This piece is a counterpoint to the other day’s post, “Wisdom.”
As the plane descends into O’Hare, you smooth your sundress. You look at the list I had sent you: light, cotton sundress? Check. Cork-heeled shoes? Check. White cotton boyshorts (in spite of your insistence that your ass isn’t big enough for them)? Check. Lip gloss? Check. Dodgers cap? Check.
You look in your little mirror, and you like what you see: in spite of yourself, you look hot, and you know it. You lean back in your chair as the plane descends below 10,000 feet. The aggrieved, officious flight attendant comes over the PR system, asking that people turn off their electronics, return their seats and trays to the upright, locked position. You turn the volume on your iPod up: fuck them, you think. You spread the thin fleece blanket over you. You’re not cold, but you need a little privacy.
Under the blanket, your hand bunches up the dress and pulls it up, giving your hand easier access. You press, first softly, then more firmly, against the damp cotton fabric of your panties. You pull your hand out, up to your face: the aroma is unmistakable, musky, yummy. Your hand goes back down, and you close your eyes, as (who?) sings in your ears. You slide a finger carefully under the elastic of your underwear, through the trail of moisture (fuck that, wetness) on your upper thigh.
As your finger finds your pussy’s lips, you slide forward just a bit in your seat. You stroke, softly, lightly. You probe, sending your finger inside your cunt, pressing up against the roof, motioning forward, stroking your g-spot. Your body slouches further, and you can’t help but let out a moan. The couple sitting across the aisle from you is looking. You don’t notice.
Next thing you know, the plane bounces against the runway. You sit up straight, fold up your blanket, and gather your things. You turn your phone on and text me: “On the runway. You?”
The phone takes a few moments to receive the backlog of messages (including several filthy ones from me). My last one, sent just a moment ago: “Landed half an hour ago. Meet me in the Ambassadors’ Club.”
I sit in the Ambassadors’ Club. I can’t believe I did this. I flew halfway across the country to meet you – a woman I’ve never met. Are you even on the plane? Are you just playing me? I’ll feel so fucking stupid. But I don’t think so. It’s all felt genuine, authentic. I think you genuinely want my cock inside you as much as I do. I look at my phone – no word yet. I look at the screen on my laptop, tracking your flight. You’ve just landed. I shift in my seat, crossing my legs first one way and then the other. My cock is hard. My mind is racing.
My phone vibrates with a text: “On the runway. You?” I tell you where I am, to come meet me. And now, the waiting is no longer sweet, the anticipation no longer delicious. This is just sheer torture. What will you look like? What will you sound like? (I’ve seen 300 pictures of you, half a dozen movies, and listened to several recordings of your voice, but we’ve never had a video chat or a phone call – why not?)
And then – you walk in. There’s no mistaking you. Your brown hair is adorable under your Dodgers cap. I smile – a big, wide smile. Your smile broadens, your dimple appears, when you see me, see my big smile. I stand up, and you walk more quickly toward me. We hug. We kiss. Our mouths are on one another fiercely. Your head turns to the side; I pull you toward me. Your feet leave the ground as I pull you toward me, onto me. The kiss is too long, too intimate, for the Ambassadors Club. We’re not paying attention.
And we sit, across from one another. I get you a drink (what do you drink?) from the bar. We sip, make pathetic attempts at small talk. I tell you I want you now. The Hilton is attached to O’Hare. We stand up, leaving our drinks, half-finished, on the table. “Walk in front of me, please.” I say, and you do. You’re not accustomed to taking orders like this, but you can feel a pulsating sensation in your cunt when I speak, and you know there’s nothing you want more than to do exactly what I say.
You lead the way to the hotel, and we check in. The room’s in your name. We step into the elevator, with several other couples. The ride is endless. My hand rests casually on your hip, sliding down, grabbing your ass affectionately, as the elevator ascends. We’re the second couple to get off, on the 9th floor. We walk down the hall, stopping to kiss. I press you against the wall. You lift a leg, folding your knee, your heel against the wall, as you press your clit against my jeans. I’m so fucking hard, you can taste it.
You fumble with the key card. You open the door. You’re not even halfway in when I push you, hard, onto the bed. You yelp with surprise as you flop onto it. I flip the bolt on the door, and turn around, walking toward you. You sit up on the bed. You face me. You lick your lips. I reach for a pillowcase, shake the pillow out, and gently tie it around your head, fashioning a blindfold for you.