Is the pussy, the cock, the closest organ to the brain? That’s not an anatomical question. It’s more like a philosophical one.

My wife was in the airplane bathroom. She was likely masturbating, I knew, and I looked around the cabin wondering who might be inspiring her. I had no idea. The guy in the tweed jacket? Also, I was keeping one eye on the aisles, in case I found myself required to rescue her from an unwanted intruder. Unwanted? Well, wanted, maybe, and that possibility excited me in its own way, but I also knew that wanted could become unwanted in an instant. I’d set this thing up, and the day had already been a disaster, and I was realizing that it’s not so easy to strip and fondle yourself in an unlocked bathroom on a crowded plane. I was, yes I’ll admit it, a concerned husband. Partially because I know just how far she’s capable of going when she steps across the line. The mind creates a barrier, and then blood moves around, and then the mind’s not there anymore. The dirty secrets take over.

As she suspected, she was probably only in there four or five minutes, but when she returned to our seats I was hardly “half asleep”. Nor was I turned on in the slightest. The prospect of a long and complicated trip had indeed obliterated my libido, and when she was again beside me, I was more than ready for sleep, or failing that, copious amounts of powerful drugs.

She pulled my hand over her smooth, firm thigh and into the warm, tight V of her lap. The thin airplane blanket she had pulled across us covered this movement, and her knees eagerly eased apart. I knew then that she had completed her mission, a mission that had anonymously come from me. That was my dirty secret. I wanted to know her dirty secrets, the glimpses of flesh that interlocked in her mind. But the dirty secrets were also fun precisely because they were secrets.

I ran the tip of my middle finger up and down the cleft at the crotch of her stretched pants. Through my mind flashed the image of a perfectly formed sex doll, of slick and pliable rubber. I had a perfect model of a pussy under my hand, slightly smooth and with a firm and magic gel that moved deliciously under my fingers. But the doll’s breath was coming hard now on my neck, and I knew that she was thrillingly alive, and my wife.

I rubbed her softest places firmly but intentionally slow, as if I could tease her into revealing all the mysteries of her mind. Who had she talked in that bathroom? How had he excited her? What was now going on in her head? Her dirty secrets excited me tremendously, and I was hard under the blanket.

How far should I take it? Orgasms shake her and she always cries out. How far should I take it? Till men pushed into the unlocked bathrooms and gave her thrills? Till sex was always a possibility, till every walk down the street was a frightening but glorious one, because there was always a chance that a new connection might be made? Yes, I wanted that for her, and I wanted that for me. I wanted life to be everywhere, and I wanted burning glances across crowded rooms. I wanted dirty secrets, some told, some to be discovered.

I stroked her burning pussy, and I stroked, and she held her tongue as her body twitched once, then again, as if she had just slipped off into a dream.

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