Welcome to Denver
by Eric Ross
Copyright© 2025 by Eric Ross
Flash Sex Story: Stuck in Terminal C with a delayed flight and a restless pulse, Mia sets her sights on a stranger too calm for airport chaos. A locked nursing pod offers a brief, breathless escape—hot, quiet, and wholly unprofessional. But some encounters don’t end when the door opens. Welcome to Denver is a tightly wound story about risk, control, and the secrets we carry into new beginnings.
Caution: This Flash Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Fiction Workplace Safe Sex Public Sex .
The airport buzzed—announcements blaring, suitcases clattering, the air thick with coffee, stress, and jet fuel. Mia, 30, leaned against a steel pillar in Terminal C, her Denver flight delayed two hours. Her navy dress hugged her curves, drawing glances she barely registered. Her mind was elsewhere—restless, wound tight. A new city. A new job. A future she wasn’t sure she wanted.
She wasn’t in the mood for polite.
Then she saw him.
He stood at a smoothie stand, white shirt rolled to the elbows, strong hands wrapped around a plastic cup. His mouth closed around a straw in a way that made her feel indecent. Tall. Tanned. Unbothered by the world’s noise. When his gaze met hers—calm, direct, hungry without apology—something in her belly lit like a warning flare.
She drifted closer, slow and deliberate. When she brushed his arm, it wasn’t an accident. A bead of mango smoothie slipped down his wrist.
“My bad,” she said, smiling as if the day had finally become interesting. “I’ll make it up to you”.
He looked her over like he was already imagining how she tasted. “You got a plan?”
She nodded toward the nursing pod across the concourse. Discreet. Clean. Just private enough. “Three minutes,” she said. “Don’t chicken out.”
He didn’t ask her name. She didn’t ask his. But the cup said Allan.
She slipped inside the pod, the hush closing around her. The air was cold, buzzing faintly with recycled oxygen and faint antiseptic. A cushioned bench. A folding table. The smallest kind of room, and exactly enough. She sat, crossed her legs, and waited.
The lock clicked. The door opened.
He stepped in, collar loose, chest warm and tan beneath white cotton. The space shrank with him in it.
“Bold move,” he said.
“I don’t do tame.”
She pulled him in by the shirt. Their mouths met with heat, no ceremony—tasting of mango and tension. She pushed him down onto the bench, her knees bracketing his hips. Her dress slid up her thighs as she straddled him. Beneath her, he was hard already, and her body ached with the relief of it.
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