Airport Song

(The author thanks Nanarie for editing: any mistakes are mine and not hers.)

Grounded, it’s five am and the plane should have left at one. I sit on the hard plastic chairs, bored in the fog-bound airport, every crackle of the tannoy a quick shot of adrenaline, knocking back sleep and bringing false hope.

“Could the janitor please come to…” and I stop listening, my heart slowing, my eyelids drooping from wakefulness into the half-closed approximation to sleep is all I can manage. I run my hand over my face, feeling the rough growth of stubble gracing it and sigh. My back is stiff from the chair and I remember what a crime-novel obsessed friend had told me about the chairs in interrogation rooms. They’re sloped forward, so that the suspect, or “perp” as he had colourfully put it, is constantly on edge. Perhaps the same principle applies here, the slope encouraging you to get up, get going, and get gone. Unlikely, but regardless the only way I can stay on the smooth, orange plastic L-shape on the row of five we’re occupying is to lie flat out, my legs making a triangle with the linoleum floor, pitted with cigarette burns and scuff marks. I reach into the black travel bag at my side and root around for a distraction. My fingers close on the solid, intimidating weight of Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow. Great yes, but not the best book to read when you haven’t slept in twenty-three hours. Then I find a slim, metal object, expensive, extravagant, and with that lean beauty of a device built solely to serve its purpose, my MP3 player.

I switch it on and navigate through the menus, almost settling on a song then moving on. Willie Nelson, On the Road Again - too on the nose. Sweet Home Alabama, chancing fate a bit. Finally I settle on R.E.M.’s New Adventures in Hi-Fi, and jog the dial through to Departure, in the hope that serendipity will work it’s strange magic. It does… and the blue light on the player fades to grey and the text melts into the background and the battery dies. I’m too tired to get angry, so I sigh, and put it away, zipping up the black bag. Next to me my girlfriend exhales in a long, low snore. I look down at her head in my lap, her dyed-blonde hair balled (if you’ll forgive an unintentional pun) in my groin and running down my leg, gently tickling me. Her head’s tilted back slightly, her mouth gaping, tongue pressed lightly into her left cheek, uvula soughing almost imperceptibly as she breathes. She’s sprawled over the first three seats on our row, leaning on me in the fourth, with our hand luggage on the fifth and final seat, protected by my proprietary left hand. I take my right off the back of the seat and caress her chest, running my fingers over the side of her neck and over the hollow there, and down over one of her small, perky breasts, cupping it briefly and playfully tweaking her nipple into semi-hardness. In case anyone is watching, I put my hand on the back of the chair again. She gives a gentle moan, and a ripple runs up her body - a slight switch of the hips, her smooth buttocks arching slightly on the seat, her breasts hitched daintily, as if imploring me to touch them again. “Ohh…. yes” she breathes, so quietly that I almost don’t hear it. She’s wearing a thin cotton T-shirt with a picture of Garfield on it, no bra and her arousal is made even clearer by the small, sharp point of her nipples scratching the fabric, giving Garfield’s ears a three-dimensional quality. I think back to when we first met.

“Sarah, this is Guy”, said my friend Jack.

“Hey”, I said. Sarah said “Hi” and leaned in to kiss my cheek. I caught some floral scent, mango perhaps, carried on a zephyr that faded like a dream. We talked for a few minutes as U2 sang about what a beautiful day it was. We bandied the usual social lies back and forth, pleased to meet you, heard so much about you, how do you know…and as we did, I studied her. Her hair was blonde (whether it had been newly dyed, and the black roots invisible or whether I simply didn’t notice them then I don’t know), and her body slight. She was tall, perhaps an inch or two shorter than my six feet, with long, slender beautifully shaped legs, the exquisite arcs of her calves blending into her knee and the thigh building into the moderate swell of her buttocks. Perfect curves, emphasised by her painted-on jeans. Moving up, there was a slight gap between where her jeans stopped and shirt began, a tantalising glimpse of her panties in the dark material protruding - perhaps unintentionally - from her trousers and a hint of a taut, flat belly, her belly button a small hollow sighted occasionally when a movement gusted her top. Her blouse was only partially buttoned - the bottom two and top three were undone. The fabric was translucent, giving a view of her lime-green bra, its large cups swamping the small swell of her breasts. Her face was pretty, her eyebrows perfectly curved, her mouth likewise, with ripe, moist lips, her eyes a deep brown. Pretty, but it would have been a characterless beauty, unexceptional if not for the slight imperfection of her nose. At some point (I later found out it had been a wayward tennis ball), it had been broken and set just slightly crooked. The subtle effect enhanced her face - without it she would have joined the ranks of those slightly beautiful women with no real style of their own - undifferentiated, homogenised prettiness trying to emulate the Maybelline elan of a second-rate model.

