth and put it in mine hungrily sucking it as I slid it in and out as though it were his penis. I looked at him and said, "Kir-e-to meekham." He bit his lip as if he understood this wish uttered in my mother tongue.
My fingers found the cold of his zipper and pulled it down. His penis filled my hand with warmth and promise. It was everything that I wanted it to be: big, hard and pleading. I put my head beneath the blanket, cupped his penis with my lips putting just enough pressure to all its sides, while sliding ever so gently up and down-- curling my tongue to add friction and strengthen my hold. I loved his taste. I could have done it forever. He gave himself over to the labors of my mouth, his head falling back, his mouth slightly open in a silent groan. After a few minutes of this, as if it was too much he picked my head up, pushed me back and reclined my seat.
He took my breast in his mouth and caressed the nipples with his tongue, moving from one to the other as if making sure that they were evenly treated. With his finger he played with my clitoris. First in gentle wide strokes then in smaller, repetitive ones, revealing a comforting knowledge of the female anatomy. He licked his way down to my belly button stuck his tongue in it and pushed.
When he reached my skirt he lifted it and ripped my panties with a single stroke. That gesture itself filled me with added pleasure. His tongue reached my clitoris, my thighs locked his head as if to let go would mean to give up life itself; with his lips he covered his teeth as he bit into my cunt as if trying to devour it entirely. He used his nose to push and play with my clitoris. I heard the stewardess approach and lifted his head. A dirty look from the lady in uniform and we were straightened up like school kids discovered in some act of mischief. A sip of scotch and a smile: we were now two junkies in search of a place to get our fix.
He told me to go to the bathroom and he would follow. I got up and carried out his order. The door to the bathroom opened and he grabbed my face and kissed me. His tongue was fucking my mouth as his hands rubbed my cunt.
He placed me on the tiny, metal sink, pushed up my skirt, and spread open my legs. He took his penis in his hand and started rubbing it against my clitoris. Then he slipped it into me. He entered first with a small push and then with another, much harder that took my breath and made me groan. His penis filled me up-- the inner muscles of my vagina wrapped it in a desperate, welcoming embrace. He moaned as he started penetrating me ever so gently pushing me back so that his finger could keep on working on my clitoris. His penis penetrated me in slow deep movements pushing me ever so lightly against the bathroom mirror. I nibbled on his earlobe with abandon, he pushed me back to keep his hand working on my clitoris. I felt the tiny circular waves of the beginning of an orgasm coming. I held backÖ "Not yet, wait for him".
Few more methodic thrusts and movements of his finger and a wave of pleasure covered my very being and spread inside, over and around me, ëI am coming', I gasped. At this he grabbed by buttocks with both hands and started ramming his penis into my cunt, his fingers buried in my flesh. I was coming and this desperate, slightly painful, penetration of his made it last forever spreading and spreading inside me in huge, enveloping waves of circular and increasing pleasure. I, my whole being, became one panting, oozing entity of pure pleasure. I pushed my tongue deep into his ear as though that was the only way for me to reciprocate his thrusts. He let out a cry, pulled out his penis and came on the sweaty surface of my stomach.
The pilot announced over the speaker that we were approaching turbulent skies. I smiled thinking of reading those Harold Robbins novels, by the pool, in the Tehran summers of my teens.
NOTE: This opening episode of Sarvenaz has been re-published in the March 2007 issue of London-based Erotic Print Society's magazine, "SEX".