It was six in the morning, a Tuesday in October. Elizabeth was in Phoenix, Arizona but it could have been anywhere. There was no hint of searing desert heat, no warm glow of sunshine here. Only pale early morning light was coming through the curtains. The room was like many others she'd been in, in cities all over the world. A single bed she'd sleep in once, a closet that'd hold only her uniform, a coffee machine she'd not use, a TV she'd not watch. The air conditioner blew sterile air through the room which Elizabeth felt irritate her skin. She sat on the edge of the bed, turned to the mirror, peered into her own hazel eyes and asked herself what she saw. The eyes were tired, they were jaded but still there was a fire lingering behind them. Elizabeth looked at herself the way a man might. She often did this. Elizabeth saw a woman whose firm olive skin covered a well honed body. A woman whose long raven hair stretched down past her shoulder blades. A woman whose small, delicate features were framed by a proud Mexican jaw line. She saw there were bags under her eyes right now, a few lines around the mouth. A few veins crept through to blemish the skin round her cheekbones. Her breasts sagged slightly. Was Elizabeth still attractive? She took a breast in the palm of each hand and pushed them up, Elizabeth pouted slightly, as if to seduce herself. She stood up, admiring her flat tummy, shapely thighs and the finely cropped triangle of hair between her legs. Would a man still want this? Elizabeth twirled round, peered at herself over her shoulder, and ran her hand over her ass. She knew men did. Elizabeth saw it everyday, she saw and felt the eyes of men on her. Elizabeth heard the desire in their voices while she served them. Elizabeth was satisfied with herself.
Now, it was 6.09. Time to shower, to clean herself up and moisturise, brush teeth and select underwear. Within two hours she would need to done the uniform and be at work.
*****
It was ten in the morning and he was running. He cursed the Arizona sun, he cursed the alarm on his watch. He cursed the fact that there was sweat dripping down his back already, adding to the stink he'd accrued yesterday without getting a chance to wash off. He cursed the amount he'd drunk last night and he cursed the fact that he was going to miss his plane. He was still cursing when he got to the side of the main road.
"Fucking taxi!"
A straight laced, Christian looking woman of 70 glared at this apparition of unkemptness and foul language. He was tall, 6'3, with baby blue eyes, skin stained deep brown and hair bleached hazelnut by a harsh American sun it wasn't used to. He wore a torn red t-shirt, torn blue jeans and lugged a big blue rucksack which clearly dug into his shoulder. He spoke with a strange accent and waved his hand in the air like a madman.
"Taxi! Fucking taxi! Stupid fucking city fucking bitch fucking country." He paused for breath.
"Are you from Italy?" She enquired. The man looked at her with a mixture of desperation, shock and annoyance, still panting from his run.
"It….Italy? No love. I'm not from Italy."
"Well wherever you're from, please moderate your language."
He looked at her, half trying to remember his manners and half happy to kill her. He swallowed the expletive that was sitting on his tongue waiting to pounce and rethought his words. Before he could reply, he spotted a yellow shape heading down the street at speed in the corner of his eye.
"TAAAAAAAAAXXXXIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII! Stop you bastard!"
No sooner had the car stopped, he'd piled into the back seat and was barking instructions at the driver.
"Fucking airport."
"What terminal you want son?"
"Fucking three."
"Right you are."
The journey was swift, it seemed no sooner had he gotten into the car, caught his breath and watched the city pass by him at speed that they were there at the airport and he was paying the driver, attaching the bag to his back again and charging into the concourse. His heart leapt with joy when he saw the Aero Mexico desk and it leaped further when he realised they were still checking in passengers for Flight 180. He sidestepped a luggage trolley and swerved round a group of nuns. In one smooth movement he managed to fish his passport and ticket from his bag, dump it on the conveyor and hand his documents to the staff. He mumbled quick yeses to their questions, he'd packed his own bag, was carrying no blades and no bombs. Quickly through emigration, through the departure lounge, a quick swig of water at a fountain and he was at Gate 4, presenting his boarding pass.
*****
Elizabeth was on automatic pilot. She was tearing the stub off boarding passes and greeting passengers with her face permanently beaming at all comers, all the while resplendent in her Aero Mexico uniform. The final passenger in line arrived and suddenly her brain switched onto a different track. Most of the passengers on this Tuesday morning flight were a familiar sort. Chubby Mexican businessmen, middle aged Americans in flowery shirts, a few nuns. This man was quite different, his hair was cut short but still a tangled, hazel mess. His skin was stained with a little too much sun and two days of stubble covered his jaw. Maybe the sun had got to this one, he was breathing heavily, his eyes had a desperate look. But what eyes! Blue and piercing. The jaw was firm and square. He was tall, his body long and firm. Torn jeans, torn t-shirt and a feint odour of sweat breezed past her nostrils as she took his boarding pass and he entered the plane. Her eyes followed him hungrily, looking at the fine legs and shapely tight ass inside those tatty jeans. Oh, to get that man into a suit! Groomed, dressed well, how good would he look? Mariella, the little blonde hostess working alongside her grinned at Elizabeth, they turned to follow the passengers onto the plane, Mariella had seen Elizabeth's hungry look. She whispered in Elizabeth ear;
"You're looking to rob from the cradle Mother Hen?" Marriela was 21. Her comment hadn't been meant kindly. Elizabeth turned to glare at her, Marriella just gave her the same plastic smile. Elizabeth knew what it said, "Why would a boy like that ever look at you?"
*****
He collapsed into the seat gratefully. He wasn't going to read, he wasn't going to nap or do anything. He just wanted to sit there, catch his breath and look around at his leisure, thankful for making the plane in time. He gazed around the cabin, some businessmen, tourists, screaming kids and some nuns. The usual suspects. He looked ahead, at the air hostesses. One was petite and bottle blonde, quite cute in her little air hostess outfit. A plastic theme park smile was painted on her lips and she was directing it and her chirpy "How are you's" and "Ola's" "around the cabin as if she was spraying chemicals. The girl beamed across at him from the far side of the cabin, he was glad to've attracted her attention from so far away. Her eyes left him and he followed them to a few rows in front, where the other hostess seemed to be glaring back at her. He recognised her, she'd taken his boarding pass and their eyes had met briefly. As he looked at this woman, he felt a warm river pour over his limbs. A warmth which took the breath from his mouth and tingled through his bones. This woman was tall, dark and bewitching. And real. She moved with intuitive grace. He could feel her fiery temper like it was being transmitted through the air. She was the most profoundly sexual thing he'd seen in months. He was transfixed, her eyes moved toward him again, their gazes were locked and they both knew. They both knew the fire that was being stoked in the other. A second is all it takes.
She broke the look first, she was meant to be working. He couldn't help himself, he had to drink her in. It was a full minute before he realised his cock had lengthened, thickened and was stiff inside his pants. It was two minutes before he realised the blonde hostess was giving him stunned, dirty looks whenever she'd the chance.
They took off, Flight 180 from bland, parched Phoenix to Mexico City.
He continued to watch the strange game the two women were playing. A smile, then a filthy look from the blonde. Then a filthy look and a panther like glare from the darker woman.
It came time for the in-flight meal. Thankfully, Praise be, hallelujah, it was the darker woman approaching him. He felt dizzy with lust. He placed his paperback across his lap, hiding the excited girth coiled in his jeans.
