Air Hostess Made Me Squirt

I had an 8 PM flight on a Sunday, and I decided it was the perfect opportunity to level up my public masturbation game. To make the travel more exciting, I denied myself for a week—a big deal for someone who touches herself at least five times a day.

The day of the trip, I woke up already horny and excited. I’d slept naked just to ensure I’d wake up aroused, and my plan worked: I was dripping wet. Since I live alone, I stayed naked while I did my chores. The temptation to touch myself and squirt was overwhelming, but I resisted all day.

When it was almost time to leave for the airport, I finished packing and chose a short, dark red dress. I went without a bra or panties; the dark color felt safe enough. I booked a taxi and saw it would be about a ten-minute wait. I dragged my suitcase to the living room and plopped down on the arm of the sofa, completely forgetting my lack of underwear. The jolt of pressure against my bare clit made my entire body shudder. I couldn't control it anymore.

Slowly, I started rocking my hips against the sofa's arm, a gentle rhythm that had me moaning in seconds. I was so close to cumming when my phone buzzed—the taxi driver.

"Aaah, yes?" I answered, my voice tight as I fought back the impending orgasm.

"Ma'am, I'm waiting for you," the driver's voice said flatly.

"Oh, yes, I'm coming," I stammered, getting up in a frustrated huff. A big, dark wet spot glistened on the couch arm, and the sight of it turned me on even more.

I got into the cab and immediately began rubbing my clit in slow, deliberate circles, trying to be subtle. The driver could see me in the rear-view mirror, and I didn't want to be too obvious, but the more I touched myself, the more I needed. I pinched a hard nipple through the thin linen, almost letting a moan escape. They were like pebbles, and the fabric did little to hide them. I brought the hand from my clit up to my breast, and the slick wetness on my fingers against my nipple made me shiver and let out a soft gasp.

Just before I could cum, we reached the airport. By this point, I was so horny I was willing to risk masturbating out in the open. I went through security and found my gate. I still had five minutes before boarding and wondered if I should just go to the restroom and finish myself off. But that defeated the purpose; it wouldn't be thrilling enough.

Then the boarding call came, and a line began to form. I noticed a single restroom right next to the queue. The chances of someone using that specific one were low, and five minutes was more than enough time for me to squirt. I slipped into the bathroom and locked the door, relieved to find it was a single room with a floor-length mirror.

I made sure the door was locked, then squatted down, lifting my dress. My pussy was dripping. I watched myself in the mirror as I rubbed my clit in frantic circles, soft moans escaping my lips. I was so lost in the feeling, so close to the edge, that I didn't hear the door click open.

I opened my eyes and saw an air hostess standing there, her mouth wide open, just staring.

The world froze. The air hostess’s eyes, wide with shock, were locked on mine. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. Then, as if snapping out of a trance, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson. She blinked, gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head, and silently backed out of the restroom, pulling the door closed behind her.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of panic and a dark, thrilling excitement. The brief interruption had shattered my arousal, leaving me trembling and frustrated. I quickly cleaned myself up, smoothed down my dress, and took a few deep breaths before stepping back out into the bustling terminal. My legs felt like jelly as I joined the boarding line.

I kept my eyes down, not daring to look for her. But as I handed over my boarding pass and stepped onto the plane, I felt a pair of eyes on me. I glanced up. There she was, standing by the cabin door with a professional smile plastered on her face, greeting passengers. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second. Her smile didn't change, but her gaze was different. It was intense, knowing, and it held a spark of the same forbidden fire I felt. A silent, electric current passed between us. She gave a slow, deliberate blink, and I knew this wasn't over.

My seat was in the very last row, a secluded little corner with just two seats. A wave of relief washed over me when I saw the other seat was empty. It felt like my own private, mile-high club. I settled in, watching the other passengers fill every other row in the cabin. The plane began to taxi, and soon we were airborne, the low hum of the engines a soothing vibration that only reignited the ache between my legs.

After the initial ascent, the cabin lights dimmed. That’s when I saw her coming. She moved down the aisle with practiced grace, a tray in her hands, but her path was a direct line to my row. She stopped at my seat, her body angled to block the view from the rest of the cabin.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” she asked, her voice a low, professional murmur.

