Lost Baggage

With each revolution of the turntable conveyer belt in the Newport News airport's baggage claims area Lisa became increasingly convinced that the bag wasn't there. She pulled the one that had been there closer to her for assurance.

The bags had gone in together and this one had come out of the chute almost immediately, she thought. Why hadn't the other one been right behind it? She couldn't lose that bag. She was close to losing her composure altogether. Nothing like this had happened to her before, especially when she was as down as she now was. And then she did lose her composure, feeling the tears well up in her eyes.

The bell had rung to announce that all the baggage from her flight from Chicago was up now. To accentuate that a beefy young man came up and out of the chute and took a ride around the turntable. He was wearing a Santa hat on this, two days after Christmas, and was waving merrily to the last of the stragglers pulling the last-delivered bags off the carousel.

As he passed Lisa, standing there, looking forlorn, her shoulders beginning to shudder, and tears rolling down her cheek, he called out "Merry Christmas." But, seeing that she was in distress, he looked back in concern as the belt—and he—kept moving around the end of the turntable.

Rather than stepping off the carousel, the young man rode it around to Lisa again and hopped off.

"Something wrong, Ma'am? Can I help?"

"My other bag isn't here," Lisa said, trying to snuffle up her tears. Feeling embarrassed that she was crying about something as minor as a missing bag. There was a good reason for that, though. However, it was nothing she could tell this good-looking, muscular young man standing beside her in a Santa hat tilted at a jaunty angle. Everything about him exuded good humor—and something more than that; sexiness, she realized—but she was in anything but a good mood. She especially wasn't in a mood for sexy and cocky young men.

She certainly couldn't tell him what was really wrong—going home to Chicago thinking that her boyfriend, Neal, was going to pop the question on Christmas Eve when what he popped was her whole world. The schmaltzy sex on the proverbial bear-skin rug beside a blinking-lights Christmas tree and in front of a fire in the fireplace was, indeed, leading up to something. But Neal had seen pushing his knees between her thighs and entering her strongly as he possessed her mouth with his as establishing a farewell memory while Lisa had understood it to be the preliminary to a life-time pledge.

Afterward he'd told her of the new love he had found and how all of their friends had been right—that a long-distance romance, with Lisa in Virginia and Neal in Chicago, just wasn't sustainable. And what she'd seen piled under his Christmas tree were the gifts from her he was returning as "the right thing to do."

"It was good for both of us right up to the end, though, wasn't it?" he asked with a silly grin on his face. "Now we can just be good friends and that will be better for us both."

The bastard thought he was doing the "right" thing.

How embarrassed and frustrated she now felt, thinking how she had clung to him on the bear-skin rug, luxuriating in the feel of him crushing her to the fur of the rug with his body, moving thick and strong deep inside her with her clutching his buttocks and pulling and releasing to match the rhythm of his thrusts, thinking of this as sealing their future, when he was just thinking of it as a good-bye fuck.

The arrogance of him thinking it would give her a melting memory to make up for dumping her—on Christmas Eve—when she'd flown all that distance thinking she would be going back to Virginia with an engagement ring. When all she came home with was pile of gifts she'd given him, like having given all those back made up for the investment she'd made in a life that would never be.

"I'm sorry. I know it's just a suitcase, but it's missing," she told the inconveniently hunky and cheerful young man in the Santa hat. "Are you sure everything for the flight has come out on the carousel?"

"Yes, sorry, I'm sure. I was down there and made sure it was all sent up the chute," he said. "Rough Christmas was it?" He was speaking to her gently, which was a surprise as rough as he looked. His hands were massive and calloused, his body big in a beefcake way. More like a prize fighter—or a baggage handler, she thought, and then felt ashamed that she was stereotyping him. Other than the hands, the globe and anchor tattoo on his bicep—a former Marine, perhaps?—and the somewhat displaced nose, which had surfaced the thought of prize fighter—that and his bulging arm muscles—he was really quite good looking. Just service-oriented good looking rather than the sophisticated preppy business executive look Neal had exuded.

How misleading that had been, though? Once Neal had spread her thighs and gotten inside her, he had been forceful and rough, complimenting her on being tight, when, if he'd given her more attention before and been less demanding so quickly, it would be more pleasurable for her as well. And giving it to her hard, not caring if she had orgasms as long as he did. Of course she

had

had orgasms with Neal—just no longer.

"You have no idea," she said, responding to the young man's "rough Christmas?" remark. "What am I to do now? Who can I contact on the missing luggage?"

"I'm here. You can tell me, and I'll make sure you get it back. What does the bag look like?"

"It's a twenty-inch Samsonite soft-side, in a plum color."

"Plum?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and looking at the bag she had beside her, which was red.

