Sex with a Sting: Six Erotic Fantasies with a Kink in the Tail

by Foxwell, C. D.

  SEX

  with a

  STING

  Six erotic fantasies

  With a kink in the tail

  C.D. Foxwell

  Text copyright © 2013 C.D. Foxwell

  All rights reserved

  Published by: Sting Publishing, London, UK.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Warning: This book features frank sexual scenes. Adults only.

  Contents

  Plane

  Online Dating

  Hotel

  Office

  Threesome

  Strangers

  Plane

  Business Class. Whenever Helena thought of the words ‘Business Class’ she was reminded of the cult comedy movie, Swingers, starring Jon Favreau and Vince Vaughn. It was a boy’s film really, and a big favourite of her ex-husband who watched it at least once every six months on DVD, but she had to admit it was pretty funny in places.

  During the picture, Trent (Vaughn) refers to certain women as ‘Business Class’. It’s not a compliment; it’s his sneaky way of saying that these certain women require a larger seat for their oversized backside. Although, when you think about it, it could be a compliment (well, sort of) if coming from a man who prefers a more, let’s say, J-Lo-style derriere.

  But Helena did not need to travel in business class because of a generous bottom. Her rear was, well, not as perky as it might have been ten years earlier, but it still looked great in the right jeans and would be perfectly comfortable in an economy seat, thank you very much. Well, as comfortable as any butt can be in an economy seat, at least.

  No, Helena was travelling in business class because she wanted to spoil herself. She deserved it. And, for once, she could afford it. She had been on this earth for 38 years and had never flown anything other than economy. Tell a lie. Once, she found a special deal with Virgin and she and the ex had managed to fly back from a week in Orlando (20% romance, 10% sex, 30% arguments, 40% Disney) in premium economy class, which was lovely, despite the fact that any communication between husband and wife by that particular point was conducted out of necessity only.

  They were never very good on holidays. Weekend city breaks – fine. Two-and-a-half days of getting drunk on red wine in expensive restaurants and then having raucous sex that probably kept the neighbouring guests awake for at least 20 minutes on the Friday and Saturday nights was something they did pretty well. They’d sleep in late, missing breakfast, and, really, they only spent proper, sober time together on the Saturday afternoon. As long as there was an activity available, like a special exhibition or an aquatic centre, the time would pass quite pleasantly. But a whole week away? Or two? No. It couldn’t be done. They were great together in small doses, but any prolonged period away from home, alone, was always a recipe for a row and the resulting, inevitable, long silences.

  In the end, they realised that not being able to spend more than three hours together without her wanting to scratch his eyes out and him wanting to emigrate was not conducive to a happy, long-lasting marriage.

  It was no one’s fault, really. They married in their mid-20s at a time when they socialised regularly in groups, going out several nights a week for drinks and fun. Their mutual attraction led to regular ‘banging’ (as she liked to put it) and their relationship rolled on, largely untroubled, for a couple of years until he proposed and she accepted. It just seemed the natural thing to do. But once they got a little older and people around them started having kids and their social lives dropped off and the pressure on them to produce offspring gradually intensified, the cracks appeared and then, quickly, widened.

  After a few months of reasonably amiable wrangling, they were divorced. The ex, a City high-flier, was pretty generous in the settlement and they were still friends, at least on Facebook if not in person. But Helena was already moving on. This beautifully decadent jaunt to LA with a rather gorgeous man for company was her attempt to start a fresh, new life. She had two weeks off from her job working as a buyer for a High Street clothing chain and she was going to California for star spotting, theme parks and evening cocktails.

  Despite the courteous divorce proceedings, it had still been a rough, sad time, riven with doubts and regrets. But now, finally, it was over. She had a large lump sum in the bank and distractions were necessary.

  And Adam was some distraction. Three years younger than her, he was, well, hot. Very hot. Sexy. Fit as fuck. Gorgeous. Hunky – whatever word or phrase you prefer. Helena usually preferred ‘hot’. And Adam was hot. From her business class seat, in which she was wonderfully comfortable, she was watching him calmly stowing his carry-on executive luggage (probably Armani. He seemed to like Armani) in the overhead compartment. His pecs strained at his powder blue shirt as he stretched. She resisted the temptation to reach up and touch them. That wouldn’t be appropriate – at least, not yet.

  With perfect manners, he also placed Helena’s bag into the compartment and then her jacket too, folding it carefully – even expertly – before finally clicking the door shut and relaxing into the seat next to her. He looked across and smiled. Blue eyes to match the shirt. Dark hair, short, with a hint of a wave. Immaculate teeth, naturally. “How are you finding business class so far?”

  “Well, it’s pretty fucking fantastic, thank you very much, sir,” she replied.

  “I know, right?” he laughed. “There should be some champagne coming around in a moment. Or would you prefer something else?”

  “Well, there is something else I’d prefer, but if we’re talking in terms of drinks, then I think champagne is probably just about perfect, thank you.”

  “I occasionally go for a Cognac. I find it gives me a certain air of… sophistication.” Had her flirty comment registered? Or had he deliberately chosen to ignore it?

