Poor hubby is on the injured reserve list. He needs some pampering.
There’s my poor man, laid up for a week on doctor’s orders. And look at him-files open and mountain of paperwork spread before him. He’s typing furiously on that laptop, has his cell phone wedged between his shoulder and ear. His leg is slightly elevated on a stack of throw pillows.
I have only to walk in with the large bowl, sloshing warm, soapy water, and he looks up, calculates, then drops the phone to the bed. I set the bowl on the nightstand and gather his papers into the appropriate folders, put his laptop to sleep, and slide onto the edge of the bed.
With one hand set against the center of his chest, I ease him back onto the pillows, smiling all the while. He looks a bit bewildered, yet hopeful. His expression is priceless as I ease his shorts down over his hips-mindful of the brace that runs from ankle to hip-and throw them to the floor.
I take the wet cloth between my hands and squeeze the excess water back into the bowl, drape it over my palm and begin my gentle ministrations. I know he’s sore and tired, so I skip the preliminaries and go straight for the main event, placing my warm, soapy, cloth-covered hand flat across his stirring organ.
I feel him twitch and jump beneath my palm, and the heat of the washcloth pales in comparison to the heat that emanates from beneath. As the lather rises, so does his desire. The sweet scent of the soap mingles with the heady scent of his arousal.
His eyes are closed, mine heavy lidded, and our breathing synchronizes with our familiar rhythm. He’s slippery and rock solid in my grasp. Everything in me wants to swing my leg over his hips and have my way. But I don’t just yet-the ride will be the potentially hurtful portion of our session. I’ll prolong it only long enough for our climaxes to be short and sweet.
I move the cloth lower, cupping his balls, and allow my other hand to soak in the bowl for a moment before taking him firmly and stroking from tip to base. My fingers slide easily over the slick, bubbly surface of his cock. As my fist pumps harder and faster, I climb onto my knees and lean in to take his right nipple between my teeth.
I hold it there, flicking my tongue, then latch on with my lips and suck hard. His hips are rising to match the motion of my fist, and my hips sway in the air, my clitoris throbbing. The blood rushes through my ears with each pulse. I can hold back no longer.
I rise up, slide my leg over his belly, and guide his cock into my already clenching pussy. Mutual moans pass between us. I sink and he slides, until we are crushed against each other.
A new scent joins the symphony-the smell of soap and labia, squishy, tangy, sharp and sweet. I grind against him slowly, and raise my hips on the upswing, riding smoothly, not even a canter, but an air ride up and down, like a piston: steady, even, and delicious.
I lift myself, far enough that the tip of his cock almost slips out, lower myself again and sigh my pleasure. The head of his shaft delves inside and presses against that warm, sweet spot, eliciting a guttural moan from between my clenched teeth. I grind again, pressing him harder into that cluster of singing nerves.
He’s panting now as I sway and rock against him, holding his rib cage for support.
He groans and twitches, and I take it as encouragement and rock harder. My thumbs brush over his nipples and my eyes roll closed. I rotate my hips faster, harder, crushing myself against him. He grabs my hips and lifts me, repositioning his leg so that I no longer jar it with my body. I grin sheepishly, but he rotates my hips and hits the spot again. I cry out and stiffen, then shake with release, falling against his chest for a moment to catch my breath.
My muscles clench around his shaft, milking from base to tip, tip to base. I rise again, lift my hips and slide back down. His hands shoot out and grasp my thighs, slide around to cup my ass, guide me slowly: up and down, around, and back up again.
Before long, his mouth is open, his eyes squeezed tight, and the tendons in his neck are straining with each thrust. I can feel another climax building in me just from witnessing his rapture, and we crash together a final time, with a wet slap of skin. He holds me down tight while he strains every millimeter of his cock inside of me, and explodes.
Again I collapse on his chest, and he cups the back of my head and kisses my hair.
Once I’ve caught my breath, I rise and slide off him and the bed, taking the washcloth with me. I rinse it and ring it out. I use it to wipe him clean once again, the odors of our coupling rising to the fore with each stroke.
After he’s clean, I turn the cloth on myself and rock my pelvis against my palm. I’m not ready to be done. I contemplate a moisturizer session, but his eyes are closed. A sleepy smile touches the corners of his mouth.