“Get you a drink?” I asked as The Beatles now, wandered through Penny Lane. She wanted a Coke. I got it and a beer for me, straight from the cooler, condensation beading on the neck. We talked some more, enjoying the lively, hustling bustle of the party around us as men and women searched for fulfilment on a Friday night through the twin intoxicants of alcohol and sex. I’ve always been aroused by a woman finding me desirable - the glance at my groin or the pleased smile directed at my face - Sarah actually looked me up and down and ran her tongue round her lips. It’s desirous to be desired. Simply Red flushed out of the speakers, singing about a rollercoaster or some such.

“Euch, I hate this song” she said, smiling.

“Me too.” I looked her straight in the eyes, trying to gauge her possible reaction.

“Listen, you want to get out of here?” I said it as innocently as I could (a casual acquaintance of mine once asked a perfect stranger if she’d like to fuck, as if they were in an adult chatroom - Tia maria doesn’t come out of silk, apparently). Needless to say, I was pleased when she said, “Let’s go to my place.” Jokingly I replied, “I only meant, I’d like some fresh air.” Her face turned red and she stuttered until I cut her off with a quick, hard press of my lips against hers, one of my hands resting on her firm ass.

“Only joking”, I said.

It was a strangely passionless walk back to her flat, just a brisk stroll through the streets, casual talk. She stayed in a mid-price flat, about a mile from the city centre - couple of bedrooms, the rooms seemingly spacious, lot of work put in to achieve the effect. I sat in the living room, on the floral pattern couch as she readied herself. She came back in wearing just the green bra from earlier and a pair of plain, black cotton panties. I went to her and kissed her, leaning in to it, my tongue playing across her lips. I entangled my hand in her hair and stroked the top of her head and squeezed the back of her neck as my other hand cupped her right breast. She broke away from the kiss and led me through to her bedroom. It was plain, deep pink on the walls, a wardrobe and double bed, both made of pine, blue sheets. She unhooked her bra and let it drop from her small breasts, the silky fabric gliding easily over her smooth young skin. It caught for a moment on her swollen right nipple - a gorgeously pale rose - and the bra fell unevenly to the floor. I undid my shirt and slipped out of my jeans, standing in my boxers, my mildly engorged cock bulging with pleasant thickness against the material.

I went to her and knelt in front of her, my hands resting on the waist of her panties, my nose so close to her pussy that I could smell her arousal. She gave a sharp little breath of air and I paused .

“Is there something wrong?” I asked.

“No, go on.”

“Is this your first time?”

She laughed at that, “No…come on. Don’t stop.”

I kissed her flat stomach and pushed a single finger down inside her panties, feeling a rasp of hair and gratifying moisture. I grabbed the panties and yanked them down sharply, exposing a wild snarl of jet-black hair contrasted by the light pink of her pussy. The colour surprised me then. I ran my hands down it and slipped two fingers inside her tight lips, then - despite the untrimmed bush - replaced the fingers with my tongue. She started to moan, saying my name quietly at first then louder and faster as my tongue played on her clitoris and round her lips.

