by J J Monroe
I shake and shiver. I bite my fist as a freight train of pleasure steamrollers through me. Finally I breathe as I begin to float back down from the stratosphere, blowing a stray strand of blonde hair out of my face as I look at him smiling back at me.
‘Wow!’ I mutter.
‘Wow,’ he echoes, looking pleased with himself.
‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’
‘Once or twice,’ he admits.
‘OK,’ I whisper, nodding. What else is there to say?
So much for formalities; I am reduced to his panting plaything. But we need to go back to the beginning. Yes, I remember now, every story needs a beginning.
It starts as a joke, a wild suggestion bouncing ideas off each other around the office, but the joke holds. It sticks, it gains wings, and then it takes flight. Why just be any other blogger since there are a million and one already out there, filling up the web with their daily thoughts and ramblings? I couldn’t be a call girl since that had already been done, but maybe there are other ways I can trade on my looks. Charlie the editor begins to set me challenges. Go write a blog about your experiences, he tells me, and sooner or later we inevitably end up at the Mile High Club. So I start hanging out on planes, lots of planes, but no joy and then the realisation dawns that it’s not the passengers getting up to mischief. No, sir, it’s the stewardesses. Everyone knows it’s the stewardesses who rule the skies so I sign up.
So now you know, so let’s get back to the beginning and the arrival of Mr Remarkable. Of course that’s not his name, but it feels kind of right. You’ll see.
Chapter Three – Mr Remarkable
Walking past the check-in terminal I realise that airport terminals are like a microcosm of the entire world. People rushing here and there, caught up in the minutiae of their everyday lives. What a fantastic place this would be just to hang out and do some serious people-watching. The stories I could mine from a day here. Maybe I could even write my long-awaited novel? But right now I feel sick as a dog. I know it’s just the nerves, but the butterflies are doing triple somersaults inside my stomach and no matter how much deep breathing I do it’s not making the slightest bit of difference. I’m supposed to be cool, calm, and calculating. This is not how Missy Misdemeanour acts. She takes the bull by the horns and then mounts him like the world-class slut she really is, but I’m really struggling to get into character because before it was all pretend. I could lie and cheat and make up stories about raucous deeds and shameful hussy behaviour, but this is serious. Somehow I have to sleep with a complete stranger and not because, deep down, I’m some kind of über-slut, but because I promised my loyal fan base of readers that I would. Why would I make such a stupid boast? This is insanity to the max!
The sound of crying draws me out of my self-imposed meltdown. She is young, judging by the clothing and the rucksack, probably a student, hugging her knees to her chest with her back to her rucksack, letting the tears flow. People walk past. The sound of her silent tears disturbs the flow of a few, but all they do is look up from hurrying to keep their busy schedules on track. No one stops because no one really cares. I don’t expect to see tears, not here in this strange world, but why shouldn’t there be tears? Sad goodbyes and love affairs ripped asunder are all part of modern airport folklore, so why shouldn’t there be tears?
‘Are you all right?’ It is such a dumb thing to say and I am undone by my own stupidity.
The girl looks up and I see her face clearly for the first time. She is young, no more than 18, with curling brown hair and delicate brown eyes, eyes that are currently red and filled with tears. ‘Not really,’ she sighs, making a half-hearted attempt to wipe away her tears with the palm of her hand.
‘Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘You can’t help me. It seems that no one can.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Unless you can magic up an airfare for me then I very much doubt it,’ she says.
‘You’ve lost your ticket?’
‘I have. I don’t know how. I’ve searched everywhere and I’m usually really careful about looking after stuff like that so I just don’t know what happened. It wouldn’t be so bad but it’s vital that I get home. My brother has been in a car accident and my parents want me home right away.’
‘Can’t the airline just print you out a new ticket?’
‘It’s a special discounted ticket already. There are no refunds if lost or unused. I’ve already spoken to the desk and they said they’d do what they could, but if they can’t get me on this flight back to London tonight then I really don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t really afford to go back into the city, but I suppose I’ll have no choice.’
As the young girl speaks I become aware that I am not the only witness to her plight. At the First Class check-in desk a man is watching us as he checks in his luggage for the flight back from Los Angeles to London. When I look at him he looks directly back at me, holding my gaze, and I am transfixed. He is gorgeous, all dark eyes and muscles, and I wonder how I haven’t seen him already. Then I start to hope that he is on my flight, which is really stupid because of course he is, and in that 30-second time period I have forgotten all about the lost-ticket girl. She sighs, and her pain draws me back to her dilemma. In my head I am working out my expenditure already for the month and how much of a hit I can afford to take on my credit card without the company taking it away for good and the reality is bailing out this poor little waif is going to be a stretch. But wait, I am a stewardess, so maybe I can make miracles happen?
‘I work for the airline. Maybe I can make something happen?’ I say.
‘If you can work miracles I’ll be eternally grateful,’ mumbles the girl, but I can tell from the sound of her voice she is not holding out much hope of that happening.
As I start walking over to the row of check-in counters I see the gorgeous stranger retrieve his credit card and passport from the girl manning the counter, put all his documentation away, smile, and reach down for the rucksack sitting pretty between his legs.
