The Woman In Seat 12b

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An unlikely event brings people incredibly close.
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The Diane portion of the story is essentially as it happened. The Mary portion has happened many times...in my imagination.

"So what was the kinkiest thing you ever did," asked the woman sitting in seat 12B. 12A felt a sudden surge of blood to his groin.

My name is Brian and I occupied 12A on what seemed like an endless flight from NYC to Chicago. It was then that I met Mary.

I have a theory that a woman's name signals how she looks. Before you say that my theory is nuts, have you ever met a drop-dead gorgeous Greta. Forget it. Or how about a butt-ugly Allison. No way. Allisons don't come ugly let alone butt ugly. Well, in keeping with this theory I swear that every Mary I have ever met has been attractive...that's code for nice looking but not gorgeous...and every Mary I ever met I liked. This Mary, the one in seat 12B, was no different. She had dark hair...absolutely her natural color, which is a big-time plus in my book...and she wore it in a style that shouted business by day, but whispered "take me out for drinks and let's see what happens" as soon as the sun goes down. This Mary, as with all the other Marys I had ever met, had a nice figure, but it wasn't remarkable in any particular way. Nice breasts...maybe a B cup after being in the dryer a few times...nice legs and a nice rear end. Yes indeed, the Mary in 12B was nice.

Did I mention that the flight took forever? Well, after we consumed all the available reading material without saying more than a couple of words to one another, she asked me what I did for a living. I told her I was an advertising copywriter. She, on the other hand, was in the book publishing business so it gave us something in common to work with. And did it ever. "I'll bet you never read one of our books," she said. There was so much confidence in her voice that I thought it was probably true. "Okay, I'll bite. Why."

"I edit trashy romance novels. You're not exactly our target audience," she said, assuredly, making it sound more like a compliment than a fact. I picked up the ball and thanked her for assigning me to a loftier status than her customers, adding that maybe I didn't deserve it.

"Hmmm, maybe you don't," she said smiling devilishly. "Some of the stuff we've been publishing lately has been getting a little out there. Then, with a twinkle in her eye, maybe you'd like some of it. "I'll give you a test. What's the kinkiest thing you ever did?"

Not completely believing what I heard from seat 12B, I sat in 12A like an idiot, while my interrogator gloried in my discomfort. Finally, gathering myself and realizing that there might be a hell of a night ahead if I play my cards right, I took her bait.

"So, you want to know the kinkiest thing I ever did, huh?"

Well, I'm reluctant to tell you because it is a bit weird ... but I will. Mary, this is nothing that I would have ever confessed a desire to do, though it sure worked when it happened, and nothing similar has happened since, so here goes...

Diane and I dated for about a year after my first marriage hit the rocks. Actually, she had been a customer of mine for years. We always connected as friends and she was the type I had always fallen for. She was preppy without being stiff ... you know, the Catholic School type ... and she didn't have a pretentious bone in her body despite the fact that she was very bright, and held a position in her firm that was usually occupied by someone many years her senior.

Diane was cute, and she had a perkiness that was infectious. Whenever I was with her I often wondered if it was possible NOT to like her. But the really curious thing about Diane was that, without trying to, she exuded a sexuality that was completely unforced and unmistakable to any male who came into contact with her. This was despite her quite-small breasts and her not-quite-so-small hips. But Diane had what it took to get a man's attention ... her quiet, unforced attractiveness, her obvious intelligence and the outstanding success she had achieved so early in her professional life. And Diane sure got my attention. That isn't to say that I hit on her or anything like that, but I thought about it ... it's that male lust thing ... but, as any business-person knows, it's not a good idea to mess around with customers. Especially good ones.

Well, all that changed after we went to the U.S. Open at Forest Hills, then to dinner, and later to a really funky bar. It was there that a little drinking turned into a little more drinking and, as time went on, it became obvious to both of us that the evening was not going to end at her front door; we were enjoying one another's company far too much to see it end. And it didn't.

Over the course of the next year we spent a lot time together. She had an apartment in Manhattan, and I had one just outside the city. Depending on our schedules she would either stay at my place or me at hers. We had a wonderful time together.

One evening I arrived at her place after having dinner with a client. After saying hi and playing at little touchy-feely at the door, I went into the bedroom to change clothes. On the bed was a new, unopened syringe bag. I thought that maybe she had a vaginal infection, but since I hung out there quite frequently, I would have noticed. So I carried it into the living room where she sat watching TV. How come you bought this, Di? I asked. She said she hadn't felt that that great lately, adding that it was probably all the traveling she had been doing. She said that her mother, who did more than a little traveling herself, suggested that an enema might help.

By way of background, Diane had clients in both Chicago and on the West Coast. She often claimed that flying, eating at strange hours and indulging in cuisine that was often rich and difficult to digest clogged up her system. I never paid much attention to it because every woman I ever knew seemed to have similar complaints.

Then, she hit me with a zinger. She asked me if I knew anything about enemas because she didn't. The only kind she had ever had was a Fleet and, since she felt really crummy, believed that she needed more than that.

I told her that my experience was primarily limited to being on the receiving end of a few childhood enemas ... in my Irish-Catholic family an enema was seen as the cure for everything from an upset stomach to falling hair ... but that on one occasion I had given myself a couple of enemas as part of a prep routine for a lower GI. Accepting that as enough experience ... at least is was more than she had ... she asked if I would help her. With a combination of compassion, curiosity and a mysteriously erotic buzz about the whole thing I said that I would be happy to do so.