My cock was fully hard now, rock hard, and I stopped my oral attention and kissed her neck and pleasured her breasts with my hands, stroking her nipples to a large and almost painful-looking stiffness, waiting for her to reciprocate somehow. But she just stood enjoying the attention. Realising nothing was forthcoming, I pushed my body against hers, moving us slowly to the bed where I laid her down. I moved on top of her carefully - I’m 6 feet tall and fairly well built and I didn’t want to hurt her slender frame with my weight. Her nipples rasped against my hairless chest, and I used one arm to raise myself off her, reaching down with the other to remove my boxers. She reached into the bedside table and felt for something - I waited wondering what it could be: a vibrator, maybe? I felt foolish when she silently handed me a condom. I rolled off her and grappled with the slick packaging. My cock’s big - about 9 inches long and fairly thick - and I’ve always had trouble with condoms. They’re too tight, and the number I’ve ripped just trying to get them on is ridiculous. I managed though and, moving back on top of her, I took my dick in my hand and guided it into her cunt. I moved back and forth, varying the rhythm and depth of my strokes and again moans of pleasure flew from her mouth. She came three times as we fucked - each time she came she would clench her pussy tightly around my cock and cry my name. The last squeeze finally pulled me over -I lasted so long partially through the desensitising thickness of the condom, so I guess they’re not all bad - and I shot a boiling whiteness into the tip of the prophylactic. She kissed me and whispered “That was incredible.” We kissed for a while and then began again.

Another shriek of the tannoy shatters my reverie like a fine glass dropped. Another meaningless airport announcement. How hard is it to get to Greece anyway?

We’ve been together for nearly 6 months now, the holiday, her idea but my money. So if the sex is bad, why do I stay? After all we don’t love each other. I guess there’re two answers, hers that the sex is great (arrogant, ain’t I?), mine that, it sounds heartless, no-one else has come along so far. Also, though she is almost completely passive in bed, she’s very open-minded - we’ve done anal, I’ve taken her from behind, we’ve had sex in very public places. So we’re not in love, just killing time.

I place my overnight bag under her head and go for a walk outside, searching for fresh air in an airport - impossible of course. I walk around, out into the almost empty car park and look back - the airport is a pool of light locked in a icy black ocean, even the city shaded by a designer hill. Sleep has slowed me down, and it hasn’t occurred to me that while I wander, the flight might be called. I head back and look around - nobody’s moved, the game of reverse-musical statues continues: you can only move when the airport says. My girlfriend is still sleeping, so I amble about the airport looking for someone to talk to. With only one flight to go the airport is nearly empty. Only one other person is still awake and she’s watching me.

She’s small and fleshy, not fat but only 5 foot 4 maybe 5 foot 5, and at that height her big tits and round, generous ass are really close together. She’s about my age - 25 or so. I wander over and see the book in her lap.

“Hi,” I say, “I’m Guy”. “Hi, Guy, me Gal.”

“You know that’s the first time I’ve heard that,” I say sarcastically.

“Christine,” she says.

“What are you reading?”

She holds it up, Dusky Visions, the picture on the front a blossoming orchid. “It’s a book of erotic short fiction.”

“Oh,” I say, mildly taken aback. “Is it…uh… any good?”

“Definitely,” Christine says, “my pussy is totally wet. I was just going to the bathroom to flick myself off when I saw you wandering about.”

I open my mouth. I don’t know what I’m trying to say - something cool, something sultry - but what comes out is a sort of slow silence that falls into the deeper quiet of the airport.

Christine reaches out with a perfectly manicured hand, the nails unvarnished but shining, and cups my groin, first reaching between my legs and finding the beginning of my testicles then moving forward until she feels the soft fleshy length of my penis.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, “I’m glad I waited, I love a big cock.” Even whispering, her voice seems to echo all over the airport. Does my girlfriend hear her, is she awake? It’s just my imagination, come alive. Her hand is still on my dick and it’s stiffening slowly under the tender pressure she’s applying. She lets go, and I grunt in displeasure- “security guards” she says - but she grabs my belt and starts pulling me to the ladies’ bathroom. I think of Sarah, the blonde beauty with the perfect fuck-machine body, who has never given me a hand job, never sucked my cock, whose most ambitious sexual act was handing me the lubricant and rolling over telling me to “fuck her ass”. I let the small girl drag me towards the ladies’ room.