I slide the bed sheet up to his chest, kiss his forehead, and carry the bowl back to the bathroom, where I dump it, rinse it and tip it upside down on the sink. I return to him, my poor, sweet man, and stretch alongside to await his awakening.
Layover
The ten mile high club is good, but frequent flyers get special perks.
To most of my colleagues, business class is only a layover on the way to champagne and caviar flights. Me? I enjoy the airbus lifestyle. With my seniority and lineholder status, I pretty much get my itinerary a month or so in advance, and always get what I want.
Right now, while I'm strapped into my jump seat waiting to hit 10,000 feet, what I want is Mr. 2A.
Actually I call him ‘Mr. C.’ He's a regular commuter. I don't know what he does for a living, but he has power. Window seat every time, and already this flight, he has the laptop fired up, to pound those keys until they smoke.
He calls me ‘Em’, never ‘Emily’, as printed on my nametag. I’ve been witty. I’ve been coy, and I’ve been a gracious hostess. All the while, my ‘what if’ gland has been put through its paces. Normally on these commute flights, I’m scheduled on a later flight back, but tonight I have a layover, and reservations at his hotel.
The second the seat belt light goes off, I'm up out of my harness and into the kitchen to get him a fresh drink. I check my cleavage in the mirror on my way through the curtains, and pull my top button half way through the buttonhole. I wear my best gentle, innocently sexy smile, and head his way.
“More of the same for both of us, I see,” he says, and slides his laptop to the adjacent seat. His fingers brush mine as he takes his drink from my hand and smiles. I call it that, but really it’s not a ‘full’ smile. Only half his mouth curves up, and there's a glint in his eyes, an intimation of the sarcastic remark that's waiting just behind those luscious lips.
“For a second there, I thought you were going to ask me if I ‘come here often’.” I wink and wrinkle my nose, expecting one of his generous belly laughs. He winks instead.
“Ah, well, I’ve seen you ’round often enough, I suppose.”
“Yeah, well, this trip’s going to be different. I’m taking a night off, this time. Treating myself to a nice hotel. The Grand, in fact.”
“Ah, lovely place, that. It’s where the company sets me up, you know.”
“Oh?” I fake surprise. “Aren’t you the lucky one, Mr. C.” He smiles again. “So Em, do you?” He favors me with a tiny raise of his eyebrows.
It takes a moment for everything to click into place. Do I what? What were wetalking about? Then it hits me. A joke, perhaps a proposition: Do I come here often? I drop my eyelashes. “Not nearly often enough.” I match his smoldering stare, but inside I’m singing, It’s gonna hap-pen. It’s gonnahap-pen! My belly flutters and I bite my lip to keep the song inside.
I lean over to set his tray table in position, and my blouse pops open. I pretend not to notice, but keep him in my peripheral vision to be sure that he does. I reach across him to arrange the Skymall magazines, and my right breast is in full profile, the lavender lace demi barely covering my nipple.
An air pocket provides the perfect opportunity to ‘falter’, and his hand shoots to my hip to steady me before I fall across his lap. The jolt of electricity between us
shocks me weak, and I lean into his hand a bit more before rising up and adjusting my uniform, leaving the top button wide.
“You okay there, Em?” That’s not concern I see in his eyes. His hand has gone from cupping my hip to smoothing his trouser leg.
I suppose the warmth in my face could be construed as a coquettish blush.
“Almost.”
But this flight can’t be over soon enough.
Back in the haven behind the accordion door, I busy myself with meal preparations, but I’ve left the door open a crack, and I can see him out there, leaning forward slightly, that half smile playing on his lips while he fingers the mouse pad. I picture those lips pressed against me, and I can almost feel the hot slippery sensation of his tongue traveling down my neck.
I break out in goose flesh and swivel around the corner to the restroom. The door slaps shut on its springs and I slide the lock home, releasing a huge breath I hadn’t even known I’d been holding. Hands pressed hard against the tiny steel sink, I regain some composure.
This is getting ridiculous.