  “Oh, really?!”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I’ve never really thought about it. As long as you don’t order a bottle of Blue WKD you’ll be okay with me.”

  “Damn, I was thinking of Blue WKD, too. One of my faves,” and he made two sarcastic quote marks with his fingers on the final word.

  “Mine too, if I’m honest.”

  “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” They both laughed. “Actually, I’ve never even tasted it before. What flavour is it?”

  “Alcohol flavour.”

  “When I was a kid we used to get those ice pops for about 10p in the summer, and the blue ones were everyone’s favourite. I think they were raspberry flavour.”

  “I remember them! Someone should make some alcoholic ice pops. Real gap in the market. I had an orange one, once,” said Helena.

  “Ice pop?”

  “No, WKD.”

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you like sucking… ice pops?” Ah, so he had picked up on her comment then?

  “I wouldn’t say that. I love to suck… ice pops. When the temperature’s right.”

  “Of course, the temperature has to be right.” He slid his hand across the small barrier between them and interlocked his fingers with hers. Helena felt a little thrill at his touch. “What flavour was the orange one, then?”

  “I dunno. I was drunk. Lucozade flavour, I think.”

  “Lucozade flavour?”

  A stewardess, all red skirt and red lips, approached and asked what they would prefer to drink. Both settled on champagne and she quickly produced two flutes of bubbly. They clinked glasses. “To… a wonderful ride,” said Adam, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yes, a wonde
rful ride!”

  A few of the business class clients were still making their final preparations for a long flight, producing special travel pillows, small laptops and the odd book from their uniformly sensible, smart, expensive hand luggage. In the distance, Helena could still just about make out the hubbub emanating from the economy passengers. She was not a snob. She had always travelled economy class and thought it was a fine way to travel. She believed that business class prices were, generally speaking, an unnecessary expense, especially for shorter flights. Much better to save that cash and spend it on the actual holiday, not on the transport. But despite all of this she couldn’t stifle a small smile as she imagined the people in steerage: desperately fighting for space in the overhead compartments; squashed up next to smelly strangers; small children kicking the back of seats; sparse leg room; tiny TV screens. No champagne!

  “What are you smiling at?” Adam asked, leaning over.

  “Nothing,” she lied.

  “Come on, what’s so funny?”

  “Nothing! I promise!... I couldn’t tell you anyway.”

  “Now you have to tell me.”

  “I was just thinking of all the people in economy. You know, all squashed up and uncomfortable and thirsty and getting ready for an 11 hour flight with their bodies all folded up into unnatural positions… I was being very, very cruel darling, I’m sorry.” She tried her best face of contrition, but Adam just roared laughing, so loud that several people and the stewardess all looked over at them instinctively, before looking away again so they didn’t appear to be nosy.

  “That is very cruel!”

  “I can’t help it! I never get to travel in business. What’s the point in travelling in style and comfort if you can’t laugh at the people travelling in the cattle trucks? It’s like… like eating steak in a world where there’s no hamburgers. It tastes good, but there’s nothing to compare it to, so it becomes average. Is that what you want? A world where business class is just average and there are no hamburgers?” she cleared her throat and tried to look innocent. “Okay, so I have no idea what I’m talking about now.”

  “No, you’re right, you’re absolutely right. Enjoying something is always a little sweeter if you can see other people in distress. It’s human nature. Perfectly natural,” he laughed.

  They began to taxi to the runway and that slight hush you get once a plane starts moving fell across the passengers. The safety video began, but Adam and Helena were much more interested in the complementary sleep pack – blankets and blindfolds and earplugs and socks and so forth. “Hey,” whispered Adam, “isn’t it strange how sometimes you can look at perfectly innocent things and all you can think about is sex? I mean, if you think about it, this is like a special little sex kit, isn’t it?”

  Helena paused for a moment and looked at him. Then she looked at her luxurious pack of freebies. Then she looked at him again, pouting, confused. “Well, maybe in your world, you weirdo, but in mine this is just a load of stuff that keeps you either warm or comfortable.”

  “Use your imagination! I’m serious. Look, take this blanket,” he smoothed the material of her blanket between his thumb and forefinger and began whispering in her ear. “Imagine that this is part of a hamper I’m carrying. We place it on a beautiful meadow in the middle of nowhere and lie down together. We’ve got delicious food, a bottle of wine and a hot sun beats down on our bodies, making our skin tingle with warmth. There’s no one for miles around.

  “You relax, resting your eyes, and you feel my hand caressing your smooth legs. My fingers move slowly from your ankle, to your knee, to your inner thigh and underneath your flimsy summer dress.” Adam paused briefly to carefully breathe a kiss onto Helena’s neck. She felt herself shiver in anticipation. “My hand moves higher, hardly touching your skin, almost tickling, and your body twitches at my touch, but you keep your eyes closed. I can see you trying to stifle a smile, trying to act as if I’m not touching you, as if we’re both not a little drunk, as if we’re both not imagining making love in the open air on the blanket. And finally my fingers reach your soft, lace panties and you feel the pressure of my fingers between your legs. You open your legs just a little more, inviting me to continue, but I stop…”

  By this time, the cabin crew were all seated and strapped in. The plane had halted, waiting for the signal to roar forward. Everything was still. When the accelerators did finally hit, making the plane lurch and shudder towards take-off, Helen barely noticed. “I lift the hem of your dress. I move my body between your legs. I kiss your skin, warm from the sun, and run my tongue right to the top of your thigh, tracing the edge of your lingerie. You can feel my hot breath through the lace, you can feel my tongue begin to press against it, touching your clit through the material…” The plane shot into the air. Helena was gripping Adam’s hand, her eyes closed, her mind on the meadow. There was a pause.

