“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking.”

That's not what you want to hear coming over the PA system, it sounds like bad news before he even begins. The hen party crowd in the central part of the plane barely lowered their screeches so the rest of us could hear what our Captain was about to say, and the rugby club members who were between me and them weren't much better. I had seat 33A, a window seat in the rear-most row in the whole plane, left hand side, as far back as it was possible to be and yet only one row away from the back end of the rugby club.

Three seats one side of the central aisle and three seats to the other made up each row on this short-haul flight southwards to the sun. They had shut the doors, we'd been pushed back from the air bridge, we'd had the safety demonstration (well, everyone except the hen party and the rugby club who will certainly drown in the unlikely event of us landing on water) then we'd waited on the tarmac for twenty five minutes not going anywhere. Twenty five minutes of reading my paperback novel, sitting and staring blankly at the seat rest in front of me, or looking out of my window at the same section of airport tarmac almost below me. Twenty five minutes of sitting there, strapped into a seat one size too small, knowing that the actual two hour ten minute flight hadn't started yet.

“...apologise...delay...forty minutes...lost our slot...strike...French air traffic controllers...” was all I could make out thanks to the hen party and the rugby club having just discovered each other.

I'd hoped (as I always do whenever I fly) that the seat next to me would be unoccupied, and that whoever had the next seat to that, the aisle seat, would open their book and read it without stopping for breath until we landed and disembarked, getting off the plane being an activity that now receded further and further into the future the longer we waited for the French government to surrender - surely not much longer now on past form.

I was lucky, seat B was unoccupied. I looked at my near neighbour in seat C. She was a young woman of about my age and already dressed for the late Summer southern European sunshine we were both hoping to enjoy for a week, namely a loose short sleeved top and a short but still decent summer skirt. I, however, was still dressed for the cold wind and the light rain that had fallen on us from the moment I'd left home four and a half hours ago. A thick tee-shirt with bra underneath and a jumper on top, with my plastic rain jacket on top of that, my favourite lucky warm knickers under a midi skirt with leggings underneath, and Converses down at floor level.

My neighbour wasn't shouting crude jokes to the rugby club, nor was she screaming with raucous laughter at the sexual innuendo coming from the hen party. Like me, she had her head down trying to continue to exist despite everything happening and not happening around her. She looked up quickly from her book and caught me looking at her, me being too late to turn away when I saw her head move. She clocked me the same as I had clocked her. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second then we both quickly looked away again.

Minutes ticked by. Now, a lot of passengers had undone their seat belts and were standing up and milling around as best they could. Some hefty bloke in the rugby club had decided to stand in the aisle, level with us and with his leg leaning on my companion's aisle-side arm rest and unknowingly rubbing up against her. He stayed there without moving much except to look up the aisle and shout obscenities to other members of the rugby club when he could get a word in edgeways. He was completely unaware of either of us, and he blocked us both off so we couldn't stand up in the aisle or be seen at all by anyone even if we wanted to. Which we didn't. Our world had reduced from a pan-European view of modern travel and freedom to a two foot by four foot box comprising plane walls, seats and the left hand side of a rugby player.

This time when I snuck another look at her I caught her already looking at me. She glanced away quickly, but not quick enough. British social convention number one now decreed that we should have to actually talk to each other, based on the 'two strikes and you have to talk to each other for a bit' rule.

“Another forty minutes, did he say?” she proffered, knowing perfectly well that's exactly what he'd said.

“Yes, I think so,” I replied, knowing perfectly well etc. etc.

Thus introduced, we each felt able to study each other without having to pretend we weren't. Suddenly, the rugby player moved sideways as far as her could without actually moving his feet. Perhaps he'd just taken a free kick from the half-way line, or maybe the scrum had pushed him into touch. Or more likely, someone had thrown a blow-up neck cushion at him and he had flinched when it hit him on the head.

My companion had to lean towards me a little in order to not end up in his trouser pocket or be turned into a hooker for the Saracens. Mr Rugby Player stood upright again and carried on not being aware of our existence, shouting jokes to a blond woman six rows further up the plane, but the damage had been done. My companion slid towards me into seat B.