Once I have my bearings, I shimmy my skirt up around my hips and hook my thumbs into the strings of my panties. I yank them down and sit quickly as I feel the silky wetness tickle between my legs.
I love this, this game of anticipation. The chemistry between us has been kicked up a notch, and it’s keeping me on point. My hand moves of its own accord, sliding down between my legs. The meaty part of my palm brushes against my clitoris and I jump. My forefinger probes and slides, testing the viscosity.
Do I have time for this? A slideshow of steamy images flies through my mind, and I rock my hips.
Yes, I have time, damn it!
I dip my fingers inside and draw them back slippery, then begin circular motions around my pulsing clit. My hand moves in wide, slow motions, like a shark lazily circling its prey, and my eyes drift shut. I form a pattern of dipping, then returning to circle-
faster, tighter, my breath keeping pace.
I sway with the rhythm, and soon I clamp my lips together to hold back groans. My climax rushes toward me, crashes into me, and grips me; rigid, trembling, and straining to hold myself quiet. My teeth grind, my head buzzes and ears ring. Then it releases me.
I slump until my breathing slows.
I pull myself together as quickly as possible, gather my scattered wits and wash up, straightening my uniform before rushing to get back on schedule with the flight routine.
All through the flight, I try to concentrate on what I’m doing, but find myself having to rely on autopilot. Every trip to the front is another stolen glance, another zing up my spine and down through my belly.
When we strap in for descent, my knee is bouncing, and I catch glances from passengers near the front. Let them think what they want. It’ll give them a story to take home with them. He seems to be relaxed, though I notice that his knee is swaying slightly-a metronome foretelling the slow, easy rhythm of his hips.
I’ll bet he thrusts with his entire body!
The shock of the wheels hitting the tarmac looses another flush of anticipation. I stifle a groan.
He files past me at the door and throws me a full on smile. “See ya later, Em.” I lean back against the wall and will the rest of the passengers to get the hell off the plane. In fact, I’m half way to my storage cubby to grab my carry-on and purse when the last passenger steps into the boarding tunnel. I zoom through the checklist with my fellow hostesses, dump a hasty ‘great flight, see ya!’ into the cockpit, and race through the terminal and out to the curb to catch the hotel shuttle.
I just make it. The doors hiss shut at my back, and I stumble to an open seat, juggling my belongings into a more manageable pile. Before I sit, I scan the passengers and, while my ass drops into the molded plastic seat, my heart drops to my stomach. He’s not there.
I ran, and everything! Now I’m going to have to find him at dinner, and what are the odds of that? He probably eats in his room. This isn’t the way things were supposed tohappen, damn it!
When we pull into the circular drive, I see another shuttle bus, just departing after loosing its passengers, and hope springs anew. Deflated but not defeated, I head into the hotel, scanning the front desk, the lobby, and the elevator banks for my frequent flyer.
But nothin’ doin’, as they say.
The concierge clears his throat and shoves an envelope into my hand. I’m thinking it’s some last minute change in itinerary, which happens from time to time when someone needs to have a direct flight home. Usually an emergency, or it wouldn’t get past the dispatchers, so the orders are taken without much complaint.
Safely inside the elevator, I slide my finger under the flap and pull out a slip of heavy bond paper covered in a wide, hasty scrawl, with a keycard attached:
Cocktails at 6:00?
— Mr. C in #1342
Thanks to that cool brass bar along the back wall of the elevator, I’m still upright when the doors open on my floor, and I have a chance to regain my composure. I walk calmly to my room, where I fall onto my bed, kick my feet and hug myself, and grin so hard my face hurts.
I take stock of the room while I pull myself together. Nothing fancy, just plain, but nice. The curtains are drawn, so it's opaque shadowy with bits of daylight peeking around the edges of the drapes.
With several hours to kill, I swipe the pamphlets off the nightstand and roll onto my belly to peruse the shops and sales. I end up falling asleep with my cheek pressed against the full color ads.
It’s still stuck to my face when I wake with remnants of a dream evaporating before my eyes. The light in my room has deepened, and I check the clock to find I have an hour before I have to meet him. I pull some clothes from my bag and drape them over hangers on the back of the bathroom door, hoping the steam will get most of the wrinkles out while I bathe.
