Seduction (2 page)

It was still dark outside and the stewardess dimmed the lights, announcing that we would need to turn on the overhead lights if we wished to continue reading. The tiny electric bulbs above illuminated the cabin like candlelight, bathing us all in a soft, sexy glow. Would he switch on his overhead spotlight and return to his newspaper, or was now the chance I’d been waiting for?

What I saw next made me suck in my breath with delighted astonishment and my hand fluttered automatically to my collarbone, where I began to caress myself again. He undid his trousers, and I could tell by the way his hand disappeared under his newspaper that he was stroking himself. He started off with his eyes closed, but then he turned to look at me, raising one dark-blond eyebrow. That look was a challenge, one that I gladly accepted.

I checked to see if any one was looking and then rearranged myself in my large airline seat so that I sat cross-legged, Buddha-style, hitching up my skirt so that it bunched around my middle. First of all, I pulled the gusset of my cotton panties back and forth, enjoying the friction it created on my pussy, grateful at this stage for any stimulation. God, they were soaking; the damp, warm fabric felt like smoothest silk on my hot, wet, aching cunt. Then, turning my whole body toward him so he could see, I pulled my panties to one side. For a while, I just let him look at my pussy, wet and pulsing, my clit dark pink and protruding, aching for his touch but having to make do with mine. He smiled and licked his lips. Then, with my forefinger, I began to fondle myself. I began with gentle caresses to my clit, which sent the first real surge of pleasure to my body. Soon even that wasn’t enough, and I slid first one, then two fingers inside myself.

The knowledge that I was showing my sex to a complete stranger and that we might be caught at any minute—with unthinkable consequences—made my whole body throb with a desire that bordered on terror. Every time I touched myself, my arousal grew more intense than any I’d ever felt before.

He lifted the newspaper to show me his cock. Even in the half-light I could tell that it was big, thick, and the same pale peach color as his complexion. His smooth hand worked his hard-on, teasing the dark tip of his penis out from under his foreskin. His balls remained encased inside his trousers, a small gesture of restraint that I found wildly sexy. I was transfixed as his left hand made smooth, firm strokes along his twitching rod in a steady rhythm up and down, up and down.

From the intense throbbing in my pussy and clit and the pins and needles that were shooting up and down my limbs, my whole body was turning to jelly. I was close to climax, and my own teasing of my clitoris became more and more frantic. Perhaps he sensed that I was about to come, because when I was seconds away from the rippling relief of a huge orgasm, he snatched my hand away from between my legs, leaving me wide-eyed and panting, and transferred it to his splendid shaft. When my fingers closed around the warm skin, I heard a soft moan barely audible above the noise of the jet engine. Then, as suddenly as he’d snatched my hand, he removed it, zipped himself up, looked away from me, and moved to get up out of his chair.

But why? My mind reeled with resentful confusion while my body continued to thrum with longing. Had I put him off ? Had I touched him wrong? I was sure I was going to feel his hands on my clitoris, but maybe I’d misinterpreted him. Disappointment must have shown in my face, because he winked at me and nodded toward the lavatory door. Suddenly I understood and felt a fresh wave of desire wash over me as I saw him disappear through the tiny door, his tall, lean body briefly silhouetted against the light inside, his bulk filling the whole area. He was a big man in a small space, and we’d have to get very, very close.

I couldn’t follow him right away without causing suspicion. I waited for the stewardess to attend to someone else while I continued rubbing my pussy. I couldn’t take my hands away. I had never been so wet before, thinking of that craggy face with its soft inviting mouth I was only seconds from kissing.

Finally the stewardess moved on to refill another first-class passenger’s coffee. Not even bothering to put my shoes back on, I slipped out of my seat, went over to the lavatory door, and knocked softly. The door folded to one side, and a strong arm pulled me in. He was there, trousers ’round his ankles, shirt hanging open with his tie ’round his neck, a stunning washboard stomach above that beautiful dick, a single vein now pulsing urgently along its length. He pulled me to him and gave me a kiss that was soft and sensitive yet urgent and probing at the same time, pressing his body against mine so that his dick jabbed into my belly. I felt my body melt under his touch, and when he sat down on the toilet seat, I gladly let him pull me to him. For a few seconds, we were opposite each other, eyes locked, bodies touching, while he rolled my panties over my hips and down my legs. The cold air of the cabin on the burning skin of my ass, my thighs, my pussy, was exhilarating.

