Quickie On The Road

The second thing I noticed about her was the diamond ring on her left hand. As a single man, and a particularly horny one at that, who spends a lot of time on the road, I've learned to consider all women to be potential sex partners. It pays to note at the outset which ones are married. Not that I have any qualms about fucking a married woman, mind you; indeed, they have certain advantages over the single ones. It's just that the rules of engagement are different for married women than they are for the single ones, and you need to select the proper strategy up front.

The first thing I had noticed about her, and the reason I went on to notice her diamond ring, was her fingernails. I love a well manicured set of fingernails, particularly those of striking colors or designs. Hers were white. Not the French-tipped white that is so popular these days, but pure white, from the sharply curved tips all the way down to the cuticle. It was very eye-catching in the way it contrasted with her deeply tanned skin, and demanded my attention from all the way across the departure lounge at SFO as they walked in.

I watched them walk in together. After noting her erotic white fingernails, and then her gigantic diamond ring, I made a point of looking her up and down. She was petite and blond and very tanned. She might have sun-tanned for a living. She had a large riot of blond, streaked hair, which made me guess that she was either stuck in the eighties, or from Texas. Either way, it worked on her. Her facial features were finely chiseled out of porcelain, and I suspected that she was an ice goddess. Her figure was trim but stacked, and she was shorter than average, but with boobs of a size and shape that made my brain shout "store bought!"

Her husband (I assume) was walking beside her. He was a typical big-business executroid: pinstripe suit, poofy power haircut, $200 shoes. I couldn't tell if he was wearing a Rolex, but it wouldn't have surprised me. I deal with that type in my work all the time. They walked together as if they were each displaying the other as a prize.

They weren't on my flight. They settled into some seats at gate E-24, departing for DFW. I was at gate E-25, departing for Phoenix Sky Harbor. They settled their tightly clenched asses into their chairs, and held hands in a brittle fashion that looked like it was required by a pre-nup. Their lack of small talk was deafening.

Why did I bother to notice all of this, you ask? Well, like I said, I take it as an obligation to consider all women as potential sex partners, and she was quite a woman.

Anyway, they continued to aggressively ignore each other for awhile. I've had fights with women in my life, but this was something else. They weren't just not talking, they were NOT talking with a vengeance. She would look left, he would look right, then he would look up and she would look down. Occasionally they would accidentally look at each other at the same time, but then they would quickly look away. These two had some major negative mojo going on, and they were not dealing with it well at all.

I wondered what it would be like to fuck her. Her legs were slim and shapely, and her ass was small and tight. Her skirt was extra short, but she wore a man-cut business jacket. She might have walked right off the set from "Melrose Place" in those four-inch heel pumps. Her finely chiseled, brittle features made me wonder what it would take to crack her icy demeanor. I guessed that she would be a frigid fuck. Not that that would be a deal-breaker, mind you. I was looking at four nights in Mesa with few prospects for nookie. I figured at a minimum, I'd commit her face to memory and use it to whack off in the shower, if nothing else.

As I was pondering these issues, the loving couple accidentally caught each others' eyes. He was the first one to crack and actually speak to her. I couldn't hear what he said, but it looked like an attempt at an apology. She would have none of it. The more he spoke, the colder and harder her features became. When he finally stopped to await her reaction, she supplied it: she slapped his face with a vehemence that belied her slight frame. To his credit, he took it like a man; didn't complain, didn't slap back, just looked at her and waited to see if there was more. There wasn't. He stood up, straightened his tie, and strode off.

With all the curiosity of an anthropologist watching a primitive tribe of primates, I waited to see what she would do next. What she did next was glance in my direction and catch me watching! Fortunately, I have no shame, and once she caught my eye, I winked at her. She looked briefly offended at first, and glanced away. But only for a moment, and then she looked back in my direction. She glanced after her husband's retreating figure, then at her watch, then back at me. Then she stood up, with her legs slightly parted and her mouth set in a determined scowl.

She looked me hard in the eyes across the departure lounge. Her gaze went up and down, sizing me up. Then her index finger stabbed out, indicating, "hey you, yes you!" I raised my eyebrows and pointed at my chest. She nodded, jerked with her thumb that I was to follow her, and walked off toward a men's room down the hall without looking back.

Did I follow her? What do you think? I'm not an idiot. Of course I followed her. I followed that taught ass and those slender muscular legs and those come-fuck-me-pumps directly to the men's room in Terminal E at SFO. I pushed the door open and there she was, hands on her hips. She immediately pressed an index finger to my lips, indicating Ground Rule Number One: No Talking. The she grabbed my tie with her other hand and dragged me to the farthest stall.

