Dedicated to the God of cunnilingus. Thanks for everything!
edited by jthserra
As I step on the plane I remember how this trip started about a hundred years ago. Ok, maybe that is a slight exaggeration, but it was years ago now. We were both quite unassailably attached back then. But time has a way of taking circumstances beyond our control and now we’re both, well, we’re not. Attached, that is.
So I get on the plane, a nervous wreck as I ponder my destination. Not that I haven’t pondered it about a million times already. I know where I’m going and why. I’m going to see an old friend whom I’ve never met. To finally see the face that I love. And before the night is done, I will fuck him till he comes twenty times. And on our first date, too. Christ, don’t tell my mother.
Ok, technically in this computer age, you can’t consider this our first date. We’ve had hundreds, maybe thousands of dates, then. He knows me better than my closest friends do. We’ve discussed everything from kids and lovers to illnesses and addictions. Verbally he’s brought me off more than any lover I ever had. He knows the way a woman likes her pussy licked. I know him well enough to know he would never dream of coming first. He’s a generous lover, a brilliant man, a poet. It feels as if I’ve known him all my life. So why this case of the jitters?
I have all his words with me, the poems and stories he’s written for me and for others. A fresh flush warms my body as I read Passion Song for the four thousandth time. He wrote it for me over a decade ago and it still makes me hot. My nervousness ebbs and I close my eyes, try to picture a face I’ve never seen.
My sister asked, “What if he’s ugly? What if he doesn’t turn you on?”
I smiled and answered, “He’s not and he does. I’ve seen his soul and it’s beautiful. No one has ever turned me on as much as this man.” She doesn’t get it, threatened to tell Mom. I told her to go ahead if she wanted to live with the guilt of a heart attack.
The plane lands and my heart takes off like a triple crown race horse. I sit, as others disembark, trying to breathe normally. Up the ramp and into the terminal on shaking legs, I stop in the ladies room to freshen my face. I brush my long blonde hair, put on some lip gloss and restack my melons on their silver platter. Ok, technically it’s a black lace Wonder-bra, but it serves the same purpose. I’m just showing off what’s on the menu.
I’m an exhibitionist. He’s a voyeur. That’s how we met, on this great little web site for writers. I was looking for an editor for the erotic stories I write, and I stumbled into smut-writer’s heaven. Funny thing was, it turned out to be so much more than a porn site, with a close knit community of poets and friendly folks reading and giving feedback for other writers. It was amazing. We saw each other’s work and just clicked, then found out we had so much more in common than writing, even similar spiritual interests.
I’m staring at my cleavage in the mirror, frozen. Why so nervous? I know this man. I love him! Why do I feel like a teen on my first date? Because I haven’t been on a date in the last 30 years. Because making love to this man tonight will be the culmination of exquisite foreplay that has lasted almost 13 years. He’s made me come a million times and he’s never even seen me. What if I don’t turn him on?
I shake my head and look in the mirror again. He’s gonna love the lace bra peeping over my blouse. I am an exhibitionist, and it’s show time. I smile at myself, then turn and walk with slightly feigned confidence. Somewhere in the back of my mind, Ted Nugent suddenly breaks into a sizzling rendition of Stranglehold. I take my time, letting the seduction come over me. The painted on leather skirt and “fuck me” pumps get the reaction I want. One hip at a time, I conquer the corridor. I feel the eyes, see heads turn. I meet the gaze of a man sitting at the bar. He smiles hopefully. I flip my hair over my shoulder as if to say, “You wish.” This is my game and I’m ready to play.
I descend the stairs and head toward the luggage carousel that’s flashing my flight number. I casually stroll up to the belt and watch the bags go round. No need to look for him, he’ll find me. He’s seen plenty of pictures of me. I couldn’t pick him out of a line up. Well, maybe I could, I have seen his eyes. He sent me a picture once peering over a cup of coffee and told me that’s what he’d look like staring up from my muff. I had to smile. He has great eyes.
I lean forward, knowing how my skirt will ride up in back, and grab my suitcase, just a small one, then look around. Although there’s no sign of him, I can feel him here, watching me. He loves to watch, not just me, though I’m sure to be his primary target at the moment. He watches everything. I scan the room and know he sees the crowd thinning out, the woman with a baby meeting her mom, the grandmother cooing over the infant, he sees it all.
A suit puts a handle on his suitcase and wheels it from the terminal. He hasn’t been laid in a long time and it shows. A young couple kisses like he’s returning from war. Thank God that’s a thing of the past. Jeff’s got his eyes on the way the man’s hands are squeezing her ass, I’m sure of it. Then I see a man leaning against a pillar looking at me. I meet his gaze, size him up; tall and thin with gray hair, self assured look. That’s not Jeff. No way that’s him. As I scan the room again, Mr. Self-assured heads my direction, now looking more cocky than confident.
He extends his hand. “Hi Syndra, I’m Jeff.”
I stare into his eyes, but don’t reach for his hand. “No you’re not.” He looks confused, but I ignore him, turn away and look at the decreasing population in the terminal. Baggage claim clerk helps tired mother with 2 little kids, as a sexy young man lifts a guitar case from the still revolving carousel. Gray hair above newspaper, eyes watching me. That’s Jeff. The eyes smile as I walk toward him. Oh yes, those are Jeff’s eyes. He continues to peer over his paper. I lean in, resting a hand on my knee, pulling the paper down so the sway of my breasts is directly in his line of sight. He’s grinning. “Hi Jeff.”
“Hi, Syn.” He rises and pulls me to him in a long hug.
All my qualms evaporate with his breath on my neck. I could stay here forever, where I’ve wanted to be for so long. Jeff is holding me in his arms! Oh, it’s almost too good to be true. Finally and reluctantly we release the embrace and he kisses me. His lips press tenderly to mine and I melt. My panties grow damp and all the foreplay from all the years creeps into my consciousness. More than anything I want to drop to my knees and release his desire, but I just kiss him again, and look into his wonderful eyes. “Nice to see you.”
He smiles. God he’s got a great smile! He’s just as I had him pictured. Slightly over 6 feet, gray hair and beard, with this open face. I don’t know what I mean by open. Honest, friendly maybe? Or maybe I just know him so well he’s like an open book to me. He’s well built with biceps rock hard beneath his black shirt. And those eyes! He has gorgeous hazel eyes.
“Nice to see you, too Syn. You look beautiful.” He drops his gaze to my bosom then plants a big kiss and a lick on the swell above the lace. I gasp and my cunt begins to pulse with pent up desire. He watches my face flush with need. “Absolutely gorgeous. And you smell of lilacs. Shall we go?”
I’m speechless, and slightly breathless, as he lifts my bag and hands it to his impersonator. “Syn, this is Mike, our chauffeur.”
“Hi Mike.”
“Ma’am. Nice to meet you.” He takes my bag and leads us out of the terminal. A black stretch limo sits by the curb. Mike opens the door and bows slightly.
I raise one eyebrow at Jeff. He just smiles and waves me in first. I slide onto the leather seat as he climbs in after. “Nice ride. Why the impostor?”