I parted my legs so they were on either side of his lap and pulled my skirt up so that he could see my pussy. I wanted him to see how wet and swollen he’d got me. He held one of his hands flat against my pussy lips, feeling them throb and pulse, while he reached out with the other and softly massaged my tits, making my already erect nipples stand up and darken like pink berries.

I lowered myself onto the trembling tip of his dick, letting the rounded end rest against the entry to my dripping slit for a few seconds. I had meant to hover there, teasing both of us, but I couldn’t; I needed him inside me there and then. Not able to wait another second for his dick to fill me up, I lowered myself, letting his thick, sturdy cock pry my lips apart and finally penetrate me, filling me up, giving me what I needed so badly. I pounded my pussy on his dick, pushing down with all my body weight, swallowing him up. I wanted to recapture the first thrill of penetration, so I raised my thighs until his cock was nearly out of me, then I sank down again, hard. Every time I bore down on his hard-on it seemed bigger, and I felt fuller, more satisfied, nearer to my orgasm.

My palms were pressed against the walls of the cubicle for balance, my legs and arms aching with the sheer effort of holding this position in such a tiny space. For days afterward, I would feel delicious pain in my limbs from the sheer exertion of it all. At the time, I could think only of his face, inches away from mine, and his dick, moving inside me, hot and hard and big and thick. It was the best feeling in the world.

I placed one hand on his shoulder to steady myself, my tense fingers digging into firm, muscular flesh, and the other hand on the mirror, where it left a sweaty print. I could see my body reflected in the glass, soft flesh a blur of movement.

His hands squeezed and slapped my ass, guiding my hips up and down on his dick. My tits were level with his face. Covering his perfect teeth with those amazing lips, he nipped my breasts through my blouse, starting softly and then building up to the more aggressive, urgent stimulation that I needed.

At that moment, a stewardess’s voice came over the speaker. “We will begin our descent in five minutes,” she said. “The captain has engaged the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign. Will all passengers please return to their seats and fasten their seat belts immediately.” We had no more time to enjoy each other’s bodies. If we stayed where we were they’d knock on the door and find us in there together, and airlines take a dim view of passengers applying for membership in the Mile High Club. The knowledge that it was now or never just made the whole experience more intense. With my entire body, I writhed on him, grinding my clitoris into the base of his pubic bone while he thrust into me so hard that I thought I would explode. I buried my head in his chest, allowing his crisp, masculine scent to flood my senses as I pushed and rubbed against his body, the friction in my clitoris finally spilling over into delicious vibrations that radiated throughout me like concentric circles of pleasure, rippling out from between my legs. I came around his dick, my pussy squeezing and releasing his dick, sucking the life out of it, smelling his spunk and sweat as he pumped me full of hot, white liquid. I shuddered as the waves of pleasure subsided. His heart was pounding, but neither of us had time to recover. Suddenly brisk and businesslike, he kissed me again, wiped my pussy clean with a hand towel, pulled my skirt back down over my hips, stroked my hair, and then, with a final slap on my ass, he shoved me out, blinking, into the narrow airplane corridor.

Walking in a straight line after such an intense fuck was a challenge. By the time I’d slipped on my shoes and checked my makeup again, he was back in the seat next to me. As the lights dimmed for landing, he leaned in and gave me one final lingering kiss that made me melt inside. It was a kiss good-bye, a final gesture to draw a line under an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime experience. When he left the plane he didn’t look back, and, since he carried only a briefcase, I didn’t see him at the luggage carousel. As I waited in line for a taxi, I saw him speed past in a chauffeur-driven limousine. He didn’t see me. There goes the best sex of my life, I thought, and I don’t even know his name.

