Fran & John Not Lovers

(All characters are at least 18 years of age.)

(This is a work of fiction; any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.)

(27 Oct 2020 Update: Added Prologue)

PROLOGUE

The plane banked sharply as the pilot lined up for Chicago Midway airport. This would have been unusual until a few years ago, for an overseas flight like this one, but O'Hare's international terminal still looked like a crater, despite an ongoing reconstruction project extending into its second year. Inside the wide-body Airbus A430, cabin lights were gradually illuminating.

The gray-haired man in 21F was still asleep. Odette, a twenty-nine-year-old flight attendant assigned to the Business Class section, shook his shoulder gently. He had extended his seat to its fully reclined, lay-flat position and she could hear him snoring softly. She had been doting on him throughout the flight, at least when he was awake; he had slept much of the seven hour flight from London. He did not look anywhere near his sixty-five years; she only knew his real age from the passenger manifest. She liked his angular, lined face, suggestive, no doubt incorrectly, of a life spent on a cattle ranch. It helped that he still had a nice ass, for a man of his advanced age. Odette was an avid connoisseur of that part of the male anatomy.

"Sir, we're landing in about forty minutes," she informed the groggy passenger.

Bleary eyed, the man barely registered her words. Over the intercom, the captain was thanking everyone for flying with British Atlantic Airways and expressing her deepest wish that the airline be considered for future travel plans.

The precious sleep that had just been interrupted was the first he had had in over twenty-four hours. Entering the United States from any foreign country, even the United Kingdom, required a two week period of daily, supervised medical tests. One of the few exceptions was in the event of a death in the family. Sadly, that was the justification for the man's rushed return to the Midwest. Even with digitally signed affidavits from his family's attorney in Wisconsin, he had found it hard to get the special exam that was required in the case of flying on short notice.

London was practically one big city-wide rave right then, celebrating what was already being called Reunification Day. Scotland was rejoining the UK, and the UK, not coincidentally, was rejoining the European Union. Local hospitals were running on short staff, while at the same time seeing an increase in emergency room visits due to the widespread revelry. Finding a doctor to perform a medically unnecessary battery of tests, even if for a good reason, required visiting multiple facilities, scattered across the city, as well as a fair deal of begging and pleading. There had been no time to get any sleep.

Fifty-five minutes after being woken up, the man was following a blue arrow leading down the right-hand aisle of the aircraft. The arrow was superimposed onto his vision by his contact lenses, and was leading him out onto the jetway. Odette watched his retreating figure approvingly. His trousers were snug. She liked that, especially since, in her opinion, he still had the figure to get away with it. She briefly thought of her husband and how nice it would be if he would focus more on that part of his body, instead of largely pointless, to her mind, chest and arm exercises.

The man was directed to a large room containing a number of tall machines, each about the size and shape of an adult human. They were spaced at eight foot intervals and looked like they belonged in an optometrist's office. He went to the first unoccupied unit and positioned his face in front of a retinal scanner. Several questions from Customs and Immigration floated in front of him, all of which he answered silently, with a series of eye motions.

The next step was a medical scan. He had to wait about seventy minutes for this part. A line of other recently-disembarked passengers extended deep into a maze-like, two-story structure, designed to allow large crowds of people to maintain a safe distance from each other at all times. When the man finally reached the end of the queue, and entered the glass-and-metal enclosure of the test booth, he smiled wryly. How ironic it would be if the apparatus were to find anything wrong with him! His own company had designed one of its subcomponents, a set of laser scanners that could detect variations in body temperature across the entire body, even through clothing. Unsurprisingly, to him at least, none of the tests found anything that would have flagged him for an exam, and he continued on to baggage claim where he gathered up a solitary rolling suitcase.

He had opted to take an Uber to downtown Milwaukee; it was cheaper and easier than a connecting flight. Still following the blue line on the ground, he walked mechanically until he arrived at a long row of identical grey cars. The one that would take him to his hotel glowed, only for him, with a faint gold aura, and both its trunk and gull-wing doors opened automatically as he approached. There was no driver. It whisked silently away as soon as he was settled in.

Once the vehicle began to ascend a freeway on-ramp, he saw the familiar, non-blockable message swim before his eyes, informing him that the motorway was suitable for autonomous vehicles only. The fine for violations was $11,250. He cast his mind back to the last human-operated car he had ever owned. It had been sold, for a small fortune, just over four years earlier. Thinking about it now, in part because of the reason for his premature return to Milwaukee, made his eyes well up with tears. The red letters of the warning blurred in front of him.