"Yes, I bought it in Chicago. It's what was on sale. I had more to bring back than would fit in my red bag."

"Ah, a good Christmas haul?"

"I guess you could say that—a large, unexpected haul," she said. But she said it in such a way that he knew not to pursue that discussion. "So, what do I do now?"

"I'm Sam," he said. "First, you remember that so you know who to say was handling this if you have to call back. Then give me your name and address and I'll start locating the bag and will make sure it gets back to you. Come back to the lost baggage office and we'll fill out some forms."

After they'd done that, Sam looked at the form. "Ah, so, Lisa . . . I see that's your name. I see you live just over in Kiln Creek, next to the airport. When I find the bag, I'll bring it to you. Is that OK?"

"I don't want you to go out of your way," she said. "I can come back somewhere in the airport I can get to to pick it up."

"Kiln Creek is just outside the airport, not out of my way. In fact, it's on my way home. I should be able to find the suitcase and get it to you in the next couple of days. Are you going out of town for New Year's?"

"No, I have no plans for New Year's now—at all," she said forlornly, as she started to tear up again. Sam couldn't help to see she was getting distressed again.

"Don't worry. We'll find the bag; I'll get it back to you."

"Thank you . . . Sam," she said, giving him a weak smile.

"Come on, I think you can manage a better smile than that. Your face is too beautiful not to be crowned with a smile. Nothing in life should steal your smile for very long. There, that's better. Here's to a happy New Year; I'm sure you'll have your bag back before then."

* * * *

Lisa took a last look around the living room of her condo before answering the ring at the door. Christmas tree lit up? Check. Why had she put the tree up yesterday? It was after Christmas. She had no idea why she'd done it—other than maybe in an attempt to displace—replace—the unsatisfactory Christmas she'd had in Chicago. Fire lit? Check.

And why had she taken care in how she dressed? The guy was just delivering her lost bag. Why had she felt so thrilled yesterday when he'd called and said he could deliver it this evening—New Year's Eve—unless she wouldn't be home. Of course she'd be home. She'd invested her whole social life in Neal for the last two years. Every night a phone call to check on each other. That should have been a clue—how rarely he'd been able to talk for long when she called him, if he answered the phone at all. Where did she have to go now that he was gone? It was too soon to have picked up her life again. More to the point, why did she let him become the center of her life at all?

But why did she feel so spaced out and giddy just to receive her lost bag. Over the past two days, she'd had time and opportunity to question whether she even wanted the bag back. Maybe the lost baggage should just remain lost—symbolic of her lost hopes.

"Hi, Lisa. I found the bag."

He had slicked himself up—and he cleaned up real well, Lisa thought. He was holding a plum-colored Samsonite bag in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. He looked sheepily at the bottle of bubbly, following where her eyes had gone.

"Sorry," he said, "my New Year's plans fell through at the last minute, and I was stuck with a big bottle of champagne I can't drink all myself. Since you said you weren't going out, I thought that maybe—"

"Yes, of course, very thoughtful of you. Please come on in," Lisa said, as she stood aside, gesturing for Sam to enter the room she had fussed over in at least unconscious hope that he would get further than the front door of the condo.

An hour later they sat close together on the sofa, facing the fire. Both the champagne bottle and the two glasses perched on the coffee table, were empty. Sam had drawn Lisa to him and was kissing her on the lips. One of his hands had glided up under the hem of her skirt and was stroking her inner thigh. Lisa reached down and covered his hand with hers.

Sam sat up, embarrassed. "Sorry. I think it's the champagne. I guess I should leave. I'd like to call you again some day, though. Start over again from 'hi' and take it slower."

"No, please don't go. Stay," Lisa murmured, struggling with disappointment on top of being unsure—knowing what she wanted but afraid to admit it—that he'd misjudged what she'd meant when she had covered his hand with hers. "Stay the night, please—if you want to," she said, her voice vulnerable. What if he refused her? "But first, on the rug, in front of the fire."

"On the floor in front of the fire?" he asked, his voice hoarse from desire.

"Yes, I want to erase a bad Christmas memory," she whispered. "Help me do that."

He didn't pursue the point. He was being invited to do what he'd wanted to do ever since he'd seen the forlorn, lost look on the beautiful young woman's face at the airport luggage carousel. She was well out of his league, he'd known, but he taken his chances anyway. And now wasn't the time to speak. If he said anything, he was sure he'd muck the chance up.

Lisa arched her back and moaned as she lay on the rug in front of the fire, her blouse unbuttoned, and reveling in Sam's gasp to find she wasn't wearing a bra. His lips were alternating between her nipples, which were taut and aching for him. He had spread her thighs and insinuated his knees—his trousers and briefs already shucked, his need obvious to her—between her legs. She had gasped as well at the thickness of him in erection. Nothing special in the length, but the thickness took her breath away.

