AT 35,000 FEET

Author’s Note: This story is a complete work of fiction, but loosely based around a man I met not too long ago. Any resemblance in characters or misrepresentation of places or events is highly regrettable.

*

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll like to welcome you onboard Air France Flight 513 departing for Charles De Gaulle International. On behalf of the captain and crew, thank you for choosing to fly with us. Crew, arms doors and cross check for pushback.”

Abuja to Paris is roughly a 7-hour flight. I’ve done it a few times and, trust me, the glamour wears off after a while. Working for reputable tech company with its base in Abuja, I was one of the advanced team members to establish our European markets, and Paris was the base of operations. Plus I had to do my yearly management training as well. With a Master’s Degree in Artificial Intelligence and a six-figure salary per month, I could buy my own ticket with no hassle at all. But my job comes with a lot of perks to make my life even more interesting. At twenty-eight, single, with a nice body and job to match, I was living the dream, to be honest.

For the flight, I was dressed down; smart, casual, brown chinos trousers, with a light blue dress shirt and a navy blazer, with a well folded black tie in my backpack (just in case I need to amp it up to full formal on short notice). I was channeling my inner Steve McQueen that evening as I arrived at the airport. I had checked in online the previous day, and was currently sitting in the Business Class section of the plane. I was initially booked in Economy Class by our company, but my darling Alison, who’s a flight attendant with Air France, upgraded my ticket to Business Class. God, I love that girl. She would be working in the First Class section on their Air France A380 out of JFK back to Paris later that day. We’d planned to meet up for drinks the following weekend when she had her day off.

The flight was scheduled to leave at 11: 05pm and arrive in Paris at 06: 05am. I like late-hour flights, because I can get some sleep after dinner and a movie. The office in France would be closed for the weekend, so I could go straight to my hotel to unwind and change clothes, then maybe see who was available for some love play.

I was in Seat 10A, which was a window seat in the last row. It was also far away from the galleys and bathroom, so it was definitely going to be quiet here. However the seat next to mine was probably going to be filled by some rich widow or boring business man. It was Business Class after all.

I sat, well ensconced in my seat and staring at the faces of the other passengers getting into the plane, trying to figure out who my seat neighbor would be. Lots of people walked in and a few past me, including some rich kid with his headphones on, who, for a second, looked as if he might be the one. But it was my lucky day, because he moved on. Whew! That was close, I thought, doubting my ability to stand listening to his kind of music, even through the headphone. It was really that loud.

Just then, a Middle Eastern man, probably in his late thirties or early forties, and clad in a suit, walked by and bowed his head respectfully at me as he put his bag away in the overhead bin above our seats. He turned to a flight attendant and began to speak fluent French.

Great, I thought with some pleasure. With my own limited fluency in French, I was totally convinced that I would be having a very quiet flight.

As my neighbour prepared himself for the long flight ahead, I discreetly did the once-over on him. Typical modern day Middle Easterner, probably with immigrant parents who moved to France during his early years as a child. He was wearing a bespoke tailored suit that hugged his impressive body, and his hair was neatly combed, although trimmed really short. My guess was he’d had to cut his hair, due to the heat in Abuja. Clean-shaven with a nice bronze skin, he oozed sexiness and confidence out of every pore on his skin. At one point, he turned to me to see what I was up to and our eyes caught for a moment. He quickly removed his jacket and found a hanger behind our seat pod to hang it up. Then he surprised me when he picked up another hanger and offered it to me, motioning at my blazer.

Excellent, I thought, as adjusted in my seat to remove my blazer, and then handed it to him.

“Thank you very much, monsieur,” I said as I reclined back into my seat.

“Not a problem at all, you’re most welcome,” he replied in the most perfect Middle Eastern accent I’d ever heard, one in which, if you listened carefully, you could hear a slight twinge of a British accent as well.

I gave him the once-over look again, and saw he was wearing a blue tie over a white button shirt, including the blue jacket that was hanging behind us. This was definitely the modern day uniform for elitist business men, because the chairman of my company usually wore something similar whenever he was travelling or was off to some power lunch/meeting.

During pushback, I looked out of the window for a while and enjoyed the view from inside the plane. There is just something about window seats that make you feel special. While we were taxiing and awaiting clearance for take-off, I sensed that my seatmate was fidgeting quite a bit and I turned to see him rubbing his thumb and then scratching his neck, and his face looked a bit drained.

“Not a big fan of flying, eh?” I enquired. “Because, if my guess is correct, then you must be a frequent flier.”