I’m walking behind her, and she moves slowly, rolling her hips to show me her great ass, moving underneath the thin tight fabric of her short black skirt. She turns to me and oh so quietly breathes, “I’m not wearing any panties.” I stop her and pull her against me, my stiffening cock pushing into her gorgeous ass. I keep her there with one hand on her shoulder, moving the other down her body, over the huge mound of her breasts, feeling the large nipple through the thin fabric of her blouse, and down to the almost imperceptible bulge of her pudenda. I pause there and she gives a sharp breath and my hand moves further down to the hem of her short skirt. I ease it up and look over her shoulder at her perfect pussy, almost olive in complexion, the hair of her bush dark, neatly trimmed and sparse. She wasn’t lying- her cunt is nearly dripping wet. I rest my hand on it - our backs to the rest of the people, anyone may be watching us - and rub in a circular motion, slipping my index finger inside her and flexing it back and forth, in and out, up and down. She breathes my name - “oh Guy” - and breaks away, hurrying to the bathroom. I follow.

She’s all over me and I on her. She strokes my chest, fingers my cock, and squeezes my balls. I caress her tits and her cunt, gripping her ass. We kiss, and I’m going for her blouse when she says, “stop”. She steps away and starts to undo the buttons on her blouse, her large tits straining against the fabric, opening it as she undoes each button, improving the view each time. The large swell of her breasts stands effortlessly off her chest, time not yet spoiling their resilience. I move to go to her but she holds up one finger. I’m so under her spell now that she need do no more. With no ceremony - we are both so wanton, that it would be pointless, almost sacrilegious - she slips off her skirt and stands before me in earthy beauty. Her body is tanned all over, no lines or light patches, lightly tanned the colour almost blending into the light brown of her large nipples. Her arousal is evident; the peaks of her nipples, the flush along the top of her breasts, the moisture bathing her pussy glowing in the harsh bathroom light.

She sits herself on the ledge where the sinks rest and moves until her back rests against the room length mirror. She brings her legs up and splays them, giving me a perfect view of her cunt. “Lick me out.”

I move between her legs easily, using my fingers as well as my mouth and tongue, using all my skill, techniques and tricks. I play for about a minute, as she first presses a finger against her full, red lips and then bites on it to stifle the moans that would cut through the silent airport like a siren. “Stop…” she gasps, “or I’m going to come.”

I pause, surprised. “That’s a bad thing?”

“I want to come with that big dick inside my pussy,” Christine whispers throatily. “Now strip.”

I take off my shirt, and she whistles appreciatively. I step out of my jeans and shorts - no easy task now my cock is so hard.

Christine reaches out and takes it in one hand, her fingers behind the swollen head; she can encircle half of the circumference of my cock. She strokes gently and says, “You have a beautiful cock, Guy. I’ve never seen one so fucking big.”

She manoeuvres me against the ledge where I had been licking her pussy and kneels in front of me. She runs her tongue around the head of my cock and rings my foreskin with her saliva. She pulls back and plants a kiss right on the centre and then takes me inside her mouth. It’s been so long since I had a blow job I forgot how good they could be, and I nearly come right then. She takes more and more of my dick down her throat. I let her work until I’m barely holding back, and I’m about to tell her to stop, to let me fuck that beautiful pussy of hers when I hear a loud crackle and I think, for a second I’ve spilled down her throat. Then the voice comes, muffled and reverberating in the porcelain acoustics of the bathroom. Calling the flight.

There’s no time to finish. Christine looks at my cock with frustrated desire; I gaze longingly at that hot, sweet pocket between her legs. She says one thing to me and we head back to the people we travel with, every clack of our feet on the cold linoleum of the airport seeming to bring another suspicious gaze towards us…

Coda

I’m horny and frustrated and every nerve ending in my body seems to have become linked to my dick, my balls feel choked with litres of unspent come.

But I smile when I hear Christine’s last line, echoing in my head with spice and promise, keeping desire singing in me as the plane shoots into the intangible dark of the skies. It makes me impatient, as the stop sign of the seatbelt stubbornly stays red.

“Say Guy, you ever heard of the mile high club?"