  “And then there’s the blindfold.” Adam was suddenly speaking at a normal volume. She glanced at him through a half-opened eye and saw him holding the blindfold up.

  “Tease,” she murmured, and closed her eyes again, hoping he would continue.

  He leant back to her ear. “The blindfold is easier. We’re staying in a palatial suite in a five star hotel. It’s not just a bedroom. There’s a living room, a dining table, an enormous hot tub. All for us. Room service on tap. You’re wearing a business suit, a hot, tight one, short skirt, your breasts straining at the buttons of your pure white shirt. I’m in a dark Armani suit. We have a drink, then I produce a blindfold from my pocket and demand you put it on. You do so. You’re an obedient lover.

  “Then I order you to strip down to your underwear, stockings and high heels only, and once again you do so, immediately, eager to please. I look you up and down, drinking in your gorgeous body, hardly able to contain myself. You hear me get undressed. You feel me in front of you, then holding you, our skin touching. You can tell, easily, that you’ve aroused me. You try to touch it, but I take your hand and lead you to the bedroom.” Adam moved his hand to Helena’s thigh and she caught her breath as perhaps just one finger moved underneath the hem of her skirt.

  “I pick you up and gently drop you on the bed. You lie there, unable to see a thing, then you feel me take a wrist and tie it – not too tightly, and with a silk handkerchief – to the back of the bed. Then I take your other wrist, then an ankle, then your other ankle, until you’re helpless, unable to see, unable to move…”

  “Oh God,” whispered Helena, but once more Adam pulled away. Another brief pause. She opened her eyes properly, a little surprised that the plane was already beginning to level out – it seemed like seconds since they were on the ground. Adam had a slightly perplexed look on his face. He was looking down at something. She followed his gaze. In his hand were the earplugs. “Ah,” she said. “Good luck with them.”

  “Oh, there’s no problem with these,” he laughed. Quickly he leaned back to her ear. “These are for me to wear. I don’t want my hearing damaged when I make you scream. Over. And over. And over.”

  Helena started giggling. “I rarely lose control, sir.” She looked down again. “Okay, the socks, then. What sort of twisted, perverted fun do you get up to in a pair of thin red socks?”

  Adam thought for a moment. “You know, I saw a film once. A French one. A sort of coming of age story about teenage kids in a normal, medium-sized French town. There were two boys who were friends and they were obsessed with women and boobs and sex, as you are at that age.”

  “Like you’re not now?”

  “Well, I like to think I’ve matured a little bit. Anyway, one friend would constantly visit the other because there was this woman – I suppose she would have been called a MILF if this had been an American movie – who lived in a flat opposite. And every evening she would undress in front of her window, giving the boys a perfect view of, well, everything.”

  “Did she know they could see her?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I think she caught them wat
ching her towards the end of the film and was mortified. Anyway, the boys would make sure they were alone in the room at the time she’d get ready for bed each night and watch her, sharing one pair of binoculars between them.”

  “Okay, I’m not seeing what this has to do with socks. Are you trying to change the subject so I’ll forget about how right I was and about how wrong you were?”

  “Wait for it, this is about socks. I promise. Anyway, so they watch her and, together, they masturbate, careful not to look at each other, obviously. They get themselves really hard and,” he dropped his voice even lower, “and quickly they get to a climax. But they never see each other’s cock and they never make a mess. Because…” he paused for dramatic effect, “they were wanking into socks! They each wore a sock like a… like a freaking cotton condom!”

  “Oh God!” Helena let out a yelp. A couple of people looked at her. “That is fucking gross, Adam!”

  “Well, you did ask how a sock could be sexual. That was the only thing I could think of.”

  “Urgh. Their poor mother having to wash those socks. Oh, gross. Gross.”

  “So… you’re saying you don’t want to watch me toss off into this airline sock, then?” he asked, holding it aloft between thumb and forefinger.

  “Oh, take it away, no, definitely not… well, it depends how much I have to drink. Maybe it’d be hot!”

  They were interrupted by the Captain’s voice making various announcements about altitudes and temperatures and speeds and so forth. He sounded like every Captain Helena had ever heard on any plane. She was sure they all underwent a ‘speaking in a calm, confident, mildly sexy voice’ module at pilot’s university. Eventually, the singular noise utilised by all plane companies to signal the extinguishing of the seat belt sign was sounded. Had Helena been in economy at this point then she would probably have started reading a book or watching a film. But she wasn’t in economy. She was in business class. There was no need for such run of the mill entertainments. It was time to hit the bar.