"Well I think this is the best thing that could possibly have happened to us."
That's what you say at the news. The news, two hours before our scheduled flight home, that the airport is forced closed by a ruptured water pipe. Our vacation is going to be extended for another night, until things get sorted out.
"All good adventures begin with the unexpected. And now we've got an extra unexpected day. Lets go do something we haven't yet done."
"All bets off?" I ask.
"Anything possible, everything permissible" you say, and your eyes sparkle. We indulge in a day of walking cobbled streets, savouring local foods, drinking wine in the sunshine, and celebrating one another's company.
"Love you."
"Love you back."
When the day and the evening are both done, we hold hands and wind our way back to the hotel where we had stayed the night before. With the airport closed, it and everything else in the city is overbooked. But the hotel has opened up its rooftop gardens to help with the unexpected overflow of stranded travelers. A flat roof that is a sea of bodies, blankets, sleeping bags and luggage, all laid out in puddles of personal space. A flat roof in the middle of a metropolis stirring with the slow and sensual pulse of a summer's night.
We have zipped two sleeping bags together. I am already half asleep, my hands slowly tracing curves on the smooth of your back, when he arrives. He is one of the last people to pop up out of the stair box. He surveys the roof for the safest place to ease between others already settled. He is hesitant, because he will need to squeeze himself in, close in to someone else, closer than might be comfortable.
Then he catches your eye.
I wasn't paying attention at the time, not then. But you have since told me how he was drawn slowly forward under your direct gaze. I know exactly what effect you had on him. I can picture your subtle smile that slyly said 'settle down right here by my side, if you dare.' A smile from the most beautiful woman on the roof. A smile that turned the awkward necessity of finding a spot for the night into an unexpected excitement. Turned it into a fantasy about the woman with sexy red hair and lush red lips, and a long body hidden under the contours of her covers.
No words are exchanged. He settles in quickly beside us, his mind wondering all the while. He peeks over at you regularly as he tucks himself in. He is young, and he is handsome as a man and sweet as a boy. You are watching him with your eyes half closed, enjoying his preparations for sleep. Perhaps you are imagining him under his bag, following the ever shifting lumps as he strips his clothes. You close your eyes fully only after he closes his.
Hours later the city is quiet. In the gloom of the very earliest morning light, nothing is astir. Almost nothing. Next to us, there is the softest of movements. I cannot remember now which one of us wakes to it first, and who gently jabs the other. But there we are, both waking, and watching his arm deep down in his bag. A slow back and forth. A pulsing lump that is the spot where his hand stirs his cock. His eyes are closed. He is dreaming the sweetest of dreams. Surely he is dreaming of you.
You have told me when we have shared fantasies how you love to watch a man's pants stretch and strain over a cock that needs escape. Escape -- to be boldly exhibited. Escape -- because it aches for your touch. We are mesmerized, looking across at the quiet stirrings next to us, you with a straight line of sight, and I propped up and looking up over your half turned shoulder. I am starting to run my hand over your naked back again.
The naughty thought that this young man needs some adventurous help is on both our minds, and we suspect it of one another. So, after a while of watching and wondering, I dare myself to reach around you to unzip our bag a few inches until your arm is free. All very slowly, as if in a spell, as if testing a half formulated plan to see how aligned we really might be.
After a studied pause, you carefully reach your arm out, and over, and down. We both tremble. I nudge your back reassuringly. You stretch the final bit, and place your hand gently on his bag, directly over his bulge.
There is a moment where all movement stops. Then he, with his eyes closed, uncurls his hand and drops it away. Just the thin bag separates your hand now from his self hardened cock. Instinctively you work your way slowly down the length of it, gently shaping the bag over its outline, then forming a half shell for his balls. Your body quivers under my hands, which are circling your smooth warm bottom.
This is not to be done lightly, but also cannot be done awkwardly, lest the spell of permissiveness be broken. And so we approach it reverentially. Carefully, you start to work your hand up and down the outline you have formed.
He stirs, he breathes a little deeper, and his eyes remain closed. You establish a relaxed but steady rhythm through the soft fabric, which flows like the most luxurious of fluids as it bunches and stretches under your fingers and over his cock. His body is finding a subtle rhythm of its own, with little risings and fallings that track your touch. Around us the air is quietly stirring, as if in gentle accord, as if encouraging.
