I was never under any illusions. She liked men. She liked to be loved - physically and unequivocally. Anything else was just filling in her time. Her true joy always was in having her ever trembling little dooverlackie stuffed and stimulated by a raging instrument of joy.
I was under no illusions.
For Sara's twenty-second birthday, her husband – yes, she was already married and had been wedded, not very agreeably, for a couple of years – gave her a farewell fuck and a trip home to see her mother.
At 22, most girls are beautiful; but she was a stunner. Lovely straw-blonde hair, blue eyes, and hips, legs and boobs that made me – like every other male – goggle and dream of....
I don't need to spell it out for you; we've all inhabited that sort of fantasy land at some time or other, haven't we?
So she was made for fucking and she loved to be fucked.
At Ikeja Airport, I kept a low profile and went to the aircraft by a separate route – via the first-class boarding lane.
She and her husband, with their friends, were celebrating her birthday and her "going-away present" with a champagne party. She would go to the aircraft via the business lane. So we would be kept separate – and no one would catch on to what we were up to.
After a short flight, the aircraft landed at Kano to pick up some passengers from the north. I had already arranged for her to join me in the first-class section as soon as the aircraft got airborne again for the onward flight direct to Frankfurt.
She was always a girl whose dooverlackie trembled so easily that you could never be sure she wouldn't be diverted by another dick; but she did turn up beside me after Kano and she was even more – let's say - vivacious than usual. The champagne was still having an effect – and, from experience, I knew that would mainly be on the delightful little device she kept well-exercised in her dainty little knickers.
When the steward delivered her, I kissed her "Hello" discreetly on the cheek and we settled comfortably in our seats. I held her hand and looked into her eyes – eyes that always hinted that a fuck would be, if I so desired, not very far away.
The aircraft settled down to what would be a fairly long, all-night flight. We wouldn't be in Frankfurt till morning.
I got a rug from the steward – a very large rug - and he put it over us in a way that was nicely concealing. ("We know how important privacy is to our passengers," he seemed to be implying. This bloke, I thought, knows his stuff. You didn't put a rug over two people, when one was as dishy as Sara, without expecting something to happen underneath it.)
As soon as he withdrew, I kissed her ear – I knew she liked that – and had my hand on her knee, ready when the time was right, to slip it up her skirt, if I had a chance and then slide it right through to HQ.
When I did, she spread her legs accommodatingly and said, softly -
"Ooh, darling, yes, that's nice," and fondled the bulge in my trousers.
A little later, long before we passed over the southern shoreline of the Med, we – both of us - wanted to make love – properly, fully, passionately.
It must have been when we were above the middle of the Sahara that she got desperate.
"In that old film," she reminded me. "Emmanuelle – she made love – she really did it – and I mean 'it' - with her lover - in the aircraft's toilet. Perhaps we could..."
My only practical answer was to tickle her trembling little dooverlackie underneath the blanket, until she whispered, "Oh, darling, ...darling, .... oooooooh!!"
"Now," she said, "I really have to go to the toilet – and alone."
But she gave me a very loving smile.
When she returned to her seat, she said, "Won't it be wonderful when we get to Frankfurt and we can..."
I knew what she meant.
We travelled in what turned out to be rather random fashion through much of the most beautiful country of Western Europe. We went right down to Geneva and then back through Nyon, where we explored the château with its Roman ruins and relaxed for drinks in the Château Square. We took a pleasant drive through St. Cerque and Morez but the country flattened near Poligny. We stopped at Dôle to eat and shop for a picnic lunch on Sunday. We went to a house where Louis Pasteur was born (on 27 December 1822 at what is now 43 rue de Pasteur; he died 1895). The church had Gothic elements, flying buttresses and an ambiguous squarish tower suggesting that it was at least part Norman. Inside were quite good stained-glass windows (but not as good as at Metz) and large, old religious paintings.
We didn't much care for Dijon and the rooms at Hotel La Cloche were too dear for the quality they offered. (I wanted a big king-size bed on which I could fuck her in comfort – half a dozen times a night if I could manage it.)
So we went on to Nuits St. Georges where we took a room at the pleasant Hotel de la Croix Blanche.
It was from there that, uncharacteristically, we took a bus in the afternoon – a sort of tourist bus that took people to see some of the finest vineyards in the world. We tasted some of the vintages and it may be that helped stir our passions – although those passions were always so robust that they never needed much encouragement at any time.
We let a last group of passengers off when we were coming to the end of our tour, conveniently leaving us alone on the bus to complete our tour, with just the rather elderly driver in attendance.
I remember we were coming down a hill, the roadway was poor and the bus was going a bit too fast. Sara was thrown against me. Her hand fell – quite accidentally, in absolute fact - on my crotch and she looked at me wickedly.
She quickly realised what a lucky break it was.
Slowly, she began to pull down my zip, watching me with a smile to see how I warmed to what she was doing.
She was pleased with what she saw so, through the open zip, she poked her hand inside my pants. Still smiling wickedly and looking into my eyes, she groped around adventurously to find - and give a little tickle to - my eager instrument of love which, at her touch, was immediately, though not at full stretch, rapidly enlarging.
I looked towards the driver. He seemed not to be taking any interest in what was going on but, still, you could never tell. On the positive side, we were towards the back of the bus so we weren't misbehaving exactly under his nose. (He might have liked it, of course, if we had been! It could have made his day.)
With my swelling member halfway out of the open zip, she started kneading the sensitive flesh at the end of my foreskin, in a gentle motion, between her thumb and forefinger and rubbing it – quite expertly I thought - against the glans.
It sent shivers of delight through my whole body.
"Oh, yes, yes, please..."
I tried to keep my voice down but she still thought it wise to breathe a gentle, "Shhh..."
I was, so to speak, in her hands, so I "shushed" very quickly.
In a way, I wasn't sure what I wanted to do – every option seemed so good. Above all, I suppose I wanted to fuck her, even then and there – on the bus – bugger the driver, bugger anyone who might see us.
Or did I just want her to continue doing what she was doing...?
She saw the look in my eyes – and there she read the future.