“Sorry, can I sit here for a bit?” she asked, apologetically.

I answered by uncrossing my legs one way and crossing them again the other way as if I was somehow making room for her where there hadn't been any room before, although the net improvement was nil. She sat in the seat next to me, and we found that we were touching each other's knees and elbows.

Now that she was next to me I found I could easily look down her loose top and see that she wasn't wearing a bra, although perhaps that was a little risqué for an unaccompanied woman judging by the size of the bra-less boobs she was sporting. In fact, it was quite difficult for me not to look down her top at her breasts - they were right there almost in front of me and surprisingly hard to avoid.

Again she caught me looking at her, or to be more precise, her ample breasts hiding almost in plain sight under her loose top. Had she been wearing a bra, her cleavage would have been considerable. Even without such an item, what she had was still worth a good look.

“When we get there it'll be too hot for a bra, especially one of mine.”

She spoke as if to no one in particular, with her face set forwards and not looking at me. No one else was listening, or could hear what she said even if they were. The people in the three seats directly in front of us were involved with the shenanigans in front of them, and Mr Rugby Player was still totally unaware of me or my companion, much to his loss, I was beginning to feel.

She was talking directly, and solely, to me. I hastily tore my gaze away from her chest and drew breath to apologise that she had such wonderful breasts under a very loose top that I was trying not to look at. That's British social convention number two - always apologise for something the other person has done.

“Don't worry, I don't mind. You can look at me if you want to. We're going to be sitting next to each other for a while yet.”

Having said that, she turned her head to face me and smiled in a friendly fashion, before lowering her eyes and looking at my chest.

“Aren't you hot in all that?” she asked.

I looked down at myself in my rain-proof jacket, jumper and tee-shirt. And, yes, I was hot now. The pitiful amount of air coming through the vent just above my head was no longer doing it for me because the rain had stopped and the sun was now shining in through the small window right onto me. I undid my seat belt and struggled out of my plastic jacket, with my companion helping to peel it from my back. I took my jumper off, for good measure. She looked at me again, this time more approvingly as she took in my tee-shirt with my bra visible underneath, and my skirt and leggings lower down still. I sat back in my seat, what there was of it, and tried to make myself comfortable.

“Yours are a nice size, I can see. Mine are perhaps too big and heavy, although they grew like that when I was a teenager and they've stayed that big ever since.”

I listened to her approval of me and a further reference to her own bust size, thinking to myself, well, she's got plenty to say, hasn't she?

She left room for me to reply with something. If she wants to talk about her chest, then so be it. Let's talk about it. I looked again at her front, while she watched my face and wriggled herself a tiny but noticeable amount. Her bust wobbled in response while I tried to think of something polite to say about it.

“Plenty of women would love to have breasts your size, or at least bigger that what they have. You've saved yourself a fortune in boob jobs.”

“Yes, I have, but I always tell them to be careful what they wish for. I have more problems with my boobs in a normal day than most women have in a month!”

“Problems?” I asked.

“Yes. Like near constant backaches, stares of envy from women and stares of another sort from men. And when I try to run or walk upstairs at the wrong speed, my breasts are all over the place. And at work, if I get a commendation from management, all my colleagues just think it was because of my bra size not the work I actually did.”

I had heard about some of these issues from big-breasted women, but had no actual experience of them myself because my bra size was 34C and therefore almost invisible to women and men, whether management or colleagues. And every time I'd done some good work and had a pat on the back from my boss, everybody else usually ... um, wait, no, that's never actually happened to me.

I must try doing some good work sometime when I've got nothing better to do.

I stared again at her breasts under her top, since we were talking about them and it would have been rude not to look at them (British social convention number three). She looked around us, but mainly at Mr Rugby Player who was missing a treat if only he knew it, then lifted the bottom of her thin tee-shirt up to under her chin, exposing her massive jugs. She was of course sitting down in the cramped seat, and the lower edges of her breasts were almost in her lap. I could see them only about a foot away from my face. She didn't quickly raise her top then lower it again, she raised it and held it up, keeping it up for me to enjoy. They were truly massive now I could see them without any clothing in the way. They each began in the usual place but grew in size and shape the farther down her chest I looked. They spread apart, away from each other the further down I looked. The nipple on each was way lower down her body than my nipples were on mine.

