Digressions Into Erotica

panties. I yank them down and sit quickly as I feel the silky wetness tickle between my legs.

I love this, this game of anticipation. The chemistry between us has been kicked up a notch, and it’s keeping me on point. My hand moves of its own accord, sliding down between my legs. The meaty part of my palm brushes against my clitoris and I jump. My forefinger probes and slides, testing the viscosity.

Do I have time for this? A slideshow of steamy images flies through my mind, and I rock my hips.

Yes, I have time, damn it!

I dip my fingers inside and draw them back slippery, then begin circular motions around my pulsing clit. My hand moves in wide, slow motions, like a shark lazily circling its prey, and my eyes drift shut. I form a pattern of dipping, then returning to circle-

faster, tighter, my breath keeping pace.

I sway with the rhythm, and soon I clamp my lips together to hold back groans. My climax rushes toward me, crashes into me, and grips me; rigid, trembling, and straining to hold myself quiet. My teeth grind, my head buzzes and ears ring. Then it releases me.

I slump until my breathing slows.

I pull myself together as quickly as possible, gather my scattered wits and wash up, straightening my uniform before rushing to get back on schedule with the flight routine.

All through the flight, I try to concentrate on what I’m doing, but find myself having to rely on autopilot. Every trip to the front is another stolen glance, another zing up my spine and down through my belly.

When we strap in for descent, my knee is bouncing, and I catch glances from passengers near the front. Let them think what they want. It’ll give them a story to take home with them. He seems to be relaxed, though I notice that his knee is swaying slightly-a metronome foretelling the slow, easy rhythm of his hips.

I’ll bet he thrusts with his entire body!

The shock of the wheels hitting the tarmac looses another flush of anticipation. I stifle a groan.

He files past me at the door and throws me a full on smile. “See ya later, Em.” I lean back against the wall and will the rest of the passengers to get the hell off the plane. In fact, I’m half way to my storage cubby to grab my carry-on and purse when the last passenger steps into the boarding tunnel. I zoom through the checklist with my fellow hostesses, dump a hasty ‘great flight, see ya!’ into the cockpit, and race through the terminal and out to the curb to catch the hotel shuttle.

I just make it. The doors hiss shut at my back, and I stumble to an open seat, juggling my belongings into a more manageable pile. Before I sit, I scan the passengers and, while my ass drops into the molded plastic seat, my heart drops to my stomach. He’s not there.

I ran, and everything! Now I’m going to have to find him at dinner, and what are the odds of that? He probably eats in his room. This isn’t the way things were supposed tohappen, damn it!

When we pull into the circular drive, I see another shuttle bus, just departing after loosing its passengers, and hope springs anew. Deflated but not defeated, I head into the hotel, scanning the front desk, the lobby, and the elevator banks for my frequent flyer.

But nothin’ doin’, as they say.

The concierge clears his throat and shoves an envelope into my hand. I’m thinking it’s some last minute change in itinerary, which happens from time to time when someone needs to have a direct flight home. Usually an emergency, or it wouldn’t get past the dispatchers, so the orders are taken without much complaint.

Safely inside the elevator, I slide my finger under the flap and pull out a slip of heavy bond paper covered in a wide, hasty scrawl, with a keycard attached:

Cocktails at 6:00?

— Mr. C in #1342

Thanks to that cool brass bar along the back wall of the elevator, I’m still upright when the doors open on my floor, and I have a chance to regain my composure. I walk calmly to my room, where I fall onto my bed, kick my feet and hug myself, and grin so hard my face hurts.

I take stock of the room while I pull myself together. Nothing fancy, just plain, but nice. The curtains are drawn, so it's opaque shadowy with bits of daylight peeking around the edges of the drapes.

With several hours to kill, I swipe the pamphlets off the nightstand and roll onto my belly to peruse the shops and sales. I end up falling asleep with my cheek pressed against the full color ads.