“You’re on point. I do travel a lot, but take-off and landing scares the bollocks out of me,” he replied in that nice rumble that was his voice.

I give him a small smile and then turned to face him fully. “This is an A330-800 aircraft and one of the newer models, I might add,” I said. “So, its safety record is unquestionable, plus the weather outside is perfect, from what I can tell” – I pointed at the window behind me – “It should be a pretty nice but boring flight,” I finished with a reassuring smile.

“Thank you very much. I appreciate your kind words,” he said. “My name is Jamal, by the way. Jamal Aziz, but everyone calls me Jazz.” He held out his hands towards me.

I chuckled at him and said while I shook it, “You’re quite welcome, and it’s nice to meet you Jamal aka Jazz. And then, my chuckle became a small laugh.

The other man looked enquiringly at me, with an expression that wondered at my amusement. “What is it? Did I say something wrong?” he finally said with a small smile.

“Not at all,” I said. “I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just that when you told me everyone calls you Jazz, a different meaning came into mind, and it wasn’t about music.”

“Oh really?” he said, looking clearly interested in this something new he was about to learn of his name. “So what meaning came into your head?”

“Well, in Nigeria, Jazz means Voodoo, or Dark Magic in contemporary English.”

He gave a slight gasp, widening his eyes dramatically. “You’re joking, aren’t you?” he said with some incredulity.

“I’m afraid not.”

And we both went silent for a while as he considered what I’d just told him. And then, he burst out laughing from his thoughts.

“My name is Jonathan, by the way. Jonathan Dike,” I said belatedly, and offered my hand this time.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jonathan,” he said as he shook my hand again. “Perhaps your name is good sign.”

“How is that so?”

“Well, because our plane is already in the air and you’ve distracted me well enough to not notice until few minutes ago, so thank you.”

“Well then, you’re most welcome.”

***

The flight attendant came by and took our dinner orders while Jamal – who everyone calls Jazz – and I kept up the small talk. Jazz was forty-three years old, married with kids at home in Jordan. There was this glint in his eyes, like he expected me to know something at the mention of Jordan, but I wasn’t paying any attention to that piece of information. So it did not click.

He talked about how he shuttled between London, Paris and Amman, Jordan. He was supposed to have flown private that evening, but the jet had developed a fault and so at the last minute, a ticket was purchased for him to fly Business Class, in order to keep up with several appointments he had in Paris. He had visited Nigeria for a series of meetings with his Nigerian partners.

Once dinner was over, and the trays were cleared, we relaxed with glasses of wine. I had white wine and Jazz had red. I allowed him to pick the wine selection as he seemed quite knowledgeable. However, I was concerned if, as a Muslim, he was allowed to drink wine. Or perhaps, he was one of those modern day Muslims who drank in proportion and discreetly. I also noticed he chose the type of wine that had very low percentage of alcohol. So maybe it did not count as haram to him, due to that singular information.

Soon, our conversation naturally turned to the topic of business travel, of which we had both endured many long miles both personally and professionally. Of course he had put in more miles than I had, considering the fact that he had constant access to a private jet that could take him anywhere on a whim and flew commercial only when the situation demanded it, just like this trip.

But we had a shared history of long and lonely trips, and in that moment, a sense of camaraderie was formed between us.

“I must say, travelling is quite a challenge,” Jazz said, “and despite what you’ve heard about us Middle Eastern men, we do not have a harem of women all over town.” He grinned as he said this, and we both laughed.

“I totally understand what you mean, as the same applies to us black men. Not all of us have the largest tools in the business,” I said and winked at him.

“Oh I doubt that very much,” he said with a smirk. “I’ve been around the block a few times to know that almost seventy-five percent of you guys are carrying tree trunks for tools.”

That got us laughing real hard; we had to control ourselves so as not to disturb others who were already asleep.

“To be honest,” he continued, leaning closer, “I have never been with another woman since I got married.”

“Well, that’s interesting. I guess you’re one of those men who prefer one woman instead of four.”

“Yes, I consider myself a modern day Muslim. Besides the drama with women will simply be multiplied, the more of them you marry,” he quipped.

I chuckled in response, as I said, “Very true. For me, being single and all, I tend to go for Rosie and her four sisters.” I waved my palm at him for effect. In the next moment, I found myself unable to believe I had just said something so personal to a strange man. Either I was feeling very comfortable with him, or the wine was already working wonders.

Jazz on the other hand was blushing and smirking like a school boy who has just heard a dirty joke.  He giggled as he said, “I too tend to see Rosie and her sisters sometimes. I guess we’re the same all over the world,” he added, patting me on my thigh.