She kept her top up out of the way with one hand and lifted one of her breasts up with the other hand, taking time first to wriggle her fingers underneath it sufficiently so it didn't flop out of her grasp when she lifted her hand with its handful of flesh. And when she lifted her hand her breast spilled out over it and drooped down around the edges. I gazed at it, fascinated that it was only a few inches from my face. She held it there for me to enjoy for a half minute, then with her other hand she dropped her top and took my hand, putting it under her breast in place of hers. She wriggled her hand out, leaving me holding her massive boob in my hand, feeling its weight and size. It was warm and just slightly sweaty, but I didn't mind. In fact I loved it.

Her areolas were the biggest I have ever seen, although still only a small area of each breast. I traced the areola area with my finger around the breast I was holding. I could feel the slight roughness of the browner skin compared to the pale white of the rest of her breast. I slid my finger across the join several times, while my companion watched me, felt me doing it and smiled.

We both suddenly remembered Mr Rugby Player, but he was in the world of his own mates and their new friends the hen party women. I returned to the matter in hand, so to speak, giving it little test jiggles and wobbles so I could feel its size and weight. She took my other hand and wriggled it under her other breast, and I did the same with that one. We were both smiling at each other now, like old friends at a reunion. I moved them around her chest. Further away from each other, closer, higher and lower, all the while marvelling at their size and smooth skin and how far each one could move. Our books lay forgotten, teetering on our knees or on seat C. We now had things to occupy us that were much more fun, for the remaining minutes of waiting time.

Mr Rugby Player moved a little more than usual. I saw this out of the corner of my eye, and I hastily let go of my companion's breasts which flopped back onto her chest and she dropped her top back over them. However, we needn't have worried, he wasn't looking at us. Her breasts played hide-and-seek with Mr Rugby Player occasionally, while the rest of the time she let me feel them and amuse myself with them. I held them in different positions, I tantalised her nipples to make them grow big and hard. I held her breasts together to create a straight cleavage that seemed like it was a yard long. I tried bending them up towards her mouth, succeeding in enabling her to lick her nipples. I even held one up to my mouth. I looked at her for permission, and she nodded her head. I licked her nipple myself, my own nipples responding by going stiff themselves, and my pussy getting wet within the dark recesses of my winter knickers and leggings. Her nipple seemed to fill my mouth, and it grew even as I circled it with my tongue. I suckled it, pulling at the hard knob I could feel in my mouth.

Mr Rugby Player did another lurch at that moment, I reacted guiltily and so did she and her breasts and nipples went back under her top for a second or two. However, all was well, but we didn't dare try that again, sadly.

My companion took the hem of her skirt and pulled it up to her tummy. Underneath, she had no knickers and I could easily see her pussy, shaved as clean as a whistle, and her large meaty labia lying between her legs on the inside of her skirt. The actual lips were rounded and smooth, with plenty of roundness keeping her inner legs apart. Between her labia was a large lump of something random coming out from between them.

Again, I looked down, my face only a foot away from her pussy. She led my hand down between her legs and made my fingers press onto the meaty fleshy bit coming out of her vagina.

“You can squeeze it, pull it, push it, do whatever you like to it, you won't hurt me. In fact I rather like being fondled there. Some people think it must be sensitive or delicate, but it isn't really,” she explained, rather loudly to counteract the noise made by the other passengers.

I smoothed around her lips each side with my fingers, enjoying the wide space between her thighs while she tried to widen her legs for me. I picked up the middle fleshy bit, which came out from between her lips amazingly far and lay on the inside of her skirt as she sat on it in seat B. She watched me play with it. I pulled it the most gentlest I could manage. She didn't respond or react. I pulled at it a bit more firmly, then more firmly still. She still didn't react.

“Will you tell me if I'm pulling it too hard?” I asked.

She nodded and gave me a short demonstration. She pulled it like it was some plasticine or baking dough being kneaded. It stretched almost double the distance that it was already trailing out from her pussy. I watched as she dragged it almost like a piece of balloon being blown up. She took her hand away and made a motion with it indicating that it was my turn again. I gripped it again and pulled it out like she had just done. Out, left, right, up, back, down and out again, pulling it further each time.

