Not Quite Mile High.
A guest post by Monica Van Fleet.
Dearest Readers,
This week’s story comes from Monica Van Fleet of You Want it Darker and Calliope Sparks Notes.
Monica has been a lifelong reader and writer, but spent 27 years (much of it at a major book retailer) in the corporate world before turning to writing full time last spring. She writes gothic horror over on her You Want it Darker publication, and her alter ego, Calliope Sparks is just dipping her toes into the world of smut. Welcome Calliope, I think you’ll be right at home here.
Joey, TSC xx
P.s. Support my Spicy journey to publishing The Spicy Chronicles by donating to my Ko-fi below. Every bit counts! Or upgrade to paid to receive access to every story and a little bit extra (but you’ll have to subscribe to find out!)…
Not Quite Mile High
“Excuse me, Faith Devereux?”
I glanced up, startled by the sound of my name on the lips of the flight attendant. I nodded at the pleasant young man standing in the aisle to confirm my identity and removed an ear bud.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Ms. Devereux, but we had a seat in first class open up, and you were next on the upgrade list.”
“Sure, twist my arm,” I chuckled in mock distress. As I stood and gathered my bags, I nodded a grim salute of respect to my former economy-class compatriots, then followed the flight attendant forward to the fabled land of more leg room.
The other first class passengers were already sipping on their complimentary preflight beverages as I stowed my bags and settled into my new and improved space. The same flight attendant asked if he could bring me something to drink. As a rule, I always order an Irish coffee when I find myself unexpectedly in first class. It’s no espresso martini, but the jolt of caffeine and bonus burn of booze always hits just right. After all, it’s 5 PM somewhere, and nobody should turn down free drinks
As “Irish coffee” escaped my lips, I heard something like a snort or chuckle from the window seat. The flight attendant nodded obediently and hurried away, leaving me to cast a scathing side eye in my new neighbor’s direction. The woman in 3A to my 3B looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. When your profession makes you live out of a suitcase, you start to recognize faces that frequent the same routes.
Without being too obvious, I tried to sneak a more careful appraisal of her. What I saw made me raise an eyebrow. There is an unspoken etiquette to habitual air travel, and my seat mate was openly flouting those rules by making direct and uninterrupted eye contact, mischief shining in her dark eyes. Had she laughed at me? At my drink choice? Who does that? She was probably assessing the poor plebe she’d be stuck sitting next to for the duration of the flight.
She oozed glamor in a red silk top—casual enough for air travel, but sophisticated enough for the boardroom—the four top buttons left undone with carefree confidence. My eyes lingered too long at the exposed skin of her neck and the hint of a black lace bra that peeked out from behind that closed fifth button. Her lips were painted a dark ruby red, and her jet black curls were piled atop her head in the sort of haphazard bun that was somehow both effortless and polished. I wracked my brain trying to think where I knew her from—an actress maybe? It was also possible I’d just seen her in other airports.
My eyes flicked up to her face, and I felt a slight thrill as I realized she was still looking. Well that’s rude, I thought to myself. How dare she? I felt ire building in my chest—she was in first class, she should know the rules. Was she just some rich bitch who purchased the seat? Do people actually do that? I’m only used to people who, like me, fly first class when they get a free upgrade. She oozed a calm, collected confidence, and I was suddenly certain I’d seen her stunning red silk blouse in Tom Ford’s fall line.
I doubled down, refusing to let this overconfident stranger intimidate me. My death glare has silenced men twice my age, but this woman was still staring at me with brazen curiosity gleaming in her eyes. I steeled myself and met her gaze directly. I felt an uneasy thrill flutter through my chest: I knew that look—coy, almost predatory, just a little dangerous. Quickly overwhelmed and feeling slightly awkward, I glanced away with an uncharacteristic, shy smile. I struggled to maintain a semblance of calm as my growing anxiety blossomed in concert with the flush of blood in my cheeks.
