The first time I saw the harried husband, he was trying to stop two squealing children from running in circles around their red faced mother who was already struggling to subdue a toddler in the throes of an epic tantrum in the crowded airport terminal.

"You just never wanted to come with us anyway," the wife barked, hauling the screaming toddler off, with a glance back to shout, "You two! Get over here!"

The harried husband intercepted and scooped up one laughing child, rather efficiently I thought, and then the other, and trotted off after her.

The next time I saw him, he was walking down the aisle loaded down with things the wife had hoped they could carry on. Bumping the heads and arms of plane passengers already seated and tripping over feet he couldn't see because of all the bags and things clutched in his arms.

The wife found one row of seats, in front of me, and then another problem for hubby to solve.

"They're not together," she said. Whined, actually. "We're all over the place."

An attendant came to help sort that out. One parent could sit with the children. The other would sit alone, two rows back, in a seat between two other passengers.

I was about to volunteer my seat when the man sitting next to me, on the aisle, beat me to it.

"Well, that's not so bad," the wife said. "We can take turns with Mikey."

"Thanks," the husband said. On his and her behalf, sheepishly, to the man squeezing out of the row to follow the attendant to the seat he would've taken.

The husband opened an overhead bin only to find that one, then another, then another completely full. He shoved one shoulder strapped bag into a small space in one across the aisle, and then sighed, sat, and started trying to shove the rest under his seat and the seat in front of him.

"I have some room," I told him. And he smiled at me like I was an angel of mercy in the flesh.

So I said, "Will you be needing any of them?"

He sorted things out so that he could get to the toys and treats the kids might need. And then fell back against his seat as if he'd just run a marathon. And feeling as if he had, too, no doubt.

"I'm sorry," he said. With a wan smile.

I liked the dimples in his cheeks. And he had warm eyes. Blue ones. Nice ones. Nice body, too, actually. Muscled but not muscular. Runner maybe. I could see what the wife had initially seen in him. I wasn't sure what he'd seen in the wife.

Who appeared over the backs of the seats in front, to say, "Diaper bag!"

He fished out the bag in question and handed it over. The wife looked at me and said, “Sorry,” like she knew what I thought of her already but didn’t really care. And then dropped down into her seat again.

“I’m sorry,” her mate said again.

“Don’t be. It’s tough traveling with kids,” I said.

And on cue, one of the kids appeared over the back of his seat.

He smiled fondly and said, “Sweetie, sit down and let Mommy buckle—“

The kid suddenly vanished. Yanked down by his mother, apparently.

“I am not going to have this,” she hissed. “Now siddown and behave!”

That was how the flight began. And to keep from losing my temper on her mate’s behalf, I buckled up and settled in, eyes closed, to mellow out a bit as we began the slow crawl toward take off.

It was going to be a long night flight. I figured they’d hoped the kids would sleep through the whole thing. And they did fall asleep. So did the wife.

So when I woke and found the cabin so still, I was pleased. And I saw, when I woke, that the husband was smiling quietly my way, swaddled in one of the blankets provided, as was I.

“That’s the way to travel,” he said.

Even with the kids quiet, he looked a bit tense. So I turned his way, and a button on my top opened. One button too many, that was. He blushed a bit, when he glanced at my ample cleavage. Men always do.

Some of them, anyway. Others just ogle. I model. Bras and panties and things. TV, editorial. Some runway. Men can always tell. And I can always tell when they finally figure it out.

I buttoned up quickly and said, “Now, I’m sorry.”

He smiled, still flushed, and said, “Don’t be.”

And there was something plaintive in it. Something that made me stop buttoning. In fact, I reopened the one that had come loose. And stayed there, leaning a bit his way, almost offering him a good look.

I even squirmed a little bit, so that he could see a bit more. And said, “New York?”

“Chicago.”

“Oh. Me, too.”

He was a bit unnerved, still.

And I was into those eyes again. Really nice eyes. I wondered what they looked like when he made love to the wife. If they ever made love.