It’s still stuck to my face when I wake with remnants of a dream evaporating before my eyes. The light in my room has deepened, and I check the clock to find I have an hour before I have to meet him. I pull some clothes from my bag and drape them over hangers on the back of the bathroom door, hoping the steam will get most of the wrinkles out while I bathe.

I don’t really have time for a full bath, but I want one, so I take one. I start the water, dump in the bath salts, and go about setting my toiletries on the counter. By the time I’ve brushed out my hair and stripped out of my uniform, the tub is full and frothy, and I step in with a sigh.

It feels so good I almost forget what I’m doing. I go through the familiar motions of shaving, but as the razor glides up my inner thigh, I imagine his fingertips following, and steal myself against taking matters into my own hands for the second time today.

Instead, I carefully swipe the razor around my bikini line, finish my left leg, stand, flip the toggle plug and start the shower.

Once out, I allow my body to dry in the cool air, and shake off the sudden case of nerves that shiver through me. I’d opted for casual and comfortable when packing, and I’m grateful for that as I slide my jeans over my hips. A gauzy button-down blouse is just the ticket, and some easy-off sandals complete the ensemble.

I do my hair, nothing fancy, do my make-up, nothing heavy, and spray a mist of my favorite perfume into the air. I dance through the cloud. I’m ready and I’m excited, and I’m scared to death, but in a really good way.

I grab a tiny bottle of bourbon out of the mini-fridge, screw off the little aluminum cap with my teeth, then spit it into my hand and suck the liquor from the tiny plastic neck. With my keycard in my left hip pocket and his keycard in my right, I sling my purse strap over my shoulder and hit the hallway. I have to go up two floors, then down to the other end of the hall, and I can feel him all the way from here. Next thing I know it, he’s just on the other side of the door, and as I hear the latch disengage, my body sizzles and a hiss escapes me.

“Hey, Em,” he whispers and smiles. He's wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, and I’ve already decided I’ll be taking that with me when I go. With a boldness that surpasses my fantasies, I reach out to him, beckoning with my fingers. I grab him by the waistband and yank him closer, looking up into his face. I knew it would burn my fingers to touch him, and it does, but I slide my hands up his belly anyway and he leans into me.

I guess we’re not going to talk. The kiss? Wow. It steals my breath away. Knocks the wind right out of me. Good thing there’s a bed nearby. I walk him backwards through his door, and he inhales my neck, his hands clutching fists full of hair at the base of my skull. He swivels us around and backs me up to the edge of the bed until my knees buckle and we fall back. I can’t think straight, because this entire time, a voice in my head keeps saying, ‘I can’t believe it’s happening! I can’t believe I’m doing this!’ over and over.

He’s on his knees before me and I push against him. He stands and kicks off his boots while I sit up and wrestle his jeans down to his ankles, then scramble out of mine, kicking them into a heap on the floor.

I look up while I fumble with the buttons on my blouse, and there it is. Reality. He stands before me, hands on hips, legs slightly spread. Passion swallows my shock and I have to touch him. I must wrap my fist around him and stroke him, feel the pulsing heat, the satiny skin. He's ripe: full color, looking like he's ready to pop. I need just a taste; my lips slide around the tip. My tongue slathers. I savor the salty, coppery flavor.

He grasps my head and pulls it back, leans down and pushes me onto the bed to kneel between my knees once again. One hand clasps my waist, the other… Oh, the other! It cups around my pussy, thumb pressing my clit, two fingers slipping inside and curling upwards. I latch my legs around him and ride his hand, grinding against it. The hand is good, but I desperately want him inside me. I want him to cram himself into me, s lam into me, scrape his knees against the carpet, he’ll push so hard.

After all these months of subliminal foreplay, it’s exhilarating and a little bit frightening, this lust that’s overpowering me. I almost laugh out loud, but instead I urge him to pull my legs up over his shoulders and lean into me. Then I grab onto the duvet for dear life.

I hope the guests in the adjacent room aren't there-I can't keep myself from yelping and sighing. He thrusts, each motion beginning with his shoulders and rolling down his back before plunging exquisitely into me. I push my