Just as I thought I might panic, the trusty flight attendant broke the tension as he bustled up with my Irish coffee. He handed me the cup with a smile, and I took a fortifying sip before turning back to the woman. She was still smiling intently, so I decided a direct approach was best. I tuned my voice to the frequency used for unruly clients and, without turning to her, said, “Hi, I can’t help but notice you seem far more interested in my drink than your own. Can I help you out with that? I’m sure our flight attendant would be happy to bring you one.” I struggled to feign disinterest and annoyance, my smile placid and non-committal.
The corners of her eyes wrinkled in mirth, and her flirtatious half smile transformed into one that looked like she might be trying to sell me toothpaste. She was definitely an actress; normal people can’t smile like that. “Oh, honey!” she said, shifting her body to face me more directly, “I think it’s you who needs my help.”
My jaw dropped and my lips parted in surprise. I braced again and met her gaze. Her accent was distinctly Latin. She was petite, but there was something out-sized about her presence that seemed to fill the whole cabin. She was a total knockout. I decided to hate her for it.
It was time to try a different tack —authoritative and intimidating, a tone that dares you to disagree. “I appreciate your concern,” I said, sarcasm dripping from each syllable, “but I assure you, there is no help on offer that I need.” I was simmering just below boiling, and I poured that wrath into my gaze. It doesn’t matter how much space they seem to take up, I don’t allow anyone to condescend or make me feel small.
As if to settle the matter once and for all, I turned away and took another taste of my coffee. I tried to sip calmly, wondering whether she had decided to mind her own business. Then I reached into the seat back pocket and pulled my book from my purse, confident the matter was settled.
She surprised me.
“Don’t be like that,” she said, the teasing tone of her voice suddenly more gentle and inviting. I’d rested my elbow on the padded space between our seats, and she traced her fingertips gently along my wrist. I felt the thrill of a shiver as goose bumps stood to attention, and I struggled to muffle a surprised gasp. She lingered a moment too long. Her touch hadn’t been anything the casual passerby would have noticed, but as I turned again to face her, she arched one perfect eyebrow in amusement. Was she enjoying this?
My skin felt flushed where her fingertips had rested. I looked down, imagining there might still be dainty fingerprints left behind like rosy tattoos. I found myself picturing those graceful fingers still tracing the curve of my forearm, tickling with perfectly manicured intention. I felt a little lightheaded, a slow and pleasurable heat rising between my legs. My nipples were already hard, aching against the softness of my bra, almost painfully tight. I felt my cheeks burn in embarrassment, but I didn’t wilt. I looked back to her, returning her gaze with intensity, with an unexpected ferocity that dared her to try anything like that again. Wait—was I daring her? Would she see my response as a threat or an invitation?
For a moment we gazed at each other in electric silence . . . and then she broke into a fit of disarming giggles. I’d braced for almost anything, but I wasn’t sure how to handle laughter. She seemed so genuinely amused. I felt the corners of my own mouth twitch into a smile as she dabbed at tears in the corners of her eyes. Despite her obvious mirth, they still held a playful seduction that made my head buzz a little.
“Oh, I like you,” she said, extending the graceful hand that had undone my resolve. “I’m Louiza.”
I hesitated. Was my stomach flipping in fear or excitement? We were jetting away from my home town of Philly to Los Angeles, and that was about as long a flight as you can get without leaving the country. We were going to be here a while. What the hell, I decided to make peace. I shrugged and grasped her outstretched hand, “I’m Faith.”
Once we were airborne, the flight attendant returned to freshen our drinks. Somehow I wasn’t surprised that Louiza ordered champagne. When the flight attendant asked if I’d like another Irish Coffee, I made eye contact with Louiza and saw the hint of a teasing smile on her lips, humor sparkling in her eyes. I knew she already had a quip ready.
“What the hell,” I said with a teasing smile, “I’ll have what she’s having.” I waited for her clever response, but instead she locked eyes with me and simply moistened her luscious lips. The glimpse of her tongue sent another wave of aching anticipation through me.
As we waited for the next round, Louiza nodded toward the novel I’d shoved back into the seat pocket after we started talking. She asked, a mischievous grin crossing her lips, “And is that any good?”