I was shocked at this man’s audaciousness. I said rather lamely, “Yep, we’re all human and we desire and need the touch of another body sometimes.”

“Especially while on long trips away from home,” Jazz added.

“How long have you been away from home?” I asked.

“About a month.”

“Damn, that’s far too long.”

“Yes, it is far too long . . . to be away from human contact,” he said, giving me a knowing grin.

We chuckled at that.

“Oh, by the way,” he said while reaching into the pocket of his trousers. He pulled out a gold card holder, which looked customized and had the word ‘JAZZ’ embossed on it. He slipped out a business card from the holder and handed it over to me. Then he said, “From what you’ve told me, you’ll be in central Paris as well. You should call me and we could meet for lunch or dinner sometime, if you like.”

I gave the card a quick glance and put it in my wallet. “Thank you. I just may take you up on your offer.”

“I hope so. You’ve been good company. I’ll like it to continue after we get off this plane.”

We finished our wine and then the cabin lights were dimmed throughout the aircraft.

“I think they are giving us a hint,” Jazz said with a wink I could barely make out in the dimness of the cabin.

“I think so too,” I responded with a chuckle.

I kicked off my shoes and reclined my seat fully, grabbed a pillow and blanket, and got ready to get some sleep. I had missed out on watching a movie – all thanks to Jazz. Jazz on the other hand studied some documents for a while, using the reading light attached to his seat, and then stuffed the pile back into his carry-on and prepared for bed as well.

However comfort was out of the equation – sort of – as we kept bumping into the arm rest unit that separated both of us. I sat back up and studied the control panel again, then turned to him and said, “If you’re up for it, I could lower this arm rest thing and we could get a lot more comfortable, if you don’t mind the elbow jabs of course,” I added jokingly.

“That would be splendid,” he replied as he found the button for his arm rest panel as well and lowered it.

This created a large comfy space for both of us. We settled back and got comfortable. I laid down with my hands by my side, and Jazz did the same as well; our shoulders and hips were almost touching. We laid there motionless and not saying a word to each other, but fully aware that the other still hadn’t fallen asleep.

Suddenly, I felt his fingers next to mine and after a while, I reached out and stroked his as well. It was like we were playing footsie, only this time with our fingers. None of us dared to look at the other, but the closeness was overwhelming. We were on the same page, I believed, and totally cool with the progress of the tension between us. Then again, I remembered Jazz is Middle Eastern and could probably be homophobic, and was just leading me on in the hopes of pulling a kito on me.

Before I could let the dread of that thought bloom inside my mind, Jazz took my hand in his, and just held it. There was no other movement whatsoever; we simply held hands like it was the most natural thing to do.

So much for the need for human touch, I thought to myself.

I rolled onto my side to find Jazz was already on his side, looking straight at me. Even through the dim light, I could make out his facial features, and a smile spread across his face. Emboldened by his smile, I reached out and stroked his jaw and chin with the back of my palm. He closed his eyes and savoured the feeling. I could feel his stubble, which I supposed must have grown overnight, as he was clean-shaven when he came on-board. I tugged lightly at his ears lobe and used my thumb to stroke behind his ears, and then I reached over and played with his side-burns. To say this man was beautiful was a gross understatement of how he looked in that time. I crossed his upper lip up and down with my finger. He ambushed my thumb and grab it in-between his lips.

God! We were heating up the air between us.

Jazz leaned in closer, almost into my side of the chair and rolled me gently onto my back, while he rested on his elbow. And with the fingers of the other hand, he repeated the same thing I did to him. I love being touched and cuddled, and this guy was touching me in all the right spots. I closed my eyes and savoured the feel of his not-so-rough hand across my face. It felt moisturized, but then there was a trace of hard work in that hand of his.

With my free hand, I tugged at his tie to loosen it and I undid a few buttons from his shirt. Then I began to caress his chin and made my way down to his hairy chest, tugging at his nipples a few times. That must have turned him on greatly as he leaned forward and captured my lips in a soft warm kiss. I could still taste his wine inside his mouth, and there was a small scent of mint on his skin. He pulled back, tossed off his tie and undid his shirt totally, giving me full access to his upper torso.

He looked around cautiously to see if anyone was watching, but the crew had retired to the back and most of the other passengers were either asleep or had their headphones on and watching a movie. I noticed he now had on a nervous smile, and I looked around to see if there was something I could use to help ease his nervousness. I was heating up so badly I couldn’t care if anyone saw us. I found a blanket and spread it over him, and he took the hint. I too had undone my shirt and loosened my belt buckle and the button of my chinos as well.

