Young Woman at Airport Approaches Orgasm

Some yards up the B Concourse a young woman walks into the airport bookstore. She browses the shelves along one wall which contain a selection of new fiction but doesn’t spot anything that appeals to her. When she turns to exit the shop, a man stops her with a simple gesture of his hand, his stiffened forefinger extended. “Excuse me,” he says, “I wonder if you would be willing to take a minute or two to read something.” His other hand holds a hardback book, and as he presents it to her, he says, “Just a couple of pages. They’re marked. Pages one-sixteen and seventeen. You can keep the book when you’re done.”

The woman doesn’t know quite what to say. The man is early thirties, dressed in jeans and a collared golf shirt. Ordinary. Handsome. He doesn’t look at all threatening. She takes the book.

“Thanks,” the man says. “I hope you enjoy it.” His smile is disarming, and she smiles back.

The woman carries the book to gate 11. Her flight will not board for some time yet; the plane has yet to land. She sits on a bench underneath the wide windows that look out to the runways. She glances at the book. There is a design on the cover but no words to indicate a title or an author. She thinks that is a little strange. She tries to remember if she’d noticed this book at the bookstore. Maybe there had been a stack of them on one of the display tables. She isn’t sure. She would have taken it for a blank journal. Thinking perhaps it is a blank journal, she opens it. On the title page she sees the title.

Explosive Erotica

Oh-oh, she thinks, and close the book. She looks around. There is no one sitting near her, but she spots the man who had given her the book sitting in a row of chairs facing her though some distance away. He smiles at her and nods. She feels a little uneasy. She makes a slight nod in return. What have I got myself into? she thinks.

She lets her eyes drop to the book on her lap. As the man had says, there is a bookmark. She lifts the book and opens it to the page marked by the bookmarker.

young woman walked into the airport bookstore. She is browsing the shelves along one wall which contained a selection of new fiction, but evidently didn’t spot anything that appealed to her. When she turned to exit the shop, a man stopped her with a simple gesture of his hand, his forefinger extended. “Excuse me,” he says, “I wonder if you would be willing to take a minute or two to read something.” His other hand held a hardback book, and as he presented it to her, he says, “Just a couple of pages. They’re marked. Pages one-sixteen and seventeen. You can keep the book when you’re done.”

She stops reading. How did he know? She glances up at the man across from her. Is he the author? She is tempted to look at the book jacket but refrains.

The woman found a seat near her gate and began reading. She couldn’t help feeling she was reading about herself. She couldn’t help feeling a bit unnerved. Nevertheless, she had a sense of anticipation. Of course she knew this wasn’t really her. It was just fiction. These were just words. The whole thing was just...

Too silly for words, the woman says to herself, and she smiles inwardly. Her eyes flit to the man who’d given her the book. He is still there. Is she supposed to do something once she finishes the page? Submit to some kind of interview? Maybe she should just close the book, leave it on the seat, and, and what? Go sit somewhere else. But would it be right to abandon this book, this Extreme, no, Explosive Erotica where anyone could find it? Maybe she could deposit it in the trash bin on her way to somewhere else. Or just take it with her. She is more than a little curious.

The whole thing was just too silly for words.

Aha, the woman thought. I was right! She feels a surge of pleasure. A small thrill.

So far the words were innocuous enough. Nothing outrageous. Except maybe for the circumstance. But the woman had the feeling she was being watched. She felt vaguely as if she were doing something naughty. She crossed her legs.

Hm, the woman thinks. She chuckles to herself. Her legs aren’t crossed. He got that wrong! She reads the sentence again. She reads it a third time. She crosses her legs. As her dress has a very short skirt, now most of her thighs are uncovered.

Now the bare skin of her thighs was visible to anyone seated across from her. Nothing unusual about that. Except she felt the faint stirring of arousal. Sexual arousal. And she knew the man across from her knew she was becoming aroused. Sexually aroused.

No, the woman says to herself. I’m not aroused. Not sexually aroused. But she knows that to be a lie. There is something. Thickening. Loosening. Tingling. Hollowing. She tightens herself. The question “Why me?” flits across her mind. Had she been picked randomly? Or selected by some explicit process? Had Bing put someone up to this? Or Fuzzy or Marla? It would be just like Fuzz. But that didn’t make sense. Fuzz doesn’t even know she is taking this trip. Maybe this is for some kind of TV thing. Are there hidden cameras on her? She wishes she could uncross her legs, but if there were cameras on her, that might be too revealing. Instead she squeezes her thighs together.

The signs were unmistakable. The flushed skin. The swollen nipples. The swelling labia. The quickened breathing. The gathering moisture. The prickle teasing her clitoris.