She pushed me backwards into the stall, turned, and locked the door. Then she turned back to face me and started fumbling with my belt. Soon my trousers were around my ankles, and my cock was jutting out like a bayonet. She dropped to her knees and applied her thin, brittle lips to my shaft and cockhead. Her tiny pink tongue was almost prehensile in the way that it licked, slurped, circled, and laved my tool. She may have looked frigid, but she had plenty of saliva and plenty of moves with that delicate rosebud of a mouth. My straining dick grew another inch beyond its accustomed maximum as she pumped it to its full potential. Her tiny hands, with those erotic white fingernails, stroked my shaft and massaged my scrotum, adding to the potential jism volume of my eventual orgasm.

Once my manhood was pressurized well beyond its usual limits, she stood back up. She reached beneath her short flannel skirt with both hands, and worked her panties down, past her knees, to her ankles, and off. She stuffed them into the purse that was slung over her shoulder. Then she leaned up against me, lifted her left knee to place her foot on the toilet behind me, and grabbed my straining prick, guiding it into her wet juicy pussy. If her heels had been any shorter this might not have worked, but as it was, we were a perfect fit. She impaled herself on my engorged purple shaft, and lowered herself until my skyward-pointing missile of love reached her cervix. She bounced up and down, sliding her slick wet pussy onto my aching cock, and grabbing the buns of my ass through the trousers of my business suit. Not to be outdone, I grabbed her ass as well, and contributed to the pumping action. Together, we worked up a rhythm that accelerated, heated up, and soon achieved critical mass. It wasn't long before my ball juice reached its super-heated critical stage and erupted through the shaft of my schlong, filling her tight pussy with spurt after spurt of white, slimy man-milk.

She hadn't yet come, and I assumed that was why she needed more action. I was wrong in my assumption about her motives, but not about her behavior. She fell to her knees again, and again inhaled my cock into her tiny rosebud of a mouth before it could begin to shrivel. She hoovered it back to full strength before it could even begin to punch out for the day, and soon it was again admiring the ceiling tiles. Then she shoved me back so that I was sitting on the toilet lid. She hiked her miniskirt up over her slender hips, and settled herself backwards onto my pink spike. At first I thought her aim was amiss, but no; she wanted to take me up her poop-shoot. She eased downwards so that her tight brown bung-hole engulfed my cock, slowly taking me all the way in. She gasped as her puckered anus inhaled every inch of my prick, and then began to bounce. The tightness of her pink anal rosebud, along with the nastiness of this anonymous bathroom buttfuck, had me swelling, sweating, and reaching toward orgasm again in record time. To my surprise, I soon unleashed another gigantic load of spooge, depositing it deep into her tight, sucking colon.

At this point, although she had come nowhere near her own orgasm, she was almost finished. She slowly pulled herself off of my straining prick, my flared cock-head pulling out of her pink starfish with a slight but audible pop. Then she twirled to face me, kneeled again, and grasped my tortured rod in her hand. She smeared my oozing slit all over her face, tracing thin white lines of jism-frosting on her cheeks, chin, and nose. She squeezed my softening prick like a well-used toothpaste tube, wanting every last drop of spunk to come to rest on the porcelain skin of her face.

Finally satisfied, she stood up. She steadied herself with her hands on my shoulders. She looked at her wrist watch, nodded to herself, and seemed to come to a decision. She leaned forward, almost as if to plant a thank-you kiss on my mouth. But then, apparently, she thought better of it, pulled down her skirt, turned on her high heels, and walked purposefully out of the stall, out of the men's room, and out of my life.

I went to the sink, splashed some water on my face, and looked at myself in the mirror. I asked myself if I was an amoral man-slut, or just a guy who needs sex and is smart enough not to turn it down when it is available. As usual, I decided the question was too stupid to worry about. I went out the door of the men's room.

There she was, with her Ken-doll of a husband, standing in line to board their flight. A thin white trail of spooge was running down the front and back of her legs. He had his arm around her waist, but was sniffing the air around her, and scowling. She had a satisfied, but evil, look in her steely, porcelain eyes.

My flight was still forty minutes from boarding. I reached into my pocket and extracted the small notebook that I always carry. At the top of the first page, I had written long ago "reasons never to marry." I flipped to page 78, the first blank page. I started to write "reason #462....."

At least my whack-off sessions in the shower this week would be memorable.