Did he close them? Did they open wide when he came? Did she know what they looked like? Ever?

I smiled at the thoughts I was having. I think that way a lot. About sex. I can’t help it. I’d rather have sex than eat or sleep or anything else. And my "appetite" was definitely making this flight a lot more interesting.

He smiled innocently and said, “We got lucky. They’re knocked out. For now.”

“How old are they?”

He didn’t look like he wanted to talk about that. But he told me.

And I said, “Busy, busy, busy, right?”

“Absolutely right,” he said.

And I said, “Well, I’d better let you get some rest then!”

And I closed my eyes, but didn’t take his “entertainment” away. In fact, I was wide awake. Which is why I took a sneaky peek a few minutes later and saw movement under that blanket.

And felt a small ache somewhere below mine. And wished he would open those eyes.

So I sighed. And wriggled. And hoped.

And he flushed even before he opened those eyes, knowing, probably, that I’d caught him.

But I smiled. Eased over into the seat between us and waited. But he kept his eyes closed, though I thought I heard his breathing get a wee bit louder. Faster.

I walked my fingers over the arm rest, paused, and then ran a finger up and down his arm. Just a touch. He would not open those eyes. But he didn’t stop me.

So I leaned a little closer, and let my fingers walk under the blanket. And explore the territory there, watching his face for clues as they wandered down where his own hand was stroking a very hard object. I was impressed. He was very well endowed.

I glanced to make sure the coast was clear, and began to rub it with my hand. And he took his own hands away to let me.

I helped him unzip, very cautiously, so that I could slide my hand into those jeans and give his now taut balls a squeeze. He bit his lip. This wasn’t going to take long.

But to make it even more worth his while, I leaned to murmur, “Touch me.”

His breath caught. I guided his hand to my blanket. He found his way under. Up my short, hiked up skirt, to the wet crotch of my thong.

He shivered. So did I. And we both smiled as our slippery fingers explored. I rubbed pre-cum playfully around the swollen head of his penis and, just to tease him, licked a bit off my finger before returning to the business of driving him crazy.

He was too aroused to stroke me properly, but that aroused me even so. I watched his color change, his body tense, as I rubbed and tugged, carefully but constantly, beneath his blanket.

And then he surprised me. Found a way around the tiny strip of fabric between my legs and began to rub me precisely the way I would have done it myself.

My nipples hardened. He was staring now, at my breasts. Watching me begin to enjoy it as much as he was.

I bit my lip—men like that—and opened my legs more. He started to slide his finger in and out of me in a way that stroked my clit as if it were a little cock going in and out of me.

I squeezed his balls as I felt myself on the verge of cumming. He grabbed my hand with his free one to hold my hand and help me tug the way he wanted.

But my clit was throbbing. I couldn’t hold on any longer. I pushed back against the seat, trying not to move my hips, my inner walls closing against his probing finger rhythmically.

And then he gasped, ever so softly, and I felt cum spurt into my palm, through my fingers and the pulsing between my legs grew into a lovely, deep, pulsating orgasm much stronger than I expected.

We rested together for a moment. Grateful for the loud engines, ear buds and headphones that had kept our secret safe. And that the family was still sleeping. The wife snoring slightly, in the seats in front of us.

And then I gave him a drowsy smile, and a very gentle pat on the cock and murmured, “Diaper bag.”

He frowned. And then caught on. Wipes. Of course.

Later, in Chicago, when I reached to grab my own bag from the luggage carousel, he grabbed it first. And set it down in front of me with a little grateful smile.

“Well, there goes one of ours,” the wife said, with a smirk.

I smiled and headed off. With a smile of my own. We’d exchanged numbers. Addresses. And even before we’d gotten to Baggage Claim, I’d felt my cell buzz. And checked my messages, and found:

“The friendly skies for sure. Drinks? When and where?”

And I had sent back, “My place. Bring the wipes.”

Enjoying the little ache between my thighs as I trudged along, typing.