“That's nice, I like that!” she said, just loud enough for me to hear. And Mr Rugby Player too, except he wasn't listening.

What I was doing, and what she was letting me do, was making me all tingly inside. She had been looking at my bust and between my legs while I was busy with hers, but I still had my top on and a bra, and my leggings and knickers under my skirt. I suddenly realised that she wanted to play with me like I was with her.

What the heck. I came to a decision, and pulled up my top exposing my bra and my C cups. She turned more towards me, effectively blocking Mr Rugby Player's view if he ever chose to look, so I felt better about exposing my chest for her to feel with her hands. She was all over my small-to-medium sized titties in my bra, feeling, squeezing, pressing, pushing, pulling and generally mascerating them around as much as she could and as much as the poor things were able to. I pulled my skirt up as far as I could, and one hand dived down between my legs and stroked the seams of my leggings between my legs.

I don't know if you've ever done this. You start from the outside and gradually, ever so gradually work your way inwards. If you rip everything off in a frenzy of passion, that's all well and good but it will be over before she's found the lube, let alone got the lid off it. Start slowly with her still with her clothes on, and slowly, slowly play with the bits of clothing that are outermost. Run your fingers lightly over her and leisurely skim them on the clothing over her body parts. Remove one item of clothing every so often. You may need to stop for a cup of tea at half-time, but it will be totally worth it. Gradually you raise each other's orgasm-o-meter. Continue removing one item at a time and playing with your fingers on her body until, finally, the last layer comes off and your skin touches hers.

Then let the fireworks commence!

Anyway, she did this with me. We had half an hour left to wait before take-off, allegedly, so there was no need to rush. Never before had I felt so good as she made me feel then. On the verge of being tickled - but not being tickled. On the edge of having a thrill - but savouring it. On the cusp of an orgasm - but not actually crashing into one at full speed. Instead, it grew and grew inside me, and inside her too, I was beginning to think, and all she was doing was letting her fingernails trail imperceptibly over my leggings and favourite knickers which shielded my pussy lips and clitoris. She left me hanging in a glorious cliff-hanger, then let it recede a little.

I sat there for a few minutes, uncertain of whether I was going to explode in an orgasm there and then or whether I could control it and enjoy it more, later.

I hoisted my bottom up off the seat for a couple of seconds and she took the hint and pulled my leggings and knickers down to my knees in one movement. Like she had done, I then opened my legs for her, showing my pussy which I occasionally shaved when I remembered to.

“Oh, you like a bit of hair down there,” she exclaimed, running her fingers through it.

“I haven't shaved for a few days, I wasn't expecting anyone to notice!” I replied.

We both caught each other's eye then burst into giggles. Her boobs flopped around under her top while she laughed, and I openly stared at them while they did. She flicked her top up again, exposing those magnificent mammaries once more. We laughed a lot more, both of us looking around to see if anyone had noticed us, and seeing that they weren't, we refocussed on her chest in all its splendour.

As if we were already synchronised our hands dived back between the other person's legs. This time she flicked her fingers in the right places and at the right speed and suddenly I felt fireworks going off between my legs, all around my nipples and right up to the girl spot in my brain. I tried not to yell out loud and make people think I was in the hen party. She and I kept it quiet while we both saw stars and wet the backs of our skirts a little in our fever. You can't help it when you're sitting down with your skirt still on.

After a while when we'd got our breath back, I leaned forward in my cramped seat and released the bra strap holding my lovelies in place. Well, not so much holding them as merely covering them from view, no support being given or needed. She saw what I had just done, and in no time her hands were under my loose bra and feeling my size C's for real, not just in their bra. Once more she was turned a little towards me, her back to Mr Rugby Player who was still missing something happening right next to him. While she had both hands on me, I had both hands on her again, and my hands were loving it. My fingers delved into her vagina and found it was very wet there, so I smeared it around a bit on her thighs and on her breasts as well while she giggled with the feel of it. She orgasmed again, a small one this time. I let her pussy recover while my hands went up to her breasts again.

