Monique was used to being looked at and admired and she enjoyed it, especially today. Today, for her tediously long trip from Albany, New York to St. George, Utah, she had adorned herself in an outfit that was designed to be ogled, and she was not disappointed.
Monique's tall slender body was almost a gravity-defying freak of nature to begin with, exceptionally so for a woman who had recently celebrated her forty-ninth birthday. There was not a hint of fat on her torso, and her impossibly long, defined legs and luscious butt were kept shapely and toned by a very simple daily exercise routine. Walking. Five to ten miles a day, six days a week.
But that was only Monique's second favorite aerobic activity in recent years. Fucking was first, and since her divorce almost two years ago, Monique had not been a stranger to cock. In fact, she was becoming sort of a snooty penile connoisseur, accepting only the best, a fledgling size whore, as she described herself.
However, more than anything, Monique also craved a man who could stimulate her intellectually as well. Monique realized that she could entice essentially any man that she wanted to, but this was becoming a bit mundane to her. Monique respected strength and confidence in a man, and she had a closet submissive side that lay dormant due to the fact that no man had successfully induced her interest and passion enough to extract that subservient side of her. Fortunate, oh so fortunate, would be the man who shall succeed in capturing her mind, she mused.
It was for these very reasons, the promises of nature and exercise, and the potential for uncomplicated sexual encounters, that Monique decided for this year's Christmas Holiday season she would make a ten-day solo getaway to the town of St. George, or "Utah Dixie" as it was sometimes referred to, for its temperate year-round climate. Monique was a hiker, not a skier, and the travel agent had recommended the allure of the Pine Valley Mountains as one of the most desirable hidden vacation gems in the country.
However, right now, Monique wanted to strangle that very same travel agent for booking her on a connection that caused her to spend almost four hours in Baltimore Washington International Airport. Oh, well, she mused, shame on me for not looking more closely at the itinerary. Besides, this gave her ample time to take a long, leisurely walk through the wide corridors of BWI, and she was becoming more horny with each man whose head swiveled when she passed. She kept her legs deliberately close to each other as she walked, which had the effect of causing her hips to sway even more than usual. More than one man tripped over a stray piece of baggage as they visually followed her path with wandering eyes.
And small wonder.
Monique was adorned in a cherry red and charcoal grey pencil-cut miniskirt that barely covered her shapely, taut, mature ass. Almost like a schoolgirl uniform, reminiscent of her own adolescence in Southern France. A short, flirty fit, a tease, a 'boner stimulus plan' as she called this skirt. She augmented the slutty, edgy, sophisticated schoolgirl look spectacularly by adding sheer, opaque backseamed pantyhose with a hint of lace. Crotchless? You bet. Is there any other way to wear pantyhose?
Her still humid cunt almost steamed in the cool air of the terminal after a rousing digital self-exploration session in the restroom on the short flight from Albany to Baltimore . She also wore a tight, ribbed ebony sweater with an open-zippered crimson red cardigan vest that only served to accentuate her smallish but firm, uplifted breasts. Her always responsive nipples were nearly bursting with arousal beneath the material. She rarely wore a bra and was without one today. The tiny brown pearls of her nips became more pronounced with each glance or gape from an admirer, male or female.
Of course, there were the obligatory red and black pumps, but only with three-inch heels, a small concession to comfort for the cross-country day of air travel. Monique secretly considered them her 'I-don't-want-to-be-too-uncomfortable-but-I-still-want-you-to-fuck-me-silly' shoes. Even with the somewhat conservative length of the heels, Monique still stood just over six feet tall, and she capped off her timeless palette of fashion hues with an authentic French beret, jet-black to match her short hair, cocked sideways to cover one of her smoldering dark brown eyes.
Sex on a stick was what she looked like. The more that men looked, the more her ass wiggled, and the wetter she became. She glanced at her watch. Three-thirty-one. Her flight to Vegas, which was the closest big city to St. George, was not scheduled to leave gate C-8 until seven-fifteen. It was then that she saw him, at the adjacent gate, C-6, accompanied by a small boy, perhaps ten, who was deeply engrossed in his Nintendo, and thus blissfully unaware of his father studying this beautiful woman so brazenly. The man's gaze was so intent that she first slowed her gait, and then stopped completely, to return his bold stare.
He wasted no time as their eyes locked into each others. The man whispered something into the young lad's ear, who nodded, but never looked up from his Super Smash Brothers Brawl game, and he patted him on the head and walked directly towards Monique, his brilliant green eyes like a laser into her dark-almond-colored pupils.
His confident smile was almost like a boyish smirk as his eyes finally lingered up and down Monique's impeccably attired frame. His obvious confidence seemed both to arouse and discomfort Monique. He approached her so closely that Monique took an involuntary half-step backwards and she noted the curly wisps of salt-and-pepper hair that tugged at his temples. This guy must get laid like a madman if he's single, Monique thought. He wasn't extraordinarily handsome, but there was just something about this sexy, brazen daddy. Approaching fifty years old himself, she guessed.
His verbal introduction was short, simple, succinct. She would soon find that was the essence of this man. To the point, his words and actions tempered with an alacrity and purpose. "I'm John, and you're lovely." He extended his hand, and his countenance softened into a warm grin. Monique felt her cheeks flush and the rush of heat beneath her skin. That simple, straightforward approach was all it took for Monique to already wonder what it might be like to fuck this guy.
She met his hand and gripped it warmly, and the spark of sexual chemistry was lit with just this simple initial touch.
"Thank you, John. I'm Monique." The usual time to release a natural introductory handshake was only a few seconds, yet their hands continued to softly yet firmly pump each others, while John's index finger inched up Monique's wrist.
She glanced at the youngster, whose head was now raised, watching his dad talk to the stranger. "Is that your son? He's adorable, but I think he's curious as to who Dad may be talking to, and why." They both looked at the sandy-haired boy now and smiled as one, and the boy shrugged, disinterested, and returned his focus to the electronic battle on his lap between Mario and Pikachu.
"Yep, that's my son, Taylor, he's off to his mom's in Ohio for the holidays. I'm the primary parent, he lives most of the year with me, and he's flying solo now that he's ten. I just have to stay with him until they announce it's time to board, and, oh........" John cupped his hand to his ear. "There it is now."
