“Dreams of Flying”—an Erotic Speculative Fiction Story
Celebrating the healing power of love, desire, and soaring above the clouds
Amanda Carlisle’s hand was gentle on the stick as the glider lofted soundlessly on thermals over the red cliffs to the north end of Bishop Valley. Gary had given her control a moment before and she was delighted to pilot the aircraft for a while as they made their long orbit after casting off from the tug.
Several times, they had flown over the warm spring countryside, their tandem glider a sleek, white confection of plastic, and she loved it all. Her job was a strange and varied one, and while not every client was such fun, Gary Maitland had been a new spice to life.
Afternoon sent warm air up the crags, lifted the glider thousands of feet, and the pilots cruised for an easy half-hour, swapping control, before Gary brought them back to a fast landing on the club’s grass strip. When the transparent hood hinged over, Amanda left her headset in the cockpit, climbed out with a stretch and smile, and threw her arms around the tall, rangy man who stepped out of the rear seat. “Thanks,” she whispered by his ear. “I’d really not done anything like this before we met.”
“Most things are more fun with the right company,” he said softly, hands on her waist, lips brushing her ear.
Time seemed to tumble forward then, past the clubhouse, past dinner and sunset, to their cabin on the slopes above the field—accommodation for air-ranch guests—then things moved in even-slower-than-normal time, and Amanda savored every moment.
This was always the way: the drive up by guest buggy, card-tap to access, the cool A/C interior, entertainment wall flipping on with multiple feeds, coffee maker on auto-standby… The news story of the day was about some new discovery on Europa, the deep exploration probe had been under the ice for weeks, sending back amazing images. But their eyes were only for each other, and Gary thumbed a remote to silence the auto-feeds as Amanda drew him into the bedroom, and in the light of rosy lamps they peeled out of jeans, cowboy boots, shirts…
Gary was a tough guy, good-looking, the sort in demand among women, both for his physical statistics and his success, and Amanda fitted the same bill in return, sleek, white-blond, a head shorter than Gary and ample in all the right places. In moments they were bare as babes, and she took the initiative, thrusting him back to the covers, to wrangle delightfully. She smothered him with kisses, worked down to his smooth chest, left a trail of love-bites and the warmth of massage down to his so-eager manhood, then went to work on him with all her skill.
Nothing was missing from her repertoire: she quickly had him groaning and perspiring, but before she could bring him too far along she eased off, lay back and offered him her own holy of holies to return the compliment. He went for it with delight, covered every inch of her most erogenous zone with kisses and licks, missing nothing, and she let herself go with a delicious climax. “One,” she said softly when she returned from she-space, then, with a grin, arranged him against pillows and came astride, to take him in to the roots and begin to ride. She knew he did not come easily in this position, which delayed the moment, the way they liked it best, and a few minutes later she gave a scream of fulfillment as she froze out, head flung back.
“Two,” she whispered, two fingers raised.. And so it went, every position and technique they knew, oral, manual, the works, over and over as the evening passed. They would pause for breath, take a quick shower together, have a drink and snack, then go back into another round of exquisite pleasure, until they were thoroughly exhausted. Eight, ten climaxes in a session were her norm, and she never left Gary with less than two, maybe three, for himself, as much as his physiology could deliver in the time.
A last shower, a nightcap, then they snuggled down under clean sheets, and in minutes she felt Gary’s breathing drop into sleep-pattern. With a long sigh, she reached to her right temple and felt for the warm patch which constituted the virtual disengage contact.
#
Amanda opened her eyes with a deep breath. She was an attractive woman, but not the one her partner had perceived. Her apartment was comfortable but nothing flashy. She stretched, tapping her headset pickup. The system screen, on an arm before her lie-back couch, showed a hospital room in which lay a withered body in white.
Gary Maitland had been left a quadriplegic in an air crash and his coma would last months yet, as synthetic enzymes worked their magic to re-anneal severed nerves. Feeding his mind, buried deep under electronically induced sleep, with good dreams buffered it against deterioration, and he was one of many in her charge.
A nurse appeared in the image, checking his brain function screen.
“Thank you, Miss Carlisle,” was the soft comment. “You always bring him the most wonderful dreams.”
“My pleasure,” she whispered. “’till next time.”
The link canceled and she pushed the screen aside, to stretch and head into her bathroom, drop her robe and take a quick shower, as cybersex had entirely real effects on the body. It was the most unusual way for a psych PhD to make a living, but the life had its perks, and flying over that valley had become one of them.
Her next client was in another hospital on the other side of the country, a professional gambler before a bullet lodged in his neck sent him to a place from which medicine could not bring him back quickly. She settled into the couch and drew on the headset, loaded the “1925 Flapper” persona and phased with the feed from a digital speakeasy where a hot game awaited.
“Ready,” she whispered to the supervising nurse, and closed her eyes.
#
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