Mile High Illusion

(Source)

Miranda had worked for Mr. Jordan for 15 years as the only flight attendant on his private jet. It was a sweet deal, really.

There were drawbacks of course.

Though she had a lot of time off, she was paid year-round to be on call. When Mr. Jordan wanted to fly, she had to be at the ready within an hour, sometimes less. It also meant she got to travel quite a bit herself. When Mr. Jordan went to Paris, so did she. When Mr. Jordan went to Dubai, Miranda did, too.

She knew several languages and had originally been hired, right out of college, as a translator by Mr. Jordan's company. Miranda moved up the ranks quickly, as she was professional, punctual, talented, and...let's be honest...attractive, young, and approachable.

Mr. Jordan wanted her to be the face his clients saw smiling at the door, her well-manicured hands holding the tray that would bring them champagne.

On this particular day, Mr. Jordan had requested Miranda's presence for a flight to New York with an overnight stay, a short trip that Miranda had been on dozens of times over the years.

She had prepped the cabin, fluffed the chair cushions, and stocked the refrigerator and cabinets with the expected essentials.

When Mr. Jordan boarded, Miranda smoothed her skirt and straightened her hat (he had always required that she wear a traditional stewardess uniform -- gloves and all). He greeted her as usual.

"Good afternoon, Miranda. I expect things are ready to go...you always seem to have everything just as it should be. I so appreciate your attention to detail." He nodded his approval and smiled as he moved past her toward his preferred seat, making himself comfortable.

"Can I get you anything before take-off, Mr. Jordan?"

"No, my dear. Just make yourself comfortable up front. I'll ring you if I need anything. For now, a bit of peace and quiet and solitude." He looked down at his open newspaper, his silent way of dismissing her.

Miranda made herself busy in the kitchenette (closed off by a door to ensure privacy to the passengers in the cabin).

It must have been 25 minutes or so before she heard the tell-tale ringing of the bell meant to summon her. But when she entered the cabin, no one was there. Her brow furrowed in confusion, and she began to look behind the seats (there were 12) to be sure Mr. Jordan hadn't fallen or been hurt somehow. Maybe a heart attack?...She was mildly panicked by his apparent absence. Finding the cabin completely empty, she went to back of the plane to knock on the door of the private quarters Mr. Jordan used as a sleeping room on long flights, and when he had sporadic (usually beautiful) female guests. Some, of course, were paid escorts. But, often, Mr. Jordan brought along women he knew to break up the monotony of being alone. He was busy. Too busy for a steady, committed relationship. But the man had needs, didn't he? And Miranda didn't judge.

She knocked lightly on the door.

"Mr. Jordan? You rang? Is there something I can do for you?"

At that moment she heard a clank and the voice of woman, moaning, and squealing. The sound was coming from the bathroom.

Miranda was suddenly confused. Mr. Jordan hadn't had a companion with him when he boarded. Unless she boarded after Miranda had left the cabin, which wouldn't have been at all the protocol. Was Mr. Jordan hiding his guest from her...or more likely, was he hiding Miranda from his guest? Why?

She walked toward the bathroom, at the front of the plane, near the door behind which she spent most of her time on these flights. She put her ear up to the door and prepared to ask if Mr. Jordan required assistance, but her hand stopped short of knocking when she heard the woman's voice again.

Her eyes grew wide and she inhaled deeply. She decided not to knock, but rather, stood motionless outside the door, listening.

She could hear the rhythmic pounding that made the internal activity obvious. And still, she could not move.

She knew that Mr. Jordan would not approve of her eavesdropping, but it was the closest she was likely to get to being in the position herself. She indulged her curiousity and kept close enough to hear but far enough away to pull herself together quickly if need be. The sounds were primal. Whatever he was doing to that woman, it must be amazing. Miranda found herself feeling a tinge of jealously. She also found herself feeling a tad...tingly.

Standing, with her back to the door, she closed her eyes and slowly pulled her short skirt up in the front, just enough to touch herself. She thought a moment about removing her glove, but figured it would be too hard to get it back on if the door opened too quickly. With her fingers moving against her quickly dampening panties, she wondered to herself, why on earth is he fucking her in the bathroom when he has a perfectly good private room at the back of the plane?

She bit her bottom lip and let her fingers quicken their movement a bit. A small sigh slipped from her mouth, quiet enough to not be heard over the ruckus in the room at her back. She leaned up against the wall next to the door, on the side where the door would open against her to hide her indiscretion.

She spread her legs a little more and tightened her calves and thighs, pink rising up her neck and cheeks. She shuddered and whimpered quietly, biting her lip again to quiet herself. She felt a tiny trickle of liquid down the inside of her thigh. She could feel the blood pumping in her ears, as her breathing began to return to normal. It was quick. She had always been able to do that on her own. A skill she had perfected over the years, blazing fast self-produced orgasms.

As her breathing slowed and her hearing cleared, she continued to listen to sounds behind the door.

"Miranda?"

Her eyes flew open, she quickly pulled her skirt down over her thighs and, gulping and very obviously and nervously flustered, she responded in a strained and unintentionally small voice, "Yes, Mr. Jordan? I heard the bell and became concerned that you were possibly injured because I couldn't find you anywhere and then I heard moaning from the bathroom and thought that you might be hurt so I stood here and listened for bit until I realized that you must have a guest that I didn't notice board the plane...I'm very sorry Mr. Jordan if I've disturbed your privacy in any way..."