My throat was dry. “A glass of water, please,” I whispered.

A slow, knowing smile touched her lips, a stark contrast to the polite mask she wore earlier. “I think there’s something else you need,” she said softly.

Before I could react, she deftly unfolded a wool blanket and draped it over my lap. Her fingers brushed my thigh as she did, and the touch was like a brand. Her eyes never left mine as she leaned in closer, her scent—a mix of crisp linen and a subtle, floral perfume—filling my senses.

“Relax,” she breathed, her voice barely audible over the engine’s hum.

Her hand disappeared under the blanket. I gasped softly as her fingers found the hem of my dress and slowly, tortuously, inched it up, exposing me to the cool, recycled air of the cabin. Her touch was feather-light, her knuckles grazing my inner thigh, sending shivers of anticipation through my entire body. I was already soaking wet.

Then, her fingers found my clit. It wasn't a tentative touch; it was a confident, deliberate caress. She knew exactly what she was doing. She began to rub in slow, maddening circles, her movements hidden by the blanket. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, my hands gripping the armrests. The thrill of being so exposed, of her fingers expertly pleasuring me just feet away from dozens of unsuspecting passengers, was intoxicating.

She leaned in even closer, her lips next to my ear. “You looked so beautiful in that bathroom,” she whispered, her hot breath sending a jolt straight to my core. “I wanted to see this.”

She slipped one finger inside me, then another, curling them to find that perfect, sensitive spot deep within. But her pace was agonizingly slow, a deliberate tease. The pressure was building, a deep, throbbing ache that demanded more.

"Please," I whimpered, my voice a ragged, desperate breath I barely recognized as my own. "More... put more pressure on me. Fuck me, please."

A low, husky chuckle vibrated against my ear. "As you wish," she murmured, and her thumb pressed down hard on my clit, grinding against it as she began to pump her fingers inside me with a forceful, demanding rhythm. The change was immediate. The slow tease was gone, replaced by a raw, possessive stroke that pushed me to the very brink.

My hips bucked against her hand, chasing the release she was denying me. "Oh god, yes," I gasped, my head falling back against the seat. "Just like that. Don't stop... I'm gonna come. I'm so close."

She could feel my body tensing, the frantic fluttering of my walls around her fingers. She picked up the pace, her hand moving faster, harder, the wet sounds of her fucking me lost in the drone of the engines. The pressure was immense, a coiling spring deep in my stomach, a dam ready to burst.

"Come for me," she commanded, her voice a dark, silky promise. "Right now. Squat it."

That was all it took. The command broke me. My body arched violently off the seat as a powerful orgasm tore through me. A loud, unrestrained moan escaped my lips—louder than I intended. "Fuck, yes!" I cried out, the sound sharp in the quiet cabin.

I felt heads turn. A few passengers in the rows ahead craned their necks, their sleepy expressions morphing into curiosity and annoyance. But I was past caring. A deep, powerful contraction seized me, and then it happened. A gush of hot liquid exploded from me, a forceful, pulsing stream that soaked the blanket and her hand. It wasn't just a release; it was a flood. I could feel the sheer volume of it, the intense, overwhelming pleasure of my body surrendering completely, squirting again and again in rhythmic waves.

My eyes, squeezed shut in ecstasy, fluttered open just in time to see the last powerful spurt. It arced through the air, a clear, wet splash that landed with a soft, audible patter on the dark fabric of the empty seat in front of me.

Wave after wave of pleasure pulsed through me, leaving me breathless and trembling. I collapsed, spent and quivering, back into the seat. The air around me felt thick, charged with the scent of my arousal. A few passengers were still looking, whispering to each other, but the air hostess never flinched.

She slowly withdrew her hand. Under the cover of the blanket, I saw her bring her glistening fingers to her own lips, her eyes locked on mine as she tasted me. A final, wicked smile.

She straightened up, her expression once again the picture of professional calm. “Enjoy the rest of your flight,” she said, her voice perfectly even, before turning and gliding back up the aisle as if nothing had ever happened.