When the cut-rate commuter flight finally bumped down onto the runway I breathed a sigh of relief. Some of these budget airlines feel like they're held together with duct tape and hope. At least I was at the front of the plane and could get out quickly. I had to gate-check my bag but it was already waiting, alongside the others in the walkway, and I grabbed it quickly on my way to try to beat the crowds at the cab stand.
I was in town for our annual conference. Three days of workshops, presentations, and the often enjoyable socializing with casual acquaintances all happy to be out of the office and away from home. I wasn't traveling as much as before the pandemic, so I still enjoyed the sense of anonymity and escape that came with checking into a hotel.
I dropped my suitcase onto the luggage rack and opened it to find something cooler to wear. I feel like the fact that something was wrong hit me before I even saw what was inside. Maybe it was that the weight felt off, or else I caught a whiff of a pleasant but unfamiliar scent. But before any of this fully registered I realized what happened as soon as I opened the lid: I had taken the wrong suitcase.
I was cursing myself for rushing off of the plane, but it was an honest mistake. We had identical suitcases from a trendy new travel company; we were probably both drawn in to buying them from the same Instagram ad. I closed the top and started to get out my phone to call the airline, but then paused. I'm not typically a voyeur but the thought of being able to freely explore somebody's personal items like this piqued my curiosity. There's no harm in looking, right?
The suitcase was neatly packed, everything in matching packing cubes with a travel hairdryer tucked in. My interest grew: this was a woman's suitcase. I unzipped the first compartment to find two neatly folded sweaters. I peeked into the toiletry bag to find mini squeeze bottles, some Advil, makeup, and a brush. Nothing too unusual or incriminating. I rummaged until I found a packing cube with a hint of lace visible through the mesh top and smiled as I unzipped it.
Neatly folded inside were a few pairs of silk panties and a couple of bras. It was the bras that immediately caught my attention: one was black, smooth to the touch, almost a satiny feel to it; the other was a light pink made of some sort of delicate, intricately-detailed lace; both were huge. The bra cups looked almost like fabric cereal bowls. It was clear that each one held more than a handful. And I have large hands. I looked at the tag: 38G. Her chest was easily a good bit larger than that of any woman I'd ever dated.
I was kicking myself for not paying more attention on the plane -- she may have been sitting nearby and I missed a chance for us to walk out together. I started to re-pack (lingering for a minute over the bras and panties) and lamented my bad luck when I noticed a zippered pocked on the inner lid. It was flat and didn't appear to hold anything at all until I looked in and spotted a folder. It was a packet for the same conference I was attending. I couldn't find a name but my mind was racing ahead: she -- whoever she was -- had to be in the hotel.
I normally skip the opening reception for these conferences, but there's no way I was going to miss this one: I had a mission. I reviewed everything I knew about the mystery woman behind the suitcase: her clothes seemed like normal business and workout wear. The shoes in one of the packing cubes didn't seem excessively large or small so I couldn't make any educated guesses about her height. I checked her conference folder again -- the only personal touches I could find were checkmarks by some of the sessions. Really the only thing I could surmise from all of this was that I would make a pretty poor detective. But, I console myself, I wasn't left with nothing at all: I knew for certain that I was looking for a woman with really big tits.
As I entered the ballroom where the reception was being held, I considered the new lens through which I was viewing the crowd. In a space like this I was used to noticing women in the crowd, admiring shapely figures when I spotted them, but this felt different. I zeroed in on the chest of every woman that passed by, picturing the curvier ones in the underwear still in the suitcase in my room. Twice I found likely candidates and asked if they'd picked up the wrong suitcase at the airport. I probably looked like I was trying out a terrible new pickup line, but they were friendly enough when I explained what had happened and I said that they looked like somebody I thought I'd spotted on the plane. I was particularly disappointed when the second one I asked, a top-heavy blonde in her twenties, just shook her head and wished me luck.