This time we were neither frantic nor ultra-relaxed, we were simply enjoying our hands on each other without creating a drama over it. I smoothed her breasts from top to bottom, just passing over each nipple with barely a touch, but enough of one to register. Side to side, and underneath as well, since she appeared happy to let my fingers work their way under them so I could raise them and move them about. Her nipples grew harder and pokier again the more I played with them, half under her loose top and half not.

And I had another orgasm. This time, a much quieter one. I saw that she hadn't, so I lifted one of her breasts to my mouth and began suckling it, becoming stronger and stronger the more I did it. I could taste what I'd been smearing her skin with a few seconds ago. It was strong and sharp and very tasty. Her nipple grew very hard, and she suddenly wanted me to change breasts and nipples, and soon she was having another 'private moment', except that I had enjoyed giving it to her.

I'd never touched someone else's breasts before today. Oh, sure, at school I'd taken my bestie round the back of the bike sheds one time and played 'you show yours I'll show mine', but we certainly didn't touch and the 'show' segment lasted all of a blink of an eye. And everyone 'looks' at other people - male and female - but they generally have clothes on, even if only a pair of swimming trunks or a bikini. As for staring at another women's naked breasts, or any part of her body, for longer than a second or two, that was another ball game entirely, and one which I'd never played.

Or even been picked for the team.

And as for actually touching, even accidentally, another woman's breasts or pussy, well such a thing would never have crossed my mind. And certainly, not to do what I had been doing with my companion, nor she with me.

However, it's remarkable how quickly one can get used to new things. And, being now used to it, I was keen to continue learning my new skills. While I was doing it, I told her about me and my bestie behind the bike sheds, and how I'd never touched a woman before in my life. While I was speaking, quite loudly due to the appalling noise from the Rugby Club and the hen party, she seemed moved by my story. I had no idea what her background was like, I didn't want to ask too many questions in case there was something really bad in her past. I was just very well acquainted with her nude body, so I asked her when the first time had been that someone had played with her boobs. She told me about various boyfriends who'd come and gone, and a few girlfriends too, all of whom she'd lost for one reason or another. The conversation grew a little sad at this point, and it grew sadder still when I told her about some of my boyfriends and what they'd done. At length we stopped talking altogether and just kept our hands on the other person's chest underneath the relevant tee-shirt.

We cuddled together and did nothing, in contrast to our previous activities, and just whispered, or because of the Rugby Club/hen party noise, spoke quite loudly about random events from our past that each one thought might encourage the other. At length, even these things came to an end and we sat there in silence.

I held her face to my face and our upper chests came together and touched, lying alongside each other. I held her like that for ages, until there was a crackle from the PA system.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has indicated that we are now ready to depart. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts ...”

The Rugby Club and the hen party separated again into two distinct groups and did as they were told, amazingly. Mr Rugby Player moved away and sat in his seat somewhere, leaving our seats visible from the other side of our row across the central aisle where I noticed three people sitting squashed together, each with their face in their book or phone. Presumably they'd been doing that all the time. My own book must have fallen onto the floor at an early moment, but I could hardly be bothered to look for it right now. My mind and thoughts were on what I and my companion had just experienced, and were still experiencing, as we were still together in a sort of hug (or cuddle), my knickers and leggings still around my knees.

I raised my bottom off the seat once more and she helped me to pull them up for decency's sake before the cabin crew came around checking that my knickers and leggings were in the 'up' position like the window blinds and tray tables, my waistband belt was secured and visible, and my skirt hem was 'down' like the arm rests.

Having done that, we reverted to our cuddle (or hug) positions. We stayed like that for most of the two hour flight, dozing, waking up, talking for a bit, then dozing again. And when we had landed and disembarked, we went through border security together, chatting a little bit but mostly looking at each other's chest while pretending we weren't. She only had hand luggage and I lost her as she walked straight past the luggage carousel without stopping. She waved at me as I stopped to wait for my hold luggage. I waved back, neither of us actually saying good-bye. I watched her as she strode away from me towards Arrivals, her backpack slung over one shoulder and her top pulled down as far as it could go.

I never saw her again, and I hadn't even asked her name. I'd like to meet her one more time.

Please.