‘Take care, Mr Hopper,’ says the girl behind the desk.
‘Until the next time,’ he replies with a smile which he extends in my direction as we pass by each other. He smells fantastic and that smile is heart-melting. I try and focus on putting one foot in front of the other but it’s all very difficult as he enters my orbit. If only he would enter something else.
‘Who is that?’ I ask as I reach the desk.
‘That is the delectable Henry Hopper,’ the check-in girl informs me. ‘And no, you can’t have him, because he’s all mine.’
‘OK,’ I say, pursing my lips as I watch him walk away, his denims fitting in all the right places. ‘Would you consider sharing?’
‘That’s what all the girls say,’ remarks the check-in girl.
‘I bet,’ I murmur, starting to drift away into the world of make-believe.
‘If you’ve nothing else to do,’ remarks the check-in girl, ‘would you ask the crying girl you were just talking with to come to the desk?’
‘Do we have a spare seat?’ I ask.
‘We do now,’ she replies. ‘The delectable Henry Hopper has just bought her a seat in Business Class.’
‘Are you kidding me?’
‘Where the delightful Henry Hopper is involved I never kid. He’s the most amazing guy you could ever hope to meet!’
‘You were kidding when you said he was yours earlier, weren’t you?’
‘A girl can dream, can’t she?’
‘She can,’ I agree. ‘So what’s so wonderful about Mr Henry Hopper, apart from the obvious?’
‘Apart from the obvious,’ echoes the check-in girl, raising an eyebrow at me. ‘Are you really telling me you’ve never heard of Henry Hopper?’
‘No. I can’t say I have.’ It’s the truth.
‘Go get the crying girl,’ orders the check-in girl. ‘Then go ask the other girl
s who you’re flying with. They’ll tell you about how magical Henry Hopper is.’
‘OK,’ I say, but already my hopes are deflating like a burst balloon. So Henry Hopper is a player. The way he looks, that’s hardly front page news, is it? But I do as I am told and retrieve the crying girl, who is made up on hearing that she’ll be on the flight after all, and then I head off to continue with my pre-flight duties.
And all the while I can’t get the vision of Henry Hopper out of my head.
Chapter Four – Close Encounters of the Sexual Kind
‘Excuse me!’
He is standing in the aisle, packing his rucksack into the overhead locker, blocking my attempts to pass.
‘Sorry,’ he says with an easy smile and moves to allow me to pass, though he doesn’t move entirely out of the way, which means that when I pass we brush against each other. It is slight and hardly newsworthy, but the most minimal contact sends my heart into the stratosphere and I realise I seriously have to get a grip. And then I remember my dear readers and my promise and it occurs to me that Mr Henry Hopper, player that he is, may be just about perfect for my little experiment, so I turn back.
‘I know all about you,’ I say, hand on my hip, best foot forward, the girls on prominent display. ‘And I just want to warn you that it won’t work on me.’
‘Excuse me?’ he replies, raising an eyebrow.
‘I think you know what I mean,’ I continue. ‘So, just so you know, I’m really not that kind of girl so I don’t want you getting any funny ideas.’
‘OK,’ he says, still smiling.
‘I’m glad we’ve got that sorted.’ I turn to go, making sure I give my bum an extra wiggle knowing full well that he is watching.
‘So what happens if I request an extra pillow?’ he asks, forcing me to turn around. ‘Are you going to have me arrested?’
‘You’re bad news, aren’t you?’ I say.
He holds out his hands in a conciliatory manner and shrugs. Contact has been made and I feel utterly psyched. Between checking on my allotted other passengers I sneak a look in the mirror and give the girls a lift just to make sure they are looking ultra-perky. And then …
The door to his hotel suite closes. The pleasing clunk of a well-made door shutting is music to my ears, but I have no time to look around. There is no time for anything. This sexual energy that has been building between us is like an electrical storm: it builds and it builds and sooner or later it must be released. Sitting close to him in his limousine, the feel of his denim-clad thigh was like a nuclear reactor against my skin, the desire in his eyes making me wet and desperate for his touch, yet he kept me at bay on the ride into Central London. He knows how much I want this because when he looks over I see the flash in his own eyes; the raw, animalistic passion that glowers just under the surface. We are animals, no matter how hard you try to dress us up. We have the basest of instincts and when they consume us our true selves are stripped bare. Which is just what I intend doing to the gorgeous Henry Hopper.
I want him inside me, grinding into my very soul, the feel of him coming hard against my sex, him pinning me to the mattress as he delves deeper and deeper still. I want to touch him, to taste him, to feel him shiver and explode and shrivel inside me when the last of him has sprayed into me. Yes, I want these things and so very much more. I am consumed with lust and desire and he will sate me. As he devours me completely the world will finally have meaning.
His hands are on my face immediately the door closes, shutting out the world so that our own private voyage of discovery can begin again. The blue touch paper, already lit in the First Class cubicle, is now sparking and in danger of flaming totally out of control.
