palm and begin my gentle ministrations. I know he’s sore and tired, so I skip the preliminaries and go straight for the main event, placing my warm, soapy, cloth-covered hand flat across his stirring organ.
I feel him twitch and jump beneath my palm, and the heat of the washcloth pales in comparison to the heat that emanates from beneath. As the lather rises, so does his desire. The sweet scent of the soap mingles with the heady scent of his arousal.
His eyes are closed, mine heavy lidded, and our breathing synchronizes with our familiar rhythm. He’s slippery and rock solid in my grasp. Everything in me wants to swing my leg over his hips and have my way. But I don’t just yet-the ride will be the potentially hurtful portion of our session. I’ll prolong it only long enough for our climaxes to be short and sweet.
I move the cloth lower, cupping his balls, and allow my other hand to soak in the bowl for a moment before taking him firmly and stroking from tip to base. My fingers slide easily over the slick, bubbly surface of his cock. As my fist pumps harder and faster, I climb onto my knees and lean in to take his right nipple between my teeth.
I hold it there, flicking my tongue, then latch on with my lips and suck hard. His hips are rising to match the motion of my fist, and my hips sway in the air, my clitoris throbbing. The blood rushes through my ears with each pulse. I can hold back no longer.
I rise up, slide my leg over his belly, and guide his cock into my already clenching pussy. Mutual moans pass between us. I sink and he slides, until we are crushed against each other.
A new scent joins the symphony-the smell of soap and labia, squishy, tangy, sharp and sweet. I grind against him slowly, and raise my hips on the upswing, riding smoothly, not even a canter, but an air ride up and down, like a piston: steady, even, and delicious.
I lift myself, far enough that the tip of his cock almost slips out, lower myself again and sigh my pleasure. The head of his shaft delves inside and presses against that warm, sweet spot, eliciting a guttural moan from between my clenched teeth. I grind again, pressing him harder into that cluster of singing nerves.
He’s panting now as I sway and rock against him, holding his rib cage for support.
He groans and twitches, and I take it as encouragement and rock harder. My thumbs brush over his nipples and my eyes roll closed. I rotate my hips faster, harder, crushing myself against him. He grabs my hips and lifts me, repositioning his leg so that I no longer jar it with my body. I grin sheepishly, but he rotates my hips and hits the spot again. I cry out and stiffen, then shake with release, falling against his chest for a moment to catch my breath.
My muscles clench around his shaft, milking from base to tip, tip to base. I rise again, lift my hips and slide back down. His hands shoot out and grasp my thighs, slide around to cup my ass, guide me slowly: up and down, around, and back up again.
Before long, his mouth is open, his eyes squeezed tight, and the tendons in his neck are straining with each thrust. I can feel another climax building in me just from witnessing his rapture, and we crash together a final time, with a wet slap of skin. He holds me down tight while he strains every millimeter of his cock inside of me, and explodes.
Again I collapse on his chest, and he cups the back of my head and kisses my hair.
Once I’ve caught my breath, I rise and slide off him and the bed, taking the washcloth with me. I rinse it and ring it out. I use it to wipe him clean once again, the odors of our coupling rising to the fore with each stroke.
After he’s clean, I turn the cloth on myself and rock my pelvis against my palm. I’m not ready to be done. I contemplate a moisturizer session, but his eyes are closed. A sleepy smile touches the corners of his mouth.
I slide the bed sheet up to his chest, kiss his forehead, and carry the bowl back to the bathroom, where I dump it, rinse it and tip it upside down on the sink. I return to him, my poor, sweet man, and stretch alongside to await his awakening.
Layover
To most of my colleagues, business class is only a layover on the way to champagne and caviar flights. Me? I enjoy the airbus lifestyle. With my seniority and lineholder status, I pretty much get my itinerary a month or so in advance, and always get what I want.
Right now, while I'm strapped into my jump seat waiting to hit 10,000 feet, what I want is Mr. 2A.
Actually I call him ‘Mr. C.’ He's a regular commuter. I don't know what he does for a living, but he has power. Window seat every time, and already this flight, he has the laptop fired up, to pound those keys until they smoke.
He calls me ‘Em’, never ‘Emily’, as printed on my nametag. I’ve been witty. I’ve been coy, and I’ve been a gracious hostess. All the while, my ‘what if’ gland has been put through its paces. Normally on these commute flights, I’m scheduled on a later flight back, but tonight I have a layover, and reservations at his hotel.
The second the seat belt light goes off, I'm up out of my harness and into the kitchen to get him a fresh drink. I check my cleavage in the mirror on my way through the curtains, and pull my top button half way through the buttonhole. I wear my best gentle, innocently sexy smile, and head his way.
“More of the same for both of us, I see,” he says, and slides his laptop to the adjacent seat. His fingers brush mine as he takes his drink from my hand and smiles. I call it that, but really it’s not a ‘full’ smile. Only half his mouth curves up, and there's a glint in his eyes, an intimation of the sarcastic remark that's waiting just behind those luscious lips.
“For a second there, I thought you were going to ask me if I ‘come here often’.” I wink and wrinkle my nose, expecting one of his generous belly laughs. He winks instead.
“Ah, well, I’ve seen you ’round often enough, I suppose.”
“Yeah, well, this trip’s going to be different. I’m taking a night off, this time. Treating myself to a nice hotel. The Grand, in fact.”
“Ah, lovely place, that. It’s where the company sets me up, you know.”
“Oh?” I fake surprise. “Aren’t you the lucky one, Mr. C.” He smiles again. “So Em, do you?” He favors me with a tiny raise of his eyebrows.
It takes a moment for everything to click into place.
I lean over to set his tray table in position, and my blouse pops open. I pretend not to notice, but keep him in my peripheral vision to be sure that he does. I reach across him to arrange the Skymall magazines, and my right breast is in full profile, the lavender lace demi barely covering my nipple.
An air pocket provides the perfect opportunity to ‘falter’, and his hand shoots to my hip to steady me before I fall across his lap. The jolt of electricity between us shocks me weak, and I lean into his hand a bit more before rising up and adjusting my uniform, leaving the top button wide.
“You okay there, Em?” That’s not concern I see in his eyes. His hand has gone from cupping my hip to smoothing his trouser leg.
I suppose the warmth in my face could be construed as a coquettish blush.
“Almost.”
But this flight can’t be over soon enough.
Back in the haven behind the accordion door, I busy myself with meal preparations, but I’ve left the door open a crack, and I can see him out there, leaning forward slightly, that half smile playing on his lips while he fingers the mouse pad. I picture those lips pressed against me, and I can almost feel the hot slippery sensation of his tongue traveling down my neck.
I break out in goose flesh and swivel around the corner to the restroom. The door slaps shut on its springs and I slide the lock home, releasing a huge breath I hadn’t even known I’d been holding. Hands pressed hard against the tiny steel sink, I regain some composure.
Once I have my bearings, I shimmy my skirt up around my hips and hook my thumbs into the strings of my
