Madame B

Seduction

JET

There's something incredibly thrilling about airplanes. When you're 33,000 feet in the air, you're neither here nor there. Reality is suspended, and anything goes. There's a very good reason why the Mile High Club has so many members, as this woman found out. Who said air travel was no longer glamorous, exciting, and sexy? You hear about people being upgraded to first class all the time, but you never think it'll happen to you. Not to an ordinary woman like me. But it did happen to me, and it turned out to be a very memorable journey indeed.

I was flying from Edinburgh to London for a meeting. Any thoughts I might have had about glamorous business travel were dashed when my boss handed me an economy ticket, saying it wasn't worth paying extra for an hourlong domestic flight. When I arrived at the airport early in the morning and handed my passport and confirmation number to the girl behind the desk, her face fell.

"I'm so sorry, but this flight is overbooked," she said. She must have registered the mild panic that was showing on my own face; I had to make this meeting. But before I could even start to plead and protest, she began tapping away frantically on her keyboard.

"Oh!" Her expression brightened. "Actually, this is your lucky day! We've got a spare seat in first, so we can upgrade you."

Then she handed me a shiny boarding pass and pointed me toward the fast-track security gate. I sashayed through in under a minute, hoping I looked like I belonged in first class. I was glad that the nature of my meeting demanded I wear a suit that day. The security guard who checked my pass directed me to the executive lounge, which was subtly signposted behind a bar. I stepped through a frosted-glass door and into another world. A uniformed bartender squeezing oranges for juice looked up and immediately offered me freshly ground coffee. Free newspapers were strewn across designer glass tables, and on leather sofas that would have looked more at home in a five-star hotel lobby sat well-dressed, glamorous people passing time before their flights. I looked at them in awe. My new companions all radiated money, power, and, of course, sex, and here I was, right among them.

One guy in particular stood out. He was immaculately dressed in a dark-blue pinstripe suit, whose jacket fell open to reveal an expensive turquoise silk lining as well as the flat stomach lurking beneath his pale blue shirt and tie. His dirty-blond hair was close-cropped, his rugged face and square jaw softened by a pair of pink lips that made a vague pout as he concentrated on his copy of The Wall Street Journal. If this was the type of man that flew business class, I was going to have to make sure I earned enough money to do it more regularly.

I was so comfortable that the hour's wait went by quickly, and soon my flight to London was called. I was so excited that I was the first one up the stairs and onto the jet. As I sank into the burgundy leather chair, easily as big and comfortable as any armchair in my flat, the stewardess handed me a glass of champagne. Yes, I thought, as I kicked off my high-heeled shoes and curled my bare legs up under me, this is the way to travel. It simply does not get any better.

And then I realized that it did get better, because who should be sliding his briefcase into the overhead compartment other than Mr. Moneybags himself, the very man I'd just spent an hour checking out in the lounge! Up close, I could see that he was a little older than I'd first thought-around forty, forty-five-but this only made him sexier, more distinguished. When he sat down next to me, giving me a formal nod, I could smell his expensive cologne. I also noticed that his nails were manicured and shiny. The man oozed wealth and sophistication in a way that made me feel incredibly aroused.

And I wasn't sure, but I thought that the attraction might even be mutual. I caught him sneaking a glance at my bare, brown legs and my pretty toes, painted a flattering shade of pale pink. He thought I couldn't see him behind his copy of the paper, but I could. I smiled at him, emboldened by my single glass of champagne, and he immediately broke eye contact and buried himself even more deeply in his paper. I fidgeted in my seat, trying to force him to look at me, subtly undoing the top button of my blouse so that when he next looked up, he'd see a tantalizing glimpse of the camisole underneath. When I handed my empty glass back to the stewardess before takeoff, I made sure that my arm brushed against his.

"So sorry," I said, even though I was nothing of the sort. I wondered if he, too, had felt a little charge of sexual tension pass between us. I yawned and stretched, showing off my waist to its best advantage and leaned forward so he could see the curve of my breasts. And it started to work. He wasn't concentrating on his newspaper anymore, and he was starting to look a little bit uncomfortable, as though there was a lot going on beneath that starched Savile Row suit.