Lying back down and with Jazz still on his elbow, we continued kissing while his hand explored my chest and belly. He moved towards my ear and whispered, “You’re a very, very, very, very bad boy, Jonathan.”

I whispered back, “Makes the two of us.” And we giggled. “Are you complaining though?” I asked.

“Not in the least,” he murmured, and kissed my cheek.

And then we embarked on a heated fuck, right there in our seat. It was hot and passionate, and even though our movements were largely stifled, all the right feelings were stoked and satisfied. It was one huge risk we took, but the orgasm was worth it.

“I don’t think I’ve come that hard before in such a long time,” Jazz gasped as we righted ourselves in the wake of the sex. “Probably happened last when I was a teenage, I suppose.” Then he looked at me, still slightly breathless, but strong enough to lean in again for another kiss.

We rearranged ourselves as quietly as possible and found our blankets, and this time, we were thoroughly exhausted, and therefore really need to get some sleep.

Just before I drifted off, Jazz asked, “How long will you be in Paris?”

“About a month or so, but I do come around from time to time,” I answered. “This isn’t going to be my last trip to Paris.”

“Seems perfect for both of us, don’t you think so?”

“Sure is. And you’re always in Abuja often, eh?”

Jazz leaned in and murmured with a smirk, “I suppose I will need to come more often than usual in Abuja.”

“You mean come more often than usual TO Abuja?” I corrected with a laugh.

“Same difference,” he returned, wagging his brows suggestively.

“Oh, you’re just a horny boy, aren’t you?” I teased laughingly.

“You bring out the worst in me, in a good way of course,” he smirked and kissed me one more time, before relaxing back on his seat and shutting his eyes.

***

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, we trust you had a good night’s rest,” the captain’s voice came over the PA. “We are beginning our final decent in Charles De Gaulle International Airport.

“Time check is 6:00am and temperature is a cool 18 degrees Celsius. The weather forecast around Paris is clear skies with some light showers late in the day.

“We advise that you adjust your watches by one hour for our passengers whose watches are set for Nigerian time.

“Thank you for choosing Air France and we look forward to welcoming you on-board again. Crew, prepare the cabin for landing.”

Jazz and I were awake and readjusting in our seats and readying ourselves and fastening our seatbelts. While I was leaning downward to put on my shoes, Jazz leaned in as well and turned to face me, quickly giving me a peck on my cheek. I turned my head around toward his, and with his face in such close proximity, we shared a soft kiss.

“I hope to see you again soon,” he said softly.

“I hope to see you again soon too,” I murmured back.

As we got off the plane onto the air bridge, we were met by four Middle Eastern men, all of them looking very serious. One of them took over his carry-on, while the other three formed a wall around him. To say I was surprised by the protocol is an understatement of the century. After Jazz had taken a few steps away from me, he turned back, broke through his security detail and came to where I was standing. He asked for the card he’d given me. I fished it out and he wrote a number on the back.

“That will get you directly to me,” he said. “In the event you hear someone else’s voice, just leave your name and a number I can reach you with, and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

I nodded and he patted my face, in a manner that lacked the passion he’d touched me with in the plane, like a father would touch his son, and then he winked at me before turning and walking back to his entourage.

I arrived at my hotel at about 8:00am. I took a long and hot shower, and promptly slept off the minute my head touched my pillow. I woke at about noon and ordered for lunch to be delivered. While I waited for the room service, I recounted the events of last night, and then I remembered a few details – the glint in his eyes when he told me his name, something that seemed to wonder if I would recognize his name; the talk of a private jet; the security detail at the air bridge (only someone of great importance could have such power to be allowed to have his security detail waiting for him at the air bridge).

Bearing that in mind, I pulled out my tablet and ran a Google search on Jazz and his company. I came across a news article that was posted about an hour ago. And I read, my eyes widening with each morsel of word.

‘PRINCE JAMAL ARRIVES IN PARIS TO SIGN ENERGY DEAL WITH NIGERIAN GOVERNMENT

‘Prince Jamal Abu-Aziz, Chairman of Globe Trotter, an executive jet leasing company, arrived today in Paris to sign a memorandum of understanding for an energy deal between him and the Nigerian Government with. Prince Jamal, popularly known as ‘Jazz’, a citizen of both the UK and Jordan, is the crown prince of Jordan and next in line to the throne. This energy pact, if it’s successful, marks Prince Jamal’s entry into the energy business…’

As I read, the humour of last night suddenly hit me.

HOLY SHIT!

Last night, I’d been ‘Royally Screwed’ at 35, 000 feet!

Written by JArch