This is a fantasy, of course. Yet I weighed the possibility of dedicating it to one of my web friends. The possibility of it's being misinterpreted stopped that, but perhaps the friend will understand. Who knows, mayhap this has happened to others.
I am sending this off into the land of the pixel without the careful editing I usually apply to my pieces. But this is a fast and passionate vignette. I hope you like it.
This is copyright August 2001 by the Troubador. All rights are reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced for any reason without explicit written permission from the author. Do not remove this copyright statement.
Unless someone has downloaded this from the site on which it was found, you already know it is erotic, and I assure you there will be graphic sexual content. If for some reason you aren't legally supposed to have access to such content, please go away and come back when it is legal. It will be much more enjoyable then, and you will understand it better and get more out of it. I know this is true because that is what my mother told me almost sixty years ago, and I have learned everything my mother told me is true. That is why I always wear clean underwear. The reason I am always polite and courteous to women has other, ulterior, motives.
The weather was miserable, but it was mid-December after all, so what could I expect. A family shake up had needed my presence on the East Coast, so I'd gone. I never did figure out why they needed me, but it is nice to be needed anyway. After all, I'm retired now and don't do much more than write these stories.
Anyway, I was heading back to the West Coast and the weatherman decided to throw everything at the country that week. The trip turned out to be nice, as my seatmate was an attractive gal, comfortably out of the giggle stage and not yet into the lumbago stage. I prefer my women full-grown, like them clean, neat, smart and funny. If they're smart, they will look attractive if they have anything at all to work with and almost all women do. Seems to me that it's only the young fixating on some perceived blemish and ignoring the wonders that still show in their mirror. This gal had a lot to work with, and could better and then oust me in any conversation, so I was having fun.
The problem became apparent when we were getting ready to land in Chicago. The Attendant, guess I'm not supposed to call them stewardesses any more, and it hurts me not to, anyway, the gal up front announced that we were going to be the last plane allowed to land that day. Of course she then gave all the required gobbledygook about not worrying, connections would be made, and we would have lodging. Sure, you bet. Santa was coming in a few days, too.
My seatmate, whose name seemed familiar for some reason, got pretty disgusted. She had been going to a family problem, while I was returning from one. Neither one of us saw a reason to rush to the door once the plane had tied up to the terminal so we sat while it emptied itself, then got up and grabbed our carryons and headed off.
Turns out our delay getting off wasn't too swift a decision. Chicago of all places had little room at the inn according to the people waiting for us at the desk in the terminal. Matter of fact, they had only one spot available.
I had all kinds of really lurid ideas about my seatmate and I sharing a room, but it didn't turn out to be quite so drastic. I just hoped my temporary companion didn't hear my muttered, "Damn, not even that can go right!" She might take it the way it was meant.
What they had wasn't all that bad, really. There had been a screw up and a real VIP in first class had toddled off to his companies lodging in the windy city. The space reserved for him was the one available for us. I never did understand why they didn't have enough rooms for us passengers in steerage.
What we were sharing was a three-room suite, two bedrooms and a sitting room. I cussed to myself again, seemed to me two sitting rooms would have been much better. I smiled at her and told her I didn't walk in my sleep unless she did. So we were matched up.
When we managed to trek to the suite, braving a Chicago cabby and a real live blizzard, the accommodations really looked pretty good. Especially when we realized that the piece of paper they gave us, meant for the VIP of course, authorized us to use room service and by extension the bar at the airlines expense. We wondered if they would survive the financial hit we might put on them that night.
What interested me in this mess was the name we were being housed under. Not mine or my seatmate's but; 'Troubador, Mr. and Mrs.' They assured us we would be contacted in plenty of time to make the plane when it took off, just stay in the suite so they could get ahold of us. After gifting me an over night guest like my 'mate' I couldn't figure how they could expect me to stray. On second think I figured they were worried about her straying, they knew where I would be.
Anyway we got settled in by early afternoon; opened the bar in the room and then settled down to swap some more stories. She kept giving me these funny looks. It was kind of like she had a secret she wanted to share, but it was too precious to spoil. I finally got her to talking about herself, and things just kept clicking into my over stressed and under utilized memory banks. Considering that my personal brain computer was so obsolescent it shouldn't be surprising how long I took to put it all together.
Suddenly I sat up from my habitual lounging position and almost shouted, "Hey, you're Fancy Girl!"
She grinned at me, "I wondered how long it would take you to figure that out!"
"You must have given them my nom de plume when they set up lodging," I muttered.
"That's right, we are here as T. Troubador. I don't know how they got the Mr. and Mrs. out of it."
"That calls for a toast," I decided and poured us each another drink from the bar. We even had our own refrigerator built into the thing.
Noticing that my feet were not their usual nimble selves, I started counting and realized we were opening our fourth of fifth libation of the afternoon. Well, we weren't allowed to go anywhere so what the who. I poured two more for good measure, serving us each doubles.
My 'mate' being more aware than I, called down and ordered dinner from room service. Then we went over to the windows and watched the blizzard sock it to Chicago.
When the meal arrived, it was obviously intended for the original people who were to populate this suite. We enjoyed it immensely. Probably the only time I'll be able to afford a meal of that caliber. Couldn't have afforded it then if I had to pay for it. Then we went over to the window and I hauled over a sofa-loveseat and we enjoyed the blizzard. A hell of a lot more interesting than anything that would be on TV.
She was a web writer too. That's how we had met on the web. I admired her work and she lied and said she liked mine. I asked her what she currently had in the works for her next story. I liked the ideas, but couldn't help throwing some ideas at her on how to 'dress-up' the love scenes.
Yeah, like I had better ideas than hers!
Anyway, what we ended up doing was pouring a brandy per each from the bar. Sipping out of those great balloon glasses and trying to out-eroticize one another was fun. From my standpoint, I was losing badly because she was so damned regal and attractive she was cranking my engine and I was having trouble thinking. All my mind really wanted to concentrate on was doing, not describing. And that just couldn't be in the works. We were both committed to others, and cared for them very much. So we each poured a little more brandy and talked some more.
When I noticed her nipples were a whole hell of a lot bigger now than when we sat down I decided maybe I could at least get a draw in our unspoken one upmanship game. That's when I stepped beyond the rules we were playing under. The great thing was she either didn't notice, or didn't mind my doing so.
What I did was begin using my hands to demonstrate the use of non-sexual areas as erotic zones.
I picked her hand up from where it was lying on her thigh and start playing with her fingers. It's always amazed me how sensuous it is to have someone take each finger, one at a time, and just explore it. Try it some time. Play with the web between the fingers, stroke and explore each joint of each finger. Then trace the patterns in the palm, kiss and lick them. Suck on the fingers. You will do it again I guarantee it. Her eyes began drooping, getting that hooded look and I raised her hand to my mouth and began sucking, licking and exploring her fingers and hand again. That was about the time she went silent and just watched me over the top of the snifter while sipping her brandy.
We were both topping our snifters off regularly and I realized we could only judge how much we had drunk by measuring what was left in the bottle. It looked suspiciously low, and I decided it hadn't been a full bottle to begin the afternoon. Couldn't have been.
.... There is more of this story ...