As the evening wore on, and thinking about what Diane and I were going to do, I recalled something that happened in fifth grade. I was always a bit of a cutup in school, loving to get a laugh from my classmates which, according to my teacher, and attested to by the many notes that were sent home to my mother, I did far too often. Well, one day I was told to stand in the hall along with a class mate named Betty Jean, a female version of me. It wasn't a good idea to have both of us in the same class and we proved that often enough. So, as we cooled our heels in the hall, we got to talking and the subject of playing doctor came up. She told me that she had recently done it with a cousin. So, one thing led to another and we went to her house after school. She was an only child and her mom was at work so we had access to everything in the bathroom ... things like her mom's douche and enema bag, along with the associated tips that came with it. So we played...

I mention it now because the more I thought about the fun Betty Jean and I had in the bathroom, the greater the anticipation I felt about giving Diane an enema. Man, this is weird, I thought at the time; a childhood memory fueling an interest in adult games.

After a couple of hours of relaxing and a few glasses of wine, the time had come. Diane broke the ice: "I've been sitting here watching TV, but all I keep thinking about is you giving me an enema. How strange is that?" she asked. "Not so strange," I responded, laughing. "Thanks to Betty Jean, I've been thinking about it, too." Before she could ask, I told her, smiling, that I'd tell her about Betty Jean after we finished.

As Diane got up from her chair, she got technical: "Brian, tell me this isn't going to make me crampy." I told her that she should control the water going in, and that I would massage her tummy so that it would flow more easily. Also, I made sure to tell here that there was no time limit, and that slow was what it was all about. It really sounded like I knew what I was talking about.

Comforted, Diane spread some plush towels on the floor of the bathroom, lit a candle, and poured the both of us another glass of wine. She asked me to set up the enema bag, while she removed her robe and panties. When I hung the full bag from the doorknob it looked positively scary...more like a blimp than two quarts of water encased in red rubber ... and I could see the "do I really want to do this" look sweep across her face. Then, playfully, she wondered out loud if she was going to be the first person to explode taking an enema. Looking at her petite body I kind of wondered that, too, but we pressed on...

After putting some lubrication on my finger, I put it against her anus and gently eased it into her. We had done this kind of thing many times as part of our sex play, but this seemed so different. I moved my finger around inside her rectum for maybe 30 seconds, I whispered that I could tell why she needed an enema. Embarrassed, but still enjoying the feeling of my finger as it moved deeply within her, she nearly came to orgasm. After a quiet moment or two, as her sexual tension was gradually replaced by a look of exploration and excitement, she rolled onto her back, and pulled her knees up so I could insert the enema nozzle. With Diane pinching the hose, I undid the clip and began massaging her tummy. She told me she could feel the water going into her and that it felt very good.

Mary, it was then when the whole experience took on a completely unexpected life of its own. The sensual feeling of having her bowels filled must have triggered some sort of dirty-girl sexuality that was taking her to places she had never been ... nor dreamed about. She moved her thighs far apart so I could plainly see the black nozzle disappearing into her anus. Her vaginal lips, open and inviting and dripping wet, pleaded for my kisses. Surrendering to her, my tongue licked and my mouth sucked and her wetness filled my mouth as I played with the nozzle, just as I had done with Betty Jean so many years earlier, gently, so gently, from side to side and up and down and in and out.

The next so many minutes ... we had both lost track of time ... was a roller coaster of forbidden sexual and sensual emotion. As Diane's bowels continued to be filled with warm water and as my tongue licked and probed and played, she, time after time, retreated from the brink sensing that sexual relief, together with the building pressure in her bowels, would have made it impossible to hold back the inevitable. Then, as she dangerously edged up to another peak, she quietly but firmly told me that she needed to get to the toilet. As I helped her up she asked if I would bring her to orgasm while sat on the toilet. I put two fingers of one hand deep inside her vagina, while fingers of my other hand circled her incredibly swollen clitoris. In seconds she exploded in a release that I swear involved every nerve ending in her body. As she trembled and as moans rose from deep within her she experienced what was nothing less than complete capitulation. Gradually, as she regained control of herself, I pulled away gently while wrapping her in her robe and the plush towels from the floor. Later, instead of making love, we held each other very close, feeling our bodies against one another and wishing time would stand still.

The story done, 12A and 12B sat quietly, looking at one another, wondering what to say. "Well, Mary, what do you think? Was it kinky enough?"

A much smaller, weaker sounding voice answered than had belonged to 12B before my story began. "I'm sorry, Brian. Just give me a minute to collect myself."

Frightened that I had scared Mary off, I started to apologize for going too far when she stopped me. "Please, Brian, don't take my reaction as negative. I had never heard a story like that, and you told it in such a loving way ... well, it was quite something to hear." As she finished saying that a smile came over her face. Sheepishly, I smiled back, asking if maybe we could have dinner that evening.

After a momentary pause, which seemed like forever, her eyes connected with mine and, as she extended her hand to gently touch my arm, declined my invitation. I couldn't hide my disappointment. It was immediate and painfully obvious, confessing the affection that I had developed for this virtual stranger in seat 12b. Her hand slid slowly down my arm until our hands met, her fingers closing, almost imperceptibly, around mine. "Brian, I really would like to have dinner but there have been too many dinners lately, and my tummy has been a little out of sorts..."

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AnonymousAnonymousalmost 14 years ago
"have you ever met a drop-dead gorgeous Greta"

Greta Garbot... Greta Gerwig... Greta Scacchi...

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