📚 keeping-promises Part 2 of 1
Part 2
keeping-promises-2
FETISH STORIES

Keeping Promises 2

Keeping Promises 2

by moveablefeast66
20 min read
4.74 (3100 views)
adultfiction

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.

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"Layover?" she inquired as my beer was being deposited before me. She'd been talking to a pushy looking short guy on her right and apparently was looking for absolutely anyone else to steal her attention.

"I got re-routed to KL in the morning, assuming this storm breaks. Where you lot off to?"

"Back to L.A. in the afternoon," she said. "I'm Maaike, by the way." She reached out her hand and we shook. I was trying to figure out the accent.

"Are you based there?"

"No," she smiled, "this lot, as you put it, is from the Nederlands."

"Amsterdam?"

"Schiphol."

"Gesundheit... actually, I like that airport, but I've always been traveling

through

. I've never had an excuse to visit Amsterdam," I told her. The beer was achingly

wonderfully

cold and she was both attentive and attractive.

"You should sometime. We Nederlanders can be quite friendly," she said. Her hand touched my arm and her carefully applied lipstick quirked coquettishly. She was giving me the surreptitious once over, so I felt free to survey her charms. Under her airline blazer, she had on a cream-colored blouse that was simultaneously not at all inappropriate and yet totally mouthwatering. She oozed a certain mature sex appeal and... I kind of mentally kicked myself. She was being nice, and I had no call to leer at her like a goggle-eyed teenager.

"I've always heard that, but, sadly, I haven't met the right Hollander yet... and yes, I know not all Nederlanders are from Holland."

She laughed.

"You're still wrong: I'm from Utrecht."

"Ah, so I also haven't met the 'right', uh, Utrechtian...?"

"... Utrechter..."

"... the 'right' Utrechter," I corrected, smiling and raising my glass to toast her.

Her knee touched mine briefly. I didn't mean anything by it, but I let mine touch hers back. I felt a little dirty, a little forward, doing it, but this attractive creature was flirting. It felt good in the moment. You always hear stories about air hostesses, but my experience is that they have hard jobs. Jobs that are more difficult because of those stories. A handsy dude at the bar is the last thing she probably needed or wanted. Except... she kept leading the way. Figuring it would come to nothing, I felt free to follow her lead in the handsy dance. The subtle spread of her thighs, the swivel of her bar seat, and the way she leaned in told me she was enjoying being pursued.

"Do you like married women?" Her hand was touching my leg now. My heart was beginning to jump.

"I, uh..."

"Ach, I'm going too fast. I am always closing the overhead bins before the luggage is stowed. You are looking for a friend for tonight?"

My brain struggled to catch up with my hormones. I'd been reacting to her advances, so long as the flirtation was harmless. But she just banged that down right on the table. Did I want a friend for tonight? Maybe I was out of practice. I don't usually have the time or energy to do anything romantic on business trips. And a married gal? Bad karma. She was attractive, though, and did I mention the beer? She'd taken the lead and been forthcoming. Her hand, creeping slowly up my thigh, felt marvelous. I didn't want her to stop, so, lamely, I replied, "Maybe?"

"You should be more definite than maybe."

"I'm out of practice at this. I came for the beer, but..."

"Mm. You like flirting. I caught you peeking--so nicely!--at my boobies." She waggled her shoulders; her foundation work was brilliant. Her hand, meanwhile was dancing on the margins of somewhat inappropriate.

Are you married?" she asked.

"No," I replied.

"Girlfriend?"

I shook my head. Sure, it was a lie. But Lauren and I were closer to fuck buddies. The threat to move-in together was kind of a running joke. Besides, she wasn't here.

"Good," she said, either believing me or willing to ignore her disbelief. "I can tell you're a proper gentleman, or I wouldn't have asked. I have a nose for these things, call it a professional skill. You look good in that suit, and like you'd look better out of it. You're not a player of games, like some of these others. But maybe," she whispered, leaning close as her fingers deftly crossed from

somewhat

to

wholly

, "Maybe sometimes good things happen to a good man. You wouldn't mind it, if it came your way, eh? Now: care to be more definite?"

I swallowed. The glint in her eye said she liked what her fingers were finding. And there it was, any man's fantasy. Can you say no to that, when it calls your name?

"I can be definite. About making a friend tonight."

"Ah, good." She smiled, her lips practically in my ear, whispering above the din around us. She angled her head at the air crew members around us. "It's a little game we play, when our next day's flight is not too early. Did you get a spare room key, by chance?"

"I didn't, but I can get another key from the desk. What's the game?"

"Give me your room key and a business card. I have all the room keys here for 'this lot'. Anyone who wants to play draws from the stack."

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I chuckled slightly. It was a come on for the team! In addition to the pilots and another flight attendant at the bar, her brand color was clustered around a table, in all, six or eight of them, I couldn't count. Tall, short, mostly European, but with an Asian gal and one strikingly tall black African woman. There were hints of boob and a lot of sexy lower leg over there. My impression was mainly women like Maaike, middle-aged, but fit and good looking. There was also one guy with a neatly trimmed beard.

"Don't worry, only the girls will play," she chortled, seeing my gaze.

"Then what happens?"

"You go to your room. Pretty soon your friend unlocks the door. You knock boots until she has to fly. It's 'knock boots', right?"