After slipping away from a dreary conversation with a couple of former co-workers I went to console myself at the bar. I was staring into my bourbon, sadly realizing that my hopes for romance were probably unrealistic to begin with and resigning myself to calling the airline as soon as I got back to the hotel. It was getting crowded and I moved to make way for somebody trying to get the bartender's attention. I did not feel like getting sucked into work talk again and kept my head down, turning my gaze just enough to the side to see whether it was somebody else I knew. It was a woman -- I could tell from her pale arm on the bar and, my eyes widening, from the way her sweater strained over her large, round, heavy breasts.
"Excuse me," I said, as she looked at me with a weary, annoyed look. "Did you happen to pick up the wrong suitcase at the airport this afternoon?"
She opened her mouth in surprise, then eyed me suspiciously. "What?"
"One fifteen from Atlanta? Black rollerball suitcase?"
"Yes . . ." still seeming hesitant.
"We were on the same flight," I smiled. "And obviously have the same taste in luggage. We must have gotten out bags mixed up coming off the plane." (I was intentionally leaving off the fact that I got off the flight first.)
"Oh my god," she said, "of course. I spent a half hour on the phone with the airline. They were useless."
I laughed. "I'm not surprised."
"So you have my suitcase," she said.
"I do. And I'm assuming you have mine? Are you staying here?"
"I am."
I smiled, finally taking a good look at her. She looked to be in her mid thirties, probably ten years younger than me. She had long dark hair with streaks of gray pulled back into a ponytail. Even in her sweater and jeans I could tell that she had an hourglass figure -- wide hips, a little on the heavy side, and a generous chest that I was using all my willpower not to stare at. She had green eyes and a sort of wry smile that I really liked.
"Perfect. Shall we arrange a trade? I mean, unless you'd rather keep my clothes. I'm sure you'd look great in my brown sport coat."
She laughed, seeming to relax a little. "That's very nice of you to offer but I think I'll stick with mine. So," pausing a minute to consider, "have you been spending the whole evening asking every person here if they lost their suitcase?"
I hadn't considered how I'd respond to this very reasonable question. "Of course not," I stammered, thinking fast, "As soon as I realized it wasn't mine, I mean, I did recognize that it was a woman's suitcase" -- talking quickly so she wouldn't ask how I knew -- "and I looked for identification and found the conference packet in there and so I realized whoever the suitcase belonged to may show up here tonight. And" -- still scrambling -- "I thought I would just try my luck before dealing with the airline. You were my last try."
"So you were just going up to random women?"
"Well I mean I was hoping I'd recognize somebody from the plane and, if not, maybe I could spot somebody who was still dressed for travel, or who just looked tired and annoyed." I regretted that last statement as soon as I said it but she broke into a full laugh for the first time.
"Tired and annoyed is exactly what I was feeling. I guess it showed."
Before she could ask any more questions that would get me into trouble I suggested we get the suitcases and meet back in the lobby in ten minutes.
She seemed much warmer and more relaxed when I spotted her rolling my bag toward me, her breasts bouncing slightly with every step. "I can't tell you what a relief this is," she said. "I was dreading having to deal with this tomorrow."
"I know exactly what you mean," I said as we traded bags. They really were identical. "I'm James," I said.
"Yes," I can read. I followed her eyes to my conference badge. "I bet you can't guess my name."
I laughed. "So, Lydia --" nodding at her nametag -- "Do you have plans for tonight?"
She smiled. "I had a feeling that was coming next. I was just going to have a quiet night in the room."
"And I have a feeling that you already know my next question."
She laughed. "Dinner sounds great."
We made plans to meet in the hotel restaurant in an hour, both of us eager to unpack and change. While I got ready I tried to picture what she'd be wearing -- not just on top but underneath. It thrilled me to think that when I saw her again she'd probably be wearing some of the clothes I had held in my hands. Maybe even the lacy, pink bra. I was already feeling excited as I headed back downstairs.
I got there a few minutes before she did and watched as Lydia walked across the lobby. She was in a simple black dress with a cardigan pulled loosely over her chest. She had a sort of carefree confidence in the way she walked and that hypnotizing sway in her hips that I always found irresistible in women. The hostess led us to a small table in the corner and I sat with my back to the room, eager to avoid any current or former co-workers who might be dining there.
