As the plane descends, I wonder. I have only seen parts of her, never the whole thing. We have never spoken, though we have corresponded extensively. I have told myself that I’m not traveling just to see her – in fact, that I’m not traveling to see her at all, but rather, that I’m traveling. AND, because I am, because of where I’m going, I’ll get to see her. This may be true. But maybe not. In any event, as the plane’s wheels hit the tarmac, I know that there’s not much time before I’ll get to see her.
To meet her.
I don’t know what she’s wearing: I told her what I wanted her to wear, but she rejected my request. “I want to surprise you with my choice of clothing,” she wrote. “You would have to make an exception.”
She’s like this, occasionally: mostly, exquisitely compliant; occasionally, brattily defiant. I told her exceptions have costs. In just a few minutes, she’ll pay….
I know what she sounds like. Her breathy voice. I’ve listened to it hundreds of times. If I could, I’d reprogram my GPS to be in her voice.
I know the shape, the color of her eyes.
The height of her cheekbones.
The shape of her lips, the shape they make as they wrap around her finger, as they suck – her juice? mine? off.
The delicious way her waist flares into her hips.
Her ass, her legs, her feet.
I know it all. But in parts.
What does it add up to? How does she carry herself? I know how her voice sounds in monologue; but how does it sound when I surprise her, when I embarrass her, when I flatter her, when I touch her?
How does it sound when my finger enters her, when I grab, or spank, or caress, her ass?
What does she taste like? Is she sweet? Bitter? Musky? Clean?
As much as I’ve seen of her, I don’t know what her cunt looks like, don’t know if she’s shaved or natural, if her lips are full or slender.
What does her clit feel like under my tongue, between my lips? Will she press toward me, for more stimulation? Will she flinch, needing more gentleness?
What does her breath do as my cock slides into her? As I pull her toward me, push her down, down, into the bed, the table, against the wall?
What does her mouth feel like, as I guide it onto my cock? Is it warm and moist? Gentle? Rough? Does her tongue fly to my shaft, press against it, swirl under it? Does it recoil, deeper into her own throat?
How does her orgasm sound? Will it be at my hand or hers? Or a toy? Or water? Will there be one? Three? Fifteen?
And when I am ready to cum, does she ask for it? Does she beg for it? Does she need it? Like I need to give it to her?
As I walk through the airport, all these thoughts flash through my mind. As I emerge, at the baggage claim, she’s waiting with a little sign: “Mr. N.”