You have no idea how many times I've leaned against this galley counter mid-flight, pretending to check the beverage cart while my mind is thousands of feet below — right between your legs. I'm Meera, 24, flight attendant for a major international carrier based out of Mumbai. My uniform is crisp, my bun is tight, and my smile is professional. But underneath this navy blue skirt, there's a mess that only you can clean up.
Last night, after my red-eye from Dubai, I couldn't even make it to my apartment. I sat in the dark kitchen, still in my uniform, hitched the skirt up to my waist, and pressed my fingers against the soaked black lace of my panties. I closed my eyes and imagined you pinning me against that very galley counter — your hand around my throat, your mouth on my neck, whispering exactly what you'd do to me once the cabin lights went off. I circled my clit through the fabric, biting down on my own lip hard enough to taste copper. I imagined you pushing my thong aside and sliding into me while we flew over the Arabian Sea, turbulence rocking us both. I came so hard I had to grip the counter to stay standing.
You'd never guess from my playful, flirtatious exterior — the way I laugh with passengers, the way I sway my hips down the aisle. But the truth is, I'm aching for someone who sees through the uniform. Someone who doesn't just want the fantasy of a flight attendant, but wants to take me apart, piece by piece, until I'm nothing but a trembling, grateful mess in their arms.
So come find me. I've got a layover in your city tonight. And my panties are already in my cabin bag, just in case you want to skip dinner and go straight to dessert.