I don’t really have time for a full bath, but I want one, so I take one. I start the water, dump in the bath salts, and go about setting my toiletries on the counter. By the time I’ve brushed out my hair and stripped out of my uniform, the tub is full and frothy, and I step in with a sigh.
It feels so good I almost forget what I’m doing. I go through the familiar motions of shaving, but as the razor glides up my inner thigh, I imagine his fingertips following, and steal myself against taking matters into my own hands for the second time today.
Instead, I carefully swipe the razor around my bikini line, finish my left leg, stand, flip the toggle plug and start the shower.
Once out, I allow my body to dry in the cool air, and shake off the sudden case of nerves that shiver through me. I’d opted for casual and comfortable when packing, and I’m grateful for that as I slide my jeans over my hips. A gauzy button-down blouse is just the ticket, and some easy-off sandals complete the ensemble.
I do my hair, nothing fancy, do my make-up, nothing heavy, and spray a mist of my favorite perfume into the air. I dance through the cloud. I’m ready and I’m excited, and I’m scared to death, but in a really good way.
I grab a tiny bottle of bourbon out of the mini-fridge, screw off the little aluminum cap with my teeth, then spit it into my hand and suck the liquor from the tiny plastic neck. With my keycard in my left hip pocket and his keycard in my right, I sling my purse strap over my shoulder and hit the hallway. I have to go up two floors, then down to the other end of the hall, and I can feel him all the way from here. Next thing I know it, he’s just on the other side of the door, and as I hear the latch disengage, my body sizzles and a hiss escapes me.
“Hey, Em,” he whispers and smiles. He's wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, and I’ve already decided I’ll be taking that with me when I go. With a boldness that surpasses my fantasies, I reach out to him, beckoning with my fingers. I grab him by the waistband and yank him closer, looking up into his face. I knew it would burn my fingers to touch him, and it does, but I slide my hands up his belly anyway and he leans into me.
I guess we’re not going to talk.
The kiss? Wow. It steals my breath away. Knocks the wind right out of me. Good thing there’s a bed nearby. I walk him backwards through his door, and he inhales my neck, his hands clutching fists full of hair at the base of my skull. He swivels us around and backs me up to the edge of the bed until my knees buckle and we fall back. I can’t think straight, because this entire time, a voice in my head keeps saying, ‘I can’t believe it’s happening! I can’t believe I’m doing this!’ over and over.
He’s on his knees before me and I push against him. He stands and kicks off his boots while I sit up and wrestle his jeans down to his ankles, then scramble out of mine, kicking them into a heap on the floor.
I look up while I fumble with the buttons on my blouse, and there it is. Reality. He stands before me, hands on hips, legs slightly spread. Passion swallows my shock and I have to touch him. I must wrap my fist around him and stroke him, feel the pulsing heat, the satiny skin. He's ripe: full color, looking like he's ready to pop. I need just a taste; my lips slide around the tip. My tongue slathers. I savor the salty, coppery flavor.
He grasps my head and pulls it back, leans down and pushes me onto the bed to kneel between my knees once again. One hand clasps my waist, the other… Oh, the other! It cups around my pussy, thumb pressing my clit, two fingers slipping inside and curling upwards. I latch my legs around him and ride his hand, grinding against it. The hand is good, but I desperately want him inside me. I want him to cram himself into me, s lam into me, scrape his knees against the carpet, he’ll push so hard.
After all these months of subliminal foreplay, it’s exhilarating and a little bit frightening, this lust that’s overpowering me. I almost laugh out loud, but instead I urge him to pull my legs up over his shoulders and lean into me. Then I grab onto the duvet for dear life.
I hope the guests in the adjacent room aren't there-I can't keep myself from yelping and sighing. He thrusts, each motion beginning with his shoulders and rolling down his back before plunging exquisitely into me. I push my shirt up, and he drops one of my legs and slurps my nipple into his hot mouth. He sucks hard, pumps harder-is he going to come? I am. I can feel my stomach muscles contracting, my breath tearing from me. I grab his face and pull his mouth to mine, and shudder my groans into him, breaking away to gulp air into my starving lungs.
Digressions Into Erotica Page 6