Strong hands frame my face, holding me as his lips do their work, his kisses sweeter than nectar and a thousand times more addictive. They draw me in like the spider does the fly, they paralyse and burn, they jump-start my whole body and I am flying above Venus. It is like being a teenager again and in the first giddy flush of a romantic crush. I want to laugh. I want to scream. I want to wrap my arms around this amazing man and hold him to my heart for ever, but then those wicked lips start wandering again and all thoughts tumble out of my head. My body is sizzling with desire and my core is white-hot and smouldering for his touch.
With no witnesses and no flimsy cubicle walls to constrict we are unburdened of our shackles. My jacket is despatched with ease and the buttons of my blouse tumble away, offering little in the way of resistance. His tongue traces lines on my neck and I fear I will flood the entire room. Dragging the blouse down, Henry nuzzles my shoulder, reaching the straps of my brassiere. He teases with his tongue, tasting the fabric, following the line of my strap kissing under my arm, touching, his mouth closing upon my breast still encased in the silky fabric. My nipples are mesmerised by this master of the occult. They sing to him, crying out to be released from this terrible enslavement but he does not hear their cries, turning his attention back to my lips, his tongue playful and wicked. He backs me up against the wall, his tongue growing ever hungrier as the dam bursts and I flood the entire floor with pure, unadulterated want and lust.
‘Fuck me!’ I mutter and my voice is a husky whisper.
‘I intend to,’ he whispers back between unleashing more love bombs in the form of lacerating kisses.
Our tongues joust playfully, engaging in a language that requires no voices, and I can feel the temperature rising all around me. I close my eyes and give in to the burning sensation that is rapidly consuming my whole body, feeling the immense pleasure of something rock hard pressing into my groin. The zip on my skirt gives easily and I wait for Henry Hopper to release me from the chains of subjugation, but his kisses are suddenly distracted so I open one eye.
‘Hi,’ he whispers.
‘Hi,’ I whisper back. I see annoyance creeping across his beautiful features. ‘Is something wrong? It’s just that …’
‘I can’t get the button of your skirt to undo.’
‘Oh,’ I reply not sure how to react to this admission by a supposedly master player. Surely he has outwitted many a skirt button in his time, so why should this one be any different? ‘I see.’
He frowns, caught in two minds as to how to proceed.
‘You weren’t thinking of giving up now, were you?’ I ask, the itch in my groin now a yearning ache that refuses to die.
‘No,’ he says and then smiles. ‘You think I’m a player, don’t you?’
‘You’re the one with the reputation, mister,’ I point out. ‘And you did just have sex with a perfect stranger in an airline toilet.’
‘It was First Class,’ says Henry.
‘Yes, it was,’ I agree.
‘So that has to count for something,’ he remarks.
‘Are we on a points system now?’ I enquire.
‘No, but I was just saying that we didn’t have sex in any old airline toilet. It was First Class, so when you tell the story remember that. It adds kudos.’
‘I take it you’ll be adding that little detail in,’ I say, feeling my heart hammering against my chest.
‘No,’ he says, shaking his head softly.
‘You’re not going to tell the story?’ I question.
‘No,’ he says again. ‘A gentleman never tells.’
‘So you think you’re a gentleman then?’ I ask.
‘Do you think I’m not?’ he asks, raising an eyebrow.
‘Well,’ I continue, pursing my lips. ‘As far as I can tell, a gentleman would never leave a lady in extreme distress.’
‘Are you in extreme distress?’ asks Henry Hopper.
‘I will be,’ I explain. ‘If you don’t get me out of this skirt very soon and see to my needs.’
‘And what exactly are your needs?’ he asks.
‘Are you a gentleman, then?’
‘I try to be,’ he replies. He is so close that I can smell him and feel the throbbing of his member as it presses against me. ‘So, what are these needs?’
‘
Do you really need to ask?’
The kiss is full on, a total knee-trembler, and I know the dam is about to break. I wrap my arms around his strong neck and lean in, savouring the deliciousness of the situation. I don’t care if Mr Henry Hopper is a player. He could be the player of all players, for all I care. I want sex and I want it now. I want him to ravage me completely, to rip my soul clean out and leave it drifting somewhere up in the heavens, and I’m done waiting!
As I savour the taste of his lips on mine I release my hold on his neck and lean into him, reaching round with my fingers to deal with the errant button on my skirt that is threatening my immediate happiness. As the button gives I immediately feel his wandering hands tug the skirt loose peeling it over my hips and down until it slips, undone by gravity to the floor.
‘Does that help?’ I ask in between kisses.
‘Thank you,’ he whispers, and moves his attention to my neck, his tongue hot and heavy, sending little love missiles hurtling through my skin. It is all I can do to concentrate but my eyes are drawn to my surroundings. The hotel suite is immaculately decorated with cream shag-pile carpets lining the hallway, the gleaming white walls staring back at me. The hallway opens out into a lounge area with matching black leather sofas, a black coffee table, and ceiling-to-floor windows offering views out over London. The suite smells expensive and the feel of the carpet against my stocking-clad feet tells me it is expensive. The boy has money or has been around money for some time. My heart accelerates. Am I really that shallow?