Her clitoris. She can’t help thinking about it. The book lies in her lap, but a few inches up from her pubis. If she lets it slide down, the edge of it could press...

teasing her clitoris

She tries to stop these thoughts. She doesn’t dare look up. Gradually, she lets the book slide down. Now the edge of it touches the top of her pubic mound. If she presses...

teasing her clit

If she presses just a little more...

her clit

A little harder...

teasing

Her eyes flicker. An image of Fuzz’s lips sucking her, tasting her. Juicy, juicy cunt kisses. She brings her free hand to her head. She bends forward so her forearm surreptitiously presses her breast. Her swollen nipple deliciously impinged. Her legs squeeze and release. Squeeze and release. Her lips part. Her throat and vagina constrict. The book presses. Presses harder. The words on the page blur. Her eyes skip to the last words.

turn the page and come

§

The Purple Sleeping Shirt

Megan picks Martin up at the airport. He’s been away for a week on business.

“How did things go?” she asks as she drives him home.

“We’ll see. Good, I think. It’s out of my hands now.”

“I’m glad. Did you miss me?”

“You know I did,” Martin replies. “Couldn’t you tell by my calls and texts?”

“Yes,” Meg says, “but your calls and texts aren’t fully indicative of the real you.”

“And what’s fully indicative of the real me?”.

Meg reaches across the seat to Martin’s lap. Beneath his trousers, his erection burgeons. Deftly she unzips him. Soon Martin’s penis springs free.

“Mmm, I’ve missed this,” Megan muses.

“Careful,” Martin says.

“That I don’t crash us?” Meg asks.

“That you don’t crash me,” Martin says.

§

“Did you get anything for me?” Meg asks when they reach home.

“I did, I did!” Martin exclaims. He opens his suitcase and removes a slim sack, and hands it to Megan.

“Oh, nice,” Meg says upon extracting the slippery fabric from the bag. “I love the feel of it. So slinky. So purple.”

“It’s a sleeping shirt. Try it on,” Martin says.

“Right now? Here in the living room?”

“Yes! Yes!”

Quickly Megan undresses. Then she shivers herself into the sleeping shirt. “Mmm, it feels good,” she says. “So slinky. So purple. But it doesn’t cover my ass. It doesn’t cover my pussy.” She frowns.

“I could do that. I could do that,” Martin says.

“What? What could you do?”

“Cover your ass and your pussy.”

“Show me.”

Quickly Martin sheds his clothing. When he is naked he stands behind Megan. His hands go to her breasts. He caresses them through the purple material. His fingers manipulate her nipples. They firm and fatten under his touch.

“Mmm,” Megan hums, “but my pussy needs more.” She rises up on her toes. Martin bends his legs slightly and pressed his erect penis between her legs so it rides in the moist slot of her vulva.

Martin continues to caress Megan’s breasts and fondle her nipples. Megan rocks gently to and fro. She presses the head of Martin’s cock against her clitoris. Meg and Martin thrust against each other. Megan’s orgasm is sharp and powerful. Martin’s follows almost immediately. A river of sex fluid floods and overflows Megan’s hand.

They swayed together for some time. At last, Megan turns in Martin’s arms. She looks down at the puddle of white cream remaining in her palm, smiles, and tastes it.

“Mmm,” she says, “what a wonderful homecoming.” Then they kiss, and while they are kissing, Martin picks her up and carries her to the bedroom. Still kissing, he lays her on the bed and enters her.

The homecoming continues long into the night.

§

Flight Pattern

The young woman makes her way down the aisle of the airplane, her purse and a hardback book in hand. About a third of the way back, she finds an empty row to her right and enters it, seating herself in the seat nearest the window. She stashes her purse beneath the seat in front of her. Before she can remove the straps of the seatbelt from under her, a man in a Texas hat asks if the seat next to her is taken.

“No,” she answers, and he takes the middle seat for himself. A younger man, maybe the Texan’s son, sits in the aisle seat. The woman’s first impression is that the younger man is probably no more than twenty. Maybe he is headed off to college. The idea that he might be in one of her classes occurs to her and provides a small thrill, though she isn’t sure at all that she hopes he will in fact be in her class.

The Texas man buckles his seat belt. He has rugged hands. His thumb tips make her think of erect nipples. Quickly she averts her eyes and with some difficulty manages to buckle her own seat belt. The problem is in part what to do with the book, which had been given to her by a stranger in the airport bookstore not forty minutes ago. There is no title on the book jacket, in fact there is no jacket at all – rather the book cover is some sort of hard fabric with a muted design of soft swirls, something like a distorted plaid, a plaid trying to be paisley – but the title page proclaims the book to be “Explosive Erotica,” which the woman had found to be the case when she’d read pages 116 and 117. Her panties are quite moist.