The Conventioneer Ch 01

This story, which will be broken into several short chapters, takes place a few weeks following Gwendolyn's evening with the stranger. It should be read after reading the two-chapter short story: The Stranger.

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My plane was delayed, which was aggravating. Any flight to Las Vegas is full of revelers who have been drinking for hours before the aircraft is wheels-up and mine was no different, despite it being an early morning departure. But I was headed there on business and Vegas is never much fun when you can't throw caution to the wind.

Surrounding me was a bachelorette party of pretty young 20-somethings who looked great and knew it; firm bodies, skimpy outfits, tan legs and beautiful smiles. Fueled by pre-breakfast cocktails, they were already chatting up several guys in adjacent seats and it was obvious a few of them were going to get their Vegas trip off to a great start.

Recalling my friend Dom's comments last week, my finger paused over the link. What's the harm in looking, I thought. And then I tapped.

"Would you like a drink?"

I slid the phone between my thighs, embarrassed the flight attendant may have seen the screen. It was 8:45 on a Wednesday morning, of course I didn't want a drink. "May I have a screwdriver, please?" Nothing wrong with a little liquid courage. "A double."

"No problem, hon. I'll be back." She gave me a wink and I didn't know what to make of it. Maybe she had seen the screen and my wedding ring and knew exactly what I was up to. Drawing in a breath, I looked at my phone. There were dozens of thumbnail images of beautiful men and women, most of them partially nude or more. Taking a few moments to browse a number of profiles dominated by impressively large cocks, bulging muscles, strong chins and finely trimmed facial hair, it was easy to filter out the men. They weren't who I was looking for. I had a husband I loved, and we'd recently rediscovered the intimacy parenthood had tried to destroy.

I smiled, thinking about Mike sliding his cock inside me not more than two hours ago as I showered. "Just once more before you leave, baby," he said as he stepped into the steamy stall. I had ridden him last night before going to sleep so his arrival in the shower was a pleasant surprise. It was only 5:30-am and still dark outside. Our kids slept like all kids: deeply and without a care in the world. I always closed their doors after kissing them goodnight and our on-suite bathroom was far away from their rooms; separated by drywall and insulation and closets.

Running my hand through Mike's bed head, it was obvious he was still sleepy, which I found endearing. And while he wasn't fully awake, his cock stood ready for some early morning exercise. Taking all of this into consideration (it's what mothers do before committing to sex), along with the short commute time to the airport, I didn't resist as he gently bent me over.

Placing my hands against the wet marble, the warm spray splashed across my back as he stepped closer. His fingers fiddled with Claire until she was damp with desire and he pushed into me with force. Thankfully, the gasp I made when her lips were initially parted was shrouded by the water echoing around the enclosure. Looking out through the glass, I watched our reflections in the mirror over the sink. Mike took hold of one dangling breast and rolled my nipple in his fingers. The other he left to sway in rhythm to his hips slapping against my bottom. My special place still felt pleasantly stretched and full.

Our rekindling intimacy had been jumspstarted by my husband when he brought a bold idea to our marriage. Through a website he found, we'd recently enjoyed the visitation of a handsome stranger who was supremely talented in the wielding of his extraordinarily large cock. The experience remained fresh in my mind and when I thought of that night - our anniversary - all these weeks later, Claire still drooled uncontrollably. It was this recent sexual encounter with someone outside our marriage that had reawakened a part of me I thought had long departed.

With only women remaining, I thumbed past profile pics that were limited to a closeup of breasts or the woman's sex (many of them being fed a cock, a toy, or her fingers). I stopped, looking at a burly woman with short cropped hair sitting nude on a motorcycle, her thighs spread widely across the broad seat. Her nipples were pierced with little dumbbell-shaped rods. Lower, a thin, tightly stretched metal chain connected the piercing in her belly button to the one in her clit. It looked painful and I wondered how she was able to wear anything around her waist. Her left arm was covered in a sleeve of dark tattoos and a large serpent tattoo ran up her right leg from ankle to thigh, the asp's tongue flicking against her shaved vulva.

Butch women weren't my thing, although the thought of their more masculine approach to my pleasure wasn't without consideration. But I primarily browsed profiles of women presenting themselves as very feminine and offered a few full-body pictures.

As the captain droned on about an issue with some backup to a backup system related to the onboard coffee maker, I filled out my profile:

Your gender: Female

Sexual Orientation: Straight/Bi/Bi-Curious

Age: 35

Hair color: Brunette

Build: Slender

Height: 5'9"

Bust: 30C

Marital status: Married

Looking for: Woman/women

Age range of your hookup:

I had to think about this for a moment. Eyeing a stunning blonde bachelorette across the aisle who was flirting with the guy next to her, I realized someone who was barely of drinking age wasn't my cup of tea. I was interested in someone with some life - and sex - experience.