"Knock boots, get frisky, uh..."

She held her other hand up to admonish me.

"You have to promise me you'll let her use your room until she goes... and no rough stuff, eh?" She literally had me by the balls.

"My solemn word," I squeaked. It seemed safe enough. International flights are usually staffed by an airline's most senior folks. Older, stable, experienced women probably just looking for a fun night that was safe and sane and nothing more. I was still a little nervous about it, but how could I pass it up? I fumbled out my room key and a business card.

"Out of curiosity, what's the business card for?" I asked, holding it out for her.

"You'll know I have it. In case you're..."

"Not the gentleman you took me for?"

"

Ja. Accuraat

," she smiled. "Or maybe next time I layover in your city, if the reports are good, I call you?"

She slipped the business card into the little paper sleeve with my room key.

"What if no one draws my card? After all, now you have one extra."

"Someone always wins the men I pick. Sometimes it is the Utrechter who wins!" she giggled. "Tonight we're doubled up, so plenty will play. Someone gets a room to themselves and the other... gets frisky, was it?" She raised her eyebrows suggestively.

"You go on now. She'll be there soon," she said. She made her straw make snorkeling sounds at the bottom of her glass.

I gulped the last of my beer and got up from the bar. As I went out, she was at the table where her colleagues sat, gabbling to them in Dutch. They were making room for another chair while simultaneously giving me the once over. I tried to look respectable or at least steady on my feet. I heard laughter as Maaike made a show of putting my business card away and inserting my room key into the stack.

Red-suited Airline Guy was just behind me.

"Looks like you're in for an all-nighter. You have protection?" he chortled. He was a New Yorker by his accent.

"I'm good," I told him. "No cooties for me."

"Maaike's girls are horny as goats, but they're prone to coming down with M-R-S disease."

"M-R-S?"

"A serious case of greencard. You know..."

"I got it. I'll be careful!" I told him.

I went to the front desk and, in addition to my replacement card, picked up a package of condoms.

Back in my room, the air conditioning had been blasting an Arctic cold. It wrapped around me like a python and sucked me in from the muggy, humid corridor. Outside the typhoon was blasting and the beams from the streetlights had to fight their way through an inch of water pouring down the windowpane.

My heart was hammering in my chest. Alone in my room, I was suddenly nervous. First date jitters, blind date jitters. In a few minutes, in fact, really, at

any

moment, my door would unlatch and... it could be anyone? What would I say? I wasn't in control. In spite of the beer and the jet lag, I felt enervated and jangly with anticipation.

I kicked off my shoes and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. As I gargled with the tiny hotel bottle of mouthwash there was laughter in the hall, but it passed my door by.

I put the packet of condoms on the nightstand. Then, thinking that too forward, paused to put them into the drawer. I plugged in my phone and unlocked it, but I couldn't concentrate. I texted Lauren to let her know about the change in itinerary, then felt guilty as hell. I couldn't really stop my visitor from coming now and I had promised to lodge her for the evening. Maybe we'd just talk or sleep or something? Although, at this point it would pretty much be 'or something'. I imagined Maaike, imagined the feel of the buttons on her blouse as I unfastened them. Yeah, no, I was going to shag like a carpet. I'd deal with the guilt in the morning. I was being careful, and a flight attendant wasn't some anonymous street walker. It was a game for them, so tomorrow would bear no regrets, right?

Right?

I heard the elevator ding down the hallway. Just barely above the rainstorm, there were footsteps and the sound of rollaboard wheels on the threadbare carpet.

They halted at my door.

"Beep-beep" went the card reader as my door unlatched. The handle went "chunk" and the door popped open a few inches. I stepped over to help pull it wide.

There in the corridor was one of the air hostesses from the bar, looking nervous and pulling her suite of luggage.

"

Bienvenue

", I said, unsure of the right word in Dutch and feeling like an oaf. I sounded like some middle-aged lothario.

"I'm Johanna," she said, extending a hand. She pronounced her name with a crisp Dutch accent, much like Maaike's, with the "J" softened to a "Y". I introduced myself. We shook.

She was not cut from the same cloth as Maaike. For starters, she was quite a bit younger, certainly not past thirty, as much younger as Maaike was older. She lacked the practiced precision that her older colleague had. With Maaike, every little detail of her hair, her makeup, her nails, the too-white lacy something underneath her blouse had been a subtle carnal invitation while simultaneously a reminder of her authority as an air crew member. Johanna's uniform was workman-like. The too-short slit skirt hung from her wide hips squarely, promising the thighs of a woman who walked her way from Los Angeles to Tokyo. Her polished black heels were less sensible. She wore generationally appropriate lip gloss versus Maaike's perfect lipstick. Johanna's blazer, in all its turquoise glory, was comfortably fit rather than tantalizing. She was perhaps average in height, for a woman, so even in her heels I had a half foot advantage on her. Her dark hair was drawn back severely and held tightly to her head by a turquoise color-matched scrunchy. She had an oval face, dark eyebrows, and pouty lips. The scarf around her throat encompassed a sturdy neck that sprouted like an asparagus from the carefully buttoned all-the-way-up cream-colored uniform blouse, rather than slinking curvaceously into a tastefully arrange decolletage.

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