She stopped to take a breath, and looking like a frightened guilty puppy who'd just eaten the side of the couch, she peered up at him through her lashes. What she saw was a unexpectedly mischievous smile. She straightened her gaze, as he began to laugh softly. Just then she heard the moans growing to a crescendo in the bathroom behind her.

"Wait a minute..." Miranda looked very confused. "If you're here...then who's in there?"

Mr. Jordan continued to laugh. He reached around her, his body close enough for her to feel his heat and smell his ridiculously expensive aftershave. Turning the knob to the bathroom and pushing the door open, he exposed his little trick. His smartphone emitted several deep throaty moans and a final scream of release, "Oh my God!"

She swung back around to face him, her eyes narrowing in question, "What is going on, Mr. Jordan? I don't understand..."

"I knew you'd be faithful to your curious nature...I knew you'd listen in. You do that often, don't you?"

"Of course not, Mr. Jordan..." She was fidgety and extremely uncomfortable with the question - even more so with the answer she knew she shouldn't give, "...but it's hard to ignore in such tight quarters...." She was quick to add, "It's none of my business and I never judge or talk about what happens here to anyone...I promise..."

"Miranda, you silly girl." He looked at her, lowered his head and tsk-tsk-ed.

"I'm not a girl, sir...I haven't been for quite some time." She was bit indignant in her discomfort.

"Had the operation then, have you?" He smirked.

"The operation?" Her quizzical expression gave way to an exasperated sigh. "You know what I mean...I'm not a girl. I'm a woman if you hadn't noticed." She breathed in fully and stood tall, ready to face whatever he might throw at her next.

"Oh, I've noticed. For quite some time, as you say."

"Mr. Jordan, I would be very interested to know what is happening here, if you would be so kind to enlighten me...What exactly is the purpose of this prank? Were you trying to trap me so that you could reprimand me or fire me?"

"Good God, no, Miranda. I wouldn't dream of letting you go. And I apologize for my dishonesty. I'm not sure where this adolescent behavior is coming from. Maybe you bring it out in me."

"Excuse me?"

"I was watching you."

"What!?"

"I wanted to see what you'd do...I wanted to see if you'd listen in. I was in the back quarters, watching through the peephole..."

"Watching me?" her cheeks grew hot, and embarrassment flushed through her, stopping, with the greatest intensity, between her thighs.

"I'm sorry, Miranda...forgive me. I shouldn't have. I really didn't expect that you'd..."

"Okay...stop right there, we needn't discuss it, I'm completely mortified at this moment..."

"You shouldn't be...it was amazingly erotic...and I feel like a giddy thief for having witnessed it without permission. I know it was wrong - and I'm sorry...but really, I couldn't stop. I was hypnotized by it. Unable to move, or speak, lest you stop."

Miranda looked at him with a mix of confusion and anger and shame.

"Mr. Jordan, I..."

"Tyler...call me Tyler. Let's start over." He reached his hand out to her, as if requesting that she shake it, which she did, reluctantly.

"Nice to meet you, Miranda. Would you like a glass of champagne?"

Miranda could think of nothing better than drinking away her humiliation.

"Yes...yes, I think I would."

She made to release his hand and turn to retrieve a bottle, but he held tight and pointed out that he'd already beaten her to it. He led her back to the seats and handed her over to the soft leather cushion, into which she sank and wished she could be buried whole.

He poured her a glass and held it out to her. Shaking a bit, she took it. He sat beside her and held his glass up for a toast. Hesitantly, she clinked her glass against his.

"To the next 15 years, Miranda. May they be a bit different than the first."

She drank the glass of champagne as if it were water and she'd just completed a marathon, and he refilled it just a quickly.

Good lord what have I gotten myself into? She thought to herself.

"What do you mean by "different," dare I ask?"

He reached across the armrest and touched her face.

"Miranda, yesterday I woke up and realized I was tired of being alone. And then it hit me....I'm not. You've been here all along, ready in an instant, always expecting my call."

"It's my job, Mr. Jor--"

"Tyler."

"Yes, Tyler, it's my job."

"No one just gives up 15 years of her life to follow some bloke around the world and follow his every whim simply because it's her job. Miranda...be honest. It isn't just me, is it?"

She swallowed audibly.

"You don't have to say it...just kiss me." He leaned toward her.

Holy hell, she thought. Right now, with little time to do so, she had two choices between which to decide - slap him and request that he have the pilot turn around this instant, or accept the fact that Mr. Jordan...Tyler...was not a normal man, and therefore would never have approached her as such. He would not call her and ask her to coffee, subtly referencing his interest in her. He would not be shy even appropriate. He was used to getting his way, without asking. The fact that he'd just requested that she kiss him was more accommodating and patient than she would have ever guessed him to be. This was him. And if she wanted him, she would have to take him as he was. Though many women would have refused his entitled way of commanding those around him, Miranda knew him for what he truly was. She also knew herself, and that he was right. No one gives up 15 years to follow some bloke around the world, unless she loves him. It wasn't explainable or justifiable. It just was.

She quickly downed the rest of her glass of champagne, and then leaned in to kiss him, the bubbles still dancing on her tongue.

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So I was NOT going to stay up late to finish this story. I had intended to do it early this morning. But then...life got in the way. And here I sit at 11:30 pounding out the tale, so I can submit it for Wicked Wednesday (the prompt was to explain how/why a flight attendant might be sipping champagne in first class). I didn't think I'd have a thing to contribute for this one, but as it turns out, I became quite entranced with my characters and couldn't give up until I finished. So, for what it's worth, I got it done, with 36 minutes to spare before the deadline.

Hope you enjoyed it...I'm headed of to bed now. Exhausted but pleased with myself. Just sayin'.