Age range of your hookup: 28-40

I envisioned myself kissing an older woman, such as the attractive flight attendant who handed me my screwdriver. Would someone older take the lead in the bedroom like I preferred? "Thanks, hon," I said, returning her a wink and adding a smile for good measure. Leaning casually into the aisle, I watched her saunter away, her blonde ponytail held high and dancing across slender shoulders, her narrow hips swished inside a tight dark-blue uniform skirt. It was seductively short and I wondered if she'd altered it to better reveal her figure. The garment laid bare the toned, trim thighs of a woman who worked on her feet. Her creamy skin was an opaque blue inside her nylons; their thicker banding occasionally peeking below the hemline as she moved. I wondered if they were thigh highs. If so, was she wearing panties? Which led to me considering how she groomed her special place. And then I imagined how she would taste. From between my legs, Claire stirred.

Shaking off the thought, I dove into my photos; selecting several I felt accurately depicted who I was physically. I chose an image of me and my husband at his company Christmas party as my primary profile picture. In it, I wore a very short, very tight, red cocktail dress that plunged deeply in front. It was thin enough to announce I wasn't wearing a bra as my upturned nipples were impossible to miss. The outfit was far beyond what HR would consider "company gathering" appropriate, but I caught Mike's boss (who, ironically, is the head of HR) looking at my chest many times that evening.

The dress perfectly highlighted the work I'd had done on my breasts a couple years prior, when Mike and I determined we had reached our maximum kid count. They had been expertly reduced from a low-riding, breast-feeding D to a downright perky C, and I'm not embarrassed to say I am very proud of them. They boosted my self esteem and to Mike's approval, my bra wardrobe reverted back to something far less momlike, and was now dominated by low-cut lacy things with the distinct lack of underwire support. And as the image communicated, I once again felt comfortable going braless. My hair was done in a sexy updo with loose ringlets framing my face and my makeup was perfect, although I blurred our faces with a photo app.

I did the same to the additional images I posted: one of me in a tiny bikini during a vacation to Cancun last year (the first one we'd taken without the kids in forever). I was posing seductively for my husband on the beach. On my widespread knees in the lapping surf, my body was drenched and covered with sand. My hair hung in dark, lank tendrils across my tanned shoulders. I wore an award-winning sultry pout and one hand supported my left breast while another lay along my inner thigh. I'd hooked a thumb into the waistband and pulled the bikini bottom low enough to reveal my alabaster-white mons, although I was careful to leave Claire's cleft hidden from view. Mike told me it reminded him of a poster he'd hung on his bedroom wall as a teenager.

Another pic came from a block-party barbecue of me in pink denim short-shorts that exposed the lower third of my bottom. They were combined with a faded red t-shirt I had haphazardly cropped to expose my stomach. Across the chest, it read: Forget the cook, kiss his wife! I held up a greasy spatula and was standing over the barbecue with a surprised look on my face as open flames ravaged the burgers on the grill. The thin t-shirt along with my stiff nipples told everyone I was braless and the shorts cleaved deeply inside Claire as I hadn't worn panties that afternoon (at my husband's request). Several of my male neighbors stood around me with cheshire grins on their plump, sunburned faces.

I also selected a picture from a Halloween costume party of me dressed as a sexy nurse. The white bodice pinched my breasts together to produce two creamy mounds of flesh. It was low cut enough to reveal the cherry-red crowns of my areolas if I turned the right way (as evidenced by this picture). The skimpy red panties featured a white cross on each butt cheek and another strategically placed over Claire. It was accompanied by white thigh highs held up with a red garter belt. I wore red heels and had the nurse's cap pinned into my hair at a jaunty angle. Nerdy lensless horn-rimmed glasses drooped low on my nose and I had a stethoscope placed on Mike's comically bulging crotch. He was dressed as a dirty doctor, complete with two gym socks he'd stuffed in his underwear. Looking at the image now, I recalled being very drunk when it was taken.

The final image was one my yoga instructor took of me in the Happy Baby position and I momentarily debated on including this pic, but as I sipped my drink, I thought: What the Hell, and tapped POST.

Taken from directly above as I lay on my back, it was a photo my husband had begged for and one my instructor was happy to provide (she knew of our lack of progress in the bedroom at the time and she wanted to help). The position showed me with my thighs spread widely apart and my knees pulled up around my ribs. Holding the bottoms of my feet, the pose pushes the breasts together, which revealed a lot of cleavage in the tiny sports bra I chose to wear that afternoon. My nipples were pronounced.

When doing yoga, I typically wear leggings and moisture-wicking thong panties to absorb any sweat. But for the picture, my instructor suggested I ditch the leggings. "We both know what Mike wants to see," she said. "Men are obsessed with our pussies."

"They are, aren't they," I agreed, heading to the studio's bathroom to undress. Five minutes later, my Happy Baby looked a lot more adult. The narrow light-purple triangle of my panties adhered to my special place like a second skin, Claire's little mounds and curves beautifully highlighted, her mouth - pulled open by the pose - nearly succeeding in drawing the thin fabric between her delicate, pink lips. Just below her, the rose-colored ridges of my butthole were a tiny starburst emanating from the soft seams of the thong. It was an image I thought perfectly telegraphed my intentions to potential suitors, without actually revealing everything. Exposing myself in this way, on a public hookup site, was highly arousing and the warm ooze leaking from Claire's lips told me she approved of my actions.