His hands, rough, but glorious to the touch, were high on her inner thighs, stroking her lightly, causing her to open her thighs even wider for him and to whisper, "Quickly, quickly, please," desire challenging reality, even though the extraordinary thickness of him frightened her—and brought forth the memory of the lesser-endowed Neal rushing her too fast, taxing her beyond the edge of hurt, and robbing her of the full pleasure she could have had with him.

She sucked in air as he moved his legs from between hers and slid her panties down her legs. She began to pant lightly as she heard the tear of the condom packet and knew irrevocably that he was going to be inside her. One hand slid under her buttocks from behind and cupped her maidenhead as she sensed he was rolling the condom on with the other hand. She felt herself being turned on her side, toward him, and lifting the ankle of her right leg to his shoulder with his free hand as the fingers of his other hand entered her and spread her more open.

Here it comes, she thought, both with anticipatory desire and worry. She knew she wasn't open enough for him yet. It was going to like Neal. The bulb of Sam's staff was pressing at her opening between the buried fingers. He grunted a bit at the effort to pierce her and the failure to slide in easily. She moaned again and murmured. "No, please, not yet. I'm not ready. But yes, yes, I want you inside me. Just . . . please . . . you're so big. Give me time." She had made the plea, even though she was sure he was too far gone—like Neal had been—to hold off.

Surprise and miracle of miracles. He pulled back, whispering a "Sorry; I just want you so much," gently laid her on her back again, moved his knees to between her thighs, and possessed her mouth again with his. Then his thumbs were pressing at her folds, separating them and rubbing. She groaned her pleasure, whimpering, "Yes, yes, please," jerking and beginning to writhe under him as a thumb moved to her clitoris.

Now, now, she screamed in her mind. She knew he couldn't hold out much longer, even if she sensed that she was too tight to easily take the girth of him. Like Neal, he'd thrust inside her now, painfully, too soon, but stealing from her much of the pleasure she could have, could share with him.

But he didn't. Moving his face down from her nipples, he buried it between her thighs and began feasting on her, as she gasped and moaned and writhed under him. She had exploded twice, feeling herself go slack, before he came up her body with his, possessed her lips and, as she shuddered and trembled, entered her, strong and thick—and with form-fitting ease. He was all possessing, but she was managing him, yielding to him as he penetrated her, the walls rippling over his organ until he was buried deep, relaxing to his full-stretch fit. Whimpering as he pulled back. Gasping as he penetrated her deep, moaning and clutching at him with a sense of loss as he pulled out all the way out—and then gasping again as he dove deep, the rhythm of his possession becoming more rapid. Again and again and again.

"Yes, yes, take me," she murmured, and he began to move hard and fast inside her. Clawing at his shoulder blades, she began moving her pelvis with his, never more possessed, never working with a man joined to her in consort like this.

He lifted her up and over the clouds and he, in turn, shuddered, jerked and, with a long sigh, went slack on top of her.

Later, as they cooled down and he, still saddled and filling her despite having gone flaccid inside her, kissed her lips, her ears, her cheeks, her throat, and her breasts, Lisa looked over toward the door and focused on the bag he had brought her.

"That's not my bag," she said, her voice still thick from sex. She saw that it was a slightly different style than the one she had bought in Chicago and there was a neon green band around the handle—not one she had or would ever think of buying.

"I know," he whispered, lifting his head from her breast. "I'm sorry. I located your bag. It went to Newport, Rhode Island, rather than Newport News. But I couldn't get it back before tonight, and I wanted to get a bag to you by New Year's. Sorry. Can you forgive me? I came here under false pretenses. I didn't want you to be alone on New Year's Eve. I didn't want to be alone either."

"Yes, of course it's all right," she said, adding, "please don't stop," and pressing his face to her breasts again. She could feel him going hard inside her again, stretching and challenging her rippling walls, and she couldn't wait for round two of his initially gentle, yet virile and total, taking of her. "When the bag arrives, though, could you just lose it again?"

"So I can bring it back to you again?" he asked with a deep-throated chuckle. He began to move inside her, coming up on his knees and cupping her buttocks to raise her pelvis at an angle to give him deepest thrust capability. "Yes, oh God, yes," she moaned and clutched at his buttocks, holding him close in to her, crying out as they lost all consciousness other than the shared dance of the fuck.

Cooling down again, she responded to his answered question. "You don't need an excuse to come back again—to come inside me again," she whispered. "No, now I don't need the bag anymore. I don't want the bag anymore"—the bag that had contained all of those gifts she had given Neal and would have preserved as some sort of memorial to her lost baggage life if Sam hadn't come along to save her.

Lost baggage that she no longer needed.