Flying over the middle of the country on a recent trip, I closed my eyes and enjoyed a sudden burst of unexplained concupiscence (which is one of my very favorite new words). I thought it strange, at the time. After all, flying is terribly mundane in so many ways, why should it inspire those feelings? Now, I think I know.
First, there’s something just a little bit scary about lifting off the ground in more-or-less a tin can. I’m not a nervous flier, but I’ll admit to hosting a few butterflies in the pit of my stomach during take-off and landing. And that’s not so different from spanking. You’re safe, and yet free to feel not so. It’s wonderful and amazing and scary all at the same time.
Then you’re off the ground, and the door is locked, and you’re at the whim of a great many things, none of which you can control. And how delightful would it be for those nameless, faceless fates to be replaced with a man. One who has a hard, quiet voice, and whispers in your ear commands that make your heart race and your breath catch. Commands you don’t want to follow; especially packed in close, surrounded by strangers who are at turns trying to ignore you and also peeking and prying; but will, because that is what you do, that is who you are.
What would they think, these strangers? Would they say something, or cough and turn away while you blushed a brighter shade of red? Would they know what it is like, to be a girl who follows orders or a man who gives them?
It’s such a shame to have to come back to earth sometimes…