Although visitors to my profile would have no idea behind the risqué images, to me they shouted to the world I was desperate for my husband's attention sexually. They had all been taken when we were in the Doldrums intimately and I was willing to do nearly anything to get him back between my thighs. A benefit to the concern I had about the strength of our bedroom connection was that I had worked hard to take off the weight motherhood saw fit to burden me with and these photos proved it. I had starved myself, worked out relentlessly and even resorted to appetite suppressants. Physically, I looked great, but inside I was a husk. I took a long drink and pushed those dark thoughts away.

Eventually I stopped taking the suppressants - I couldn't sleep - and when I don't sleep, I'm a bitch. But I did train myself to eat smaller portions and kept up with the workout routine. That didn't entice Mike enough to want to have regular sex, but I felt better about myself and that was important. And now, after reluctantly agreeing with Mike to allow another man to fuck me, we seemed to be back in synch. Since that evening, we had sex nightly (assuming the kids didn't wreck our plans); right after brushing our teeth. He had filmed my encounter with the stranger and we enjoyed watching it before fucking. The stranger had righted the course. Mike and I were on a new and far healthier trajectory in our relationship. I wasn't going to be the one to bring it up, but I was looking forward to my husband arranging for the stranger to visit us again.

Spending the next 15 minutes filling in the rest of my profile, I saved it and shut my phone down. The captain finally announced that if the back-up, back-up coffee maker failed, we'd still stay aloft. The flight attendant brought me two additional ever-more-potent screwdrivers during the short flight and at some point over the desert I learned about her panty situation. She was kind enough to reveal this when she squatted by the drink cart next to my seat.

Her knees parted as she went lower because she either wanted to show me or didn't care about showing me. Either way, I was pleasantly surprised to discover she wasn't wearing any. More enticing was that she wore open-gusset nylons, which perfectly framed her special place, the dark blue seam encircling the fluffed billows of her sex like a piece of art. She kept her caramel-colored pubic hair perfectly groomed and tightly shorn, the pink cleft of her labia shiny and slightly agape. I wondered if she was turned on by exposing herself to me. Looking up as she reached in the cart, she smiled and asked, "You okay, hon? Would you like anything else?"

My eyes remained fixed between her thighs and I made no effort to be casual about it. "I think three is more than enough. I might do something I'd regret later." My smile was wicked and she picked up on it instantly.

Opening her legs wider as she laughed, she winked at me again. "Isn't that why God made Las Vegas?"

I giggled in return. "It certainly is."

"The flight crew will be on a two day layover before heading to France," she said casually as she fussed with something in the cart. "We always make the most of our time in Sin City."

We chatted for a moment about where they were staying and what their plans were. "We spend so much time together, we usually take a night to ourselves." She ran my credit card. "Tonight, I'll probably just lay around and paint my toes, or something."

She's hitting on you, Gwenny, I thought. "It's good to spend some time alone," I said.

"It is, but sometimes spending time with a new friend is far more fun." She reviewed my receipt and jotted something down. "Are you sure you don't want anything else?"

I smiled. "I'm great, thank you."

"Well, I'm happy to let you sample something else, if you like." She handed me my receipt.

Taking it, I saw she'd scrawled: Savannah, along with her phone number. I batted my eyes. "It's very tempting."

She stood. "You just let me know, hon," she said before standing and turning to another passenger.

As she rolled the cart away, across the aisle some entertainment was underway: The flirting bachelorette slowly slid her hand into the lap of the guy she was sitting next to. He casually laid his jacket over his crotch and after a bit of giggling and fumbling, the lump her hand made beneath the garment began to slowly rise and fall. I enjoyed the show and desperately wanted to touch myself, but refrained from being obscene.

Thanks to the cocktails, when I landed, I was feeling no pain. I also arrived to 11 messages of women looking for similar companionship over the dates of my conference.

In the cab on the way to the hotel, I messaged the seven I felt might be a good match and it was Abigail's response I was most drawn to. "I saw your profile and noticed you're married. I am too (and don't get me wrong, I love him and his cock) but have kept my interest in women a secret."

Me, too, sweetheart.

Clicking the link to her profile, I quickly surmised she was a 29-year old school teacher from Leavenworth, Kansas, visiting Las Vegas for an education convention. Like me, she had shielded her face in the pictures on her profile but her figure was stunning. Standing 5-feet, 6-inches tall, she was blessed with strawberry hair she wore long and loose. She noted herself as slender (and if her pictures were accurate, I resembled something less than slender at 127 pounds) with athletic B-cup breasts. She had posted no nude images but what she did upload left very little to the imagination.

I sent her a message and photo in return. It was the Christmas party image but with my face revealed. "This is me," I posted. "Would love to see what you look like, if you're interested." For a moment, I thought I'd made a mistake; that she'd take one look at my face and stop responding. I pushed the thought away as I worked through some email. Sitting at a red light, I looked out the window and told the cab driver to make a couple stops on the way to my hotel.

TO BE CONTINUED