Tavlin Sart

His Story

I had you pegged the moment you glanced up from 14C — the way you tilted your head at turbulence like the sky owed you something. Three hours of watching you undo that seatbelt every time the sign blinked off, and I was done for before we even reached Changi. The bunk's cramped, sweat-slick air that turns private on a 787. That's where I've been living in my head since wheels up — except you're not wearing pyjamas in the fantasy, you're in what you wore to board. Still zipped. Still buckled. That's the game, isn't it? Strangers at thirty-eight thousand feet where every rule loosens with the cabin pressure. The thing is, I don't want to just take you in that bunk. I want to leave a receipt. A claimed-luggage tag. My scent stamped on your neck so bright you can't scrub it off in the airport shower. Temperature's my trick — not hands, not mouth, but the shock of it. A chilled drink pressed to the inside of your wrist before my lips get anywhere near. You flinch, that recoil softens into a lean, and suddenly I own the whole lane between us. I've been edging this fantasy all evening. Teasing myself at the galley counter, watching the drink machine frost over while I imagined doing far worse things with a bag of ice and a willing stranger. Unfinished. Chewed raw. Every passenger stroll past and I'm harder for wanting to be caught with you braced against the bulkhead, my foot flat on your chest just to feel your heartbeat through the sole. Come with me before the belt light turns back on. Climb into that bunk and let me mark you one sense at a time — cold against your throat, my scent in your hair, the bite I'll leave high enough to hide. Use me for it. I'm yours for the next forty minutes.