With my Irish coffee settling and the promise of a heady buzz from champagne already putting me more at ease, I said, “It’s called Hungerstone.” I raised my eyes from the jacket copy and looked directly at her again, testing out my own seductive smirk, “It’s about lesbian vampires.”
For a moment we stared at each other. Her eyes were dark pools, her delicate features mesmerizing. I felt almost light-headed, keenly aware of the aching pleasure as my nipples hardened again. I was so entranced that I almost jumped when the flight attendant placed my champagne glass on the tray table.
We both nodded and smiled politely to the attendant, and I squirmed imagining he knew the lustful thoughts in my mind. As he walked away, Louiza flashed her winning smile again and lightly touched my arm.
“Faith, champagne, books, and lesbian vampires are my three favorite topics. I think we are going to have a lovely time together.” Hearing my name on her lips left me breathless. She giggled and held out her champagne flute for a toast.
I clinked her glass , a giggle of my own escaping. “Louiza, I think this will be a fun flight.”
The hours passed in what seemed like seconds, and far too soon the Captain announced our descent into Los Angeles. I braced for the enchantment to be broken and tried to keep disappointment from showing on my face. “I have to admit, Louiza, I’ve had so much fun talking to you. I’m a little sad it has to end.”
“Who says it does?” Louiza said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “We are going to the same city, no? Let me take you out. The day is young.”
“I couldn’t,” I stammered, flustered all over again by her casual confidence. “I’m here for work, and—“
Louiza cut me off. “And you work all the time, don’t you? You push yourself too hard, love.” I felt a thrill at her already familiar tone. I wanted her to call me love again. “Take the evening off. It’s already past business hours.” She shrugged, as if it were the most obvious option ever proposed. I envied her confidence..
“I couldn’t,” I protested half-heartedly, but the conviction behind my tone was flimsy. We both knew what I really wanted. What we both wanted.
That hunger was back in Louiza’s eyes. She leaned in with a breathy whisper, as if we were sharing scandalous secrets at a slumber party, “Come with me tonight, my angel (my heart somersaulted at the pet name on her lips), and I promise you a time you will never forget.”
Her soft breath tickled my ear. I closed my eyes and held perfectly still as she tucked away a stray lock of my hair. Her touch lingered on my cheek a moment—I exhaled with an involuntary shiver—then her fingertips traced a gentle path to my neck and along the line of my collarbone, finally pulling reluctantly away. She seemed incredibly pleased with herself as she leaned back to take stock of the effects of her work.
“Say yes, please?” Her eyes were full of anticipation. I hesitated, pursing my lips doubtfully. My first meeting wasn’t until the following morning, but was I really going to do this? I’d never considered anything that felt so reckless—or so indulgent.
I imagined the cool breeze and faint scent of salt air at a beach-front bar. A quiet table and her dark hair catching the last rosy rays of a setting sun. I could almost feel her breath against my neck, her whispers nearly inaudible, her long fingers teasing. I realized my eyes were closed and my lips had parted. I opened them lazily, a slow, slightly knowing smile forming as I did so. She watched me, her eyes and ruby lips impossibly dark and intense.
Finally, I nodded and let out an involuntary, excited giggle. I felt elated, so overwhelmed by excitement that I couldn’t muster anything intelligible. Louiza beamed and grasped my hand. This time I offered no resistance as she brought it to her lips and kissed my palm, satisfaction at her victorious conquest written all over her face. I should have known I hadn’t stood a chance against those eyes.
As the cabin lights dimmed and the flight attendants took their seats, Louiza leaned in close for another whispered secret. Her lips pressed against my ear, her hand suddenly grazing my inner thigh and then resting there as she asked, “Tell me, beautiful Faith,” her breath was hot on my skin, her scent surrounding me, “will you beg before I let you cum?”
Monica Van Fleet, Calliope Sparks Notes, 2025
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Image: Pinterest.
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I love sapphic stories so much
I love the slow anticipation.