The meeting went well. My in-flight experience had given me a new burst of confidence, and I gave a great presentation. That night, in my hotel room, I undressed, exhausted by my day. When I took off my skirt I found his business card in the pocket. Written on the back with an old-fashioned fountain pen were his mobile phone number and the details of his return flight to Edinburgh. He had also written; “Fancy an upgrade?”

I reached for my phone and punched in his number. That’s the thing about first class; once you’ve had it, you can’t go back.

MÉNAGE À TROIS

For most people Paris is all about the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Elysées. But not for me. I’ve always preferred the sleazy, faded glamour of the backstreets to the slick, polished areas where the tourists go. I love tumbledown apartment blocks, off-the-main-drag cafés, and the city’s crumbling fin de siècle decadence. There’s a romance to that kind of bohemian poverty that goes hand in hand with all the things I find sexy: good red wine; ridiculously lacy, scratchy, slutty underwear; men who always carry books around.

But the apartment that I found myself inhabiting in Paris took my love of dilapidated grandeur to its limit. The moment I saw the building, I fell in love with it: a tall nineteenth-century art nouveau building with long windows at which balconies curved up like eyelashes. It was divided into ten different studio apartments. Other people might have minded the stained and peeling wallpaper or the chandeliers with wiring poking out at dangerous angles but not me. Ever since I can remember, I’d wanted to be a writer and live in a Parisian garret. As my landlady Mme. Philippe led me up the rickety wooden stairs to an attic room, I hummed with pleasure that I had finally achieved my dream. When she showed me the room, I adored it immediately. A cast-iron bed dominated it, and there was a tarnished Louis XIV mirror that took up the length of the whole wall. An old oak desk leaned by the window looking over the twinkling lights of the Latin Quarter. This, I decided, would be the perfect place in which to write my new book.

I hung my few clothes in the old armoire, set up my laptop on the desk, checked a few e-mails and wrote a few notes about my surroundings. A small glass of mer lot would be tonight’s only indulgence. I was exhausted from traveling across the UK and France via Eurostar and Métro and needed to sleep. The bed might have been old and the springs might have creaked when I tossed and turned in the night, but the sheets that Mme. Philippe had provided were pure white linen, scented with the relaxing aroma of French lavender. I slipped into my favorite negligee and was asleep within seconds, drifting off to the sound of voices from the rooms either side and below and of music wafting in from the street.

At about four a.m. the strong smell of cigarette smoke woke me briefly. I sat up in bed, my breasts spilling out of my negligee. I wrinkled my nose and thought about getting up to complain, but I was so tired that I fell asleep again almost immediately. The dreams that followed were of smoke trails and mysterious foreign voices making the unmistakable sound of two people having really, really good sex. I woke up in the morning with sticky moisture between my legs and a musky smell on my fingers. I must have been touching myself in my sleep.

I spent the next day exploring my new locale, browsing flea markets and shopping for bread, cheese, and wine. I knocked on the doors of the other people in my building. My neighbors were a friendly, artistic bunch, and I met all of them except for those in the room directly beneath mine. None of the people I introduced myself to seemed quite sure of who occupied that room. Afterward I had lunch in a café and came home again to write.

That night, I woke again to the acrid smell of cigarette smoke. This time, I wasn’t able to go back to sleep quite so easily. I flipped on the lamp next to me and tiptoed out into the hall; nothing there but voices, a man and a woman’s. Back in my bedroom I paced the floor for a while, and then I saw it, a thin wisp of gray smoke rising from a tiny crack in the floorboards at the edge of a rug under my bed. There was a hole in the floor. I don’t mind cigarette smoke, in fact I think it rather enhances the atmosphere in some bars and cafés, but I do object to having it permeate my clothes and bed linens. I knelt on the threadbare rug and peeled it back to reveal not only smoke but a chink of light coming through from the room below. Great! That was all I needed. Now, without the soundproofing of the carpet to interfere, I could hear the voices more clearly, the low and urgent murmuring of a couple. Unable to stem my curiosity, I squashed my face against the crack in the floor and peered into the room below.