We were supposed to be on our way to the airport. Lauren, my on-again/off-again girlfriend, was flying to Dulles "for a week with the dullest bureaucrats ever". I was flying to Tokyo to meet with customers. Since her place was closer to the airport, I'd spent the night over.
I help companies build and operate international manufacturing, so I travel a lot. My travel kit is always squared away, and my routines are practiced. Lauren, on the other hand, is a high end brainiac lawyer. She travels occasionally, but she's nervous, unpracticed, and always a bit ill-prepared. This morning she was fussing with her setup and stashing too many things in too large a suitcase. I tried to calmly sip may coffee, biting my lip as I watched her redo her packing. I was gently strolling through the measured paces of my pre-travel rituals, while she'd frantically sprinted about, bleating like a lost sheep.
I had half a smile on, because she is
never
discombobulated. She has ice in her veins. Most of the time, she's three steps of perception faster that everyone around her--me especially. With the shoe on the other foot, I felt almost giddy. I had to suppress the desire to whistle a jaunty, carefree tune, like one of the seven dwarves, while Snow White bounced off the furniture, swearing like I'd hidden her polished apple. Almost whistling, because I valued my safety.
"Where is the snail-humping dog-farting jail-baiting..." she growled, overturning items on her nightstand before coming up with a familiar round plastic pill case. She waved it at me and then shoved it into her overstuffed suitcase.
"What?" she glared.
"Was that it?"
"Yes, the last thing."
I glanced at my watch. We'd be ridiculously early if we left now. Hmm. I stepped over and took her in my arms.
Lauren is six feet tall. You'd say she was 'willowy', except she also has exceptional knockers: big, luscious globes. The sort that demand multiple letters in the personal fashion area. I put my arms around her waist. She was wearing a full-length brightly colored dress that was cinched at the waist by a very wide studded leather belt. A belt that was perfect for manhandling her over to me.
"You know you'll have to take this off for Security Time Theater, right?" I asked, tugging at the oversized buckle.
"Yeah, for like a minute I'll be flapping in the breeze to the delight of Johnny Fed. What's it to you, babe?"
I kissed her quick and hard.
"We're not gonna have time for that," she moaned.
"We have hours and hours. Swap me some spit so I have something to remember you by! I haven't seen you for like a month. The last two days weren't enough."
"I heard you before. I'll
consider
test driving a live-in situation."
"I thought the live-in situation was
your
master plan?"
"Kiss me, you prick."
Lauren was a little sweaty from her packing contretemps. I could feel the perspiration on her upper lip. If she hated being out of control, it was even worse that I'd seen her in this state. Instead of simpering, she asserted herself, pushing her mouth at me like a starving starfish while guiding me backwards onto the bed. We wrestled for control, or, more correctly, I gave the impression of resisting her while she pulled the dress up and undid my trousers. Quicker than lightning she was rubbing my thickening wand up and down her panty clad clam.
"You're gonna make me fly cross-country with your baby juice splattering out of me, mister? Good thing I found those pills, or I'd be popping out a puppy for sure," she panted.
"I thought puppies only happen if you do it..."
"I haven't forgotten your antics last night. Have you?" I couldn't see anything with the volume of fabric all around us, but I didn't need eyes to find the cute little lacy thing she had to protect her modesty. I pulled it aside. Her pussy lips were as a slick as a used car dealer in a plaid polyester suit. She jammed those hungry jaws around my cock like a great white seizing a surfer in a bacon wetsuit. Then we fucked fast and hard, her hair flying wildly as I jammed her back and forth, wicked and animalistic. Slick with sweat, she moaned a guttural long wail as her insides flared with the heat of my sticky load pumping far up inside her belly.
Then she hopped off, staring at my withering pink soldier, completely coated with thick globules of our mixed emissions.
"I'm going to make you fly like that," she announced with a wink while smoothing her dress out. She went into the bathroom to salvage some of her dignity while I used some tissues to wipe up. I fastened up my trousers and then it really was time to depart.
The flight into Haneda was dreadful. I hadn't received a first-class upgrade, so I was relegated to Premium Economy. I should still have had a good seat, in the bulkhead row and on the aisle, like I like it. But it had all turned miserable. The fat, sweaty walrus next to me had a weak bladder, obliging me to let him into and out of his seat constantly. Plus, across the aisle there had been a rugrat, wailing like a fire engine to its inattentive mother. The last hour had been bumpy with turbulence, as we flew through the typhoon approaching Japan. We were blowing in ahead of the storm.
I was salivating for the post-flight experience. In my mind's eye, I stepped through customs, met my driver at the gate, and was whisked away to my hotel, high up in the Intercontinental overlooking the Rainbow Bridge. A big bowl of room service udon followed by a soft, comfy bed. Yes! Then I'd be ready for tomorrow's meetings. But it was not to be. As soon as I switched my phone from flight mode, it started to blow up with messages. Instead of visiting our offices in Japan, I needed to go to a new factory site in Malaysia. My assistant has re-routed me from Tokyo to Kuala Lumpur, and, to "save trouble", she'd rebooked me into an airport hotel.
Instead of a black car, I had to take the airport shuttle. I was herded onboard with the other harried guests. The typhoon was causing canceled flights left and right, so people were scrambling for last-second lodging. One hundred degrees Fahrenheit and one hundred percent humidity sucked any remaining vitality out of me. I was being jabbed in the knee by my neighbor's suitcase while trying not to gouge out a kidney with my carry-ons. My fellow anchovies, groggy with jet lag and grumpy with thwarted sleep, groaned and swayed in unison as the driver swerved and darted the underpowered toaster oven over the scant few kilometers from the terminal to the hotel. By now the rain was coming down in teacup-sized drops. I snagged my luggage so I could join the long queue to check in. I had no status with this chain and no claim on an upgrade to the budget room I'd been assigned.
They gave me a basic room and I was grateful to stumble into the shower and then fall, exhausted, into the queen-sized bed.
I awoke a few hours later, the window rattling and the wind howling outside. Streetlamps in the parking lot two stories below cast a baleful pinkish light into the room. The clock said
20:17
. I was tired, I knew I needed to move around now to avoid a worse time tomorrow. I took a quick shower. I wasn't that hungry, but from experience I knew I'd be unhappy later if I didn't get something in me. I redonned my "American traveler" uniform (khakis, blazer, polo shirt) and went to find whatever food or drink I could scrounge.
At this hour it was more of a bar than a restaurant and it was jam packed. Most of the crowd were various air crews: a few white-shirted pilots with their epaulettes, heavily chromed sports watches, and close clipped combovers being shepherded by gaudily colored flocks of flight attendants. Mostly their plumage was carefully sorted: this gaggle in corporate red, that one in emerald green, and still another in turquoise blue. The tables were full up and the only seat at the bar was between the red flight attendant faction and the turquoise one.
"Is this seat free?" I asked a balding guy from the red contingent.
"Free for you, sailor," he replied.
"Thanks," I replied, hoping not to send him any signals. The only signal I had in mind was to the barman for an Asahi. He stiffly informed me that the kitchen was closed. I was going to have to subsist on bar sushi (goldfish crackers and pretzels) and beer until morning.
To my right was an older flight attendant, resplendent in her turquoise uniform. She was quite well put together: honey colored hair pinned back with tortoise shell combs and a mischievous glint in her eyes. She might be older but was still voluptuous. Her blazer and knee-length skirt were cut just right to accentuate her curves Goldilocks-style: not too much and not too little of anything.