Forty-three minutes later, his taxi pulled up in the Hyatt Regency's valet parking zone. It still bore that name, although it was rarely used for that purpose any longer. He alighted from the vehicle and passed through one set of sliding glass doors. Here he stood briefly in front of a machine that took his temperature. The inner doors opened, and the omnipresent blue line now lead towards a bank of elevators. Ignoring this, he followed a green-colored offshoot that would take him to the woman. She was waiting for him at a small table in the hotel lounge, Bar 333.

The woman was dressed in a black pantsuit. She was tall, with shoulder length, wavy gray hair, parted slightly off-center. Despite eschewing make-up, she looked to be in her mid-fifties, well below her actual age, and well-preserved at that. Her statuesque figure still regularly drew attention from strangers of both genders. On her face, today, was etched a look of ineffable sadness.

The man came up to her and they embraced, hugging each other firmly. Both began to cry, and stood there for several minutes, ignoring sideways glances from wait staff and other patrons. After separating from her at last, the man wheeled his rolling suitcase next to a dark grey duffel bag lying near her feet. They both sat down and held hands across the small table. A waitress, who had been hovering nearby, materialized next to them to take their order. They requested two gin and tonics, and a Caesar salad with grilled salmon to share.

Neither had much to say. Both knew the recently departed, who had been both her spouse and his business partner, as well as they could know anyone. In any case, the two had been in near constant contact, electronically, for the past two days. The man had even been sharing his location and vital signs with her. Even over the Atlantic, the plane had forwarded along his biometric information, regularly, to satellites far overhead, and from there it reached her through an online service. Because she found it comforting, she had set up a visual representation of his heart rate, to be displayed at all times, save for those few hours when she tried to get some sleep herself. It manifested as a faint red halo at the periphery of her vision, intensifying and fading in time with his pulse.

"Has it gotten any easier?" the new widow asked after some time, "It hasn't, for me." He was a widower, and had been for five years. She was asking about the man's spouse, whom she had also known well.

"Not much better for me, either; still feels like yesterday," the man said sadly, then added, "Every time I hear 'Little Red Bird', I fucking lose it."

The man started to tear up, just at the mention of the Dave Matthews Band.

"Fuck," he said.

They had been holding hands across the table, and the widow now squeezed the widower's hands supportively. He squeezed back and reined in his tears. The food and drinks arrived shortly after that, providing a welcome distraction for the next twenty minutes. The pair then headed up to the widower's hotel room.

Once there, the widow broke down again. They sat down together on the king sized bed and the widower held her tightly. She was sobbing uncontrollably onto his shoulder and occasionally pounded angrily on his muscular back. He did not flinch at this, although her strong arms were surely going to leave many bruises. Half an hour later, the pair separated at last. Their lined, wrinkled faces were wet and raw.

Wordlessly, the man got up. He held his right arm out, wrist facing up. She held her own wrist, keeping her palm downwards, over his. Both navigated a series of augmented reality menus. Using complex eye motions, they granted each other specific access to each other's biometric data and accessory devices.

The man began to undress. The woman watched openly. The sight of his wrinkly yet toned nude body was comforting to her. He was entirely hairless below the neck, save for his armpits. After removing, and neatly folding, every article of clothing, the widower walked into the bathroom, not closing the door as he crossed the threshold.

As the man showered, the woman took off all of her clothes as well. She considered her body in a full-length mirror to one side of a large TV console. Her gorgeous, heavy breasts had always been low-slung and pillow-soft. She was proud that they had not sagged much further over the years, and had even continued to grow in size, even though she had never had never given birth. Other than the wrinkles between her bosoms, they looked much as they always had. And other than a slight paunch around her tummy, her body was covered with lean muscle.

The woman opened the heavy grey bag she had been lugging around. She withdrew a black mesh tie-down strap, of the sort one normally used in the back of a pickup truck, and two black washcloths. She cinched the strap around the headboard of the bed, positioning the washcloths where wood and mesh would have touched, in order to prevent any damage to the frame. She worked the ratchet mechanism until the strap was taut. Then she attached two ropes to the it, and laid them out along the length of the bed, shoulder width apart. Each rope had a padded, black glove attached to it. The fingers were glued solidly to the rope, allowing the wearer to grip the rope firmly, while also preventing all other hand movement. She adjusted the length of each rope so the gloves were reseting about ten inches from the foot of the bed.

On the carpeted floor at the foot of the bed she put down a small, clear bottle next to an additional two washcloths. These items were centered equidistant between the ropes. Lastly, she retrieved a stainless steel bar, which was an inch and a half in diameter and three feet in length. At either end was attached a padded, brown leather cuff.

The widower had finished his shower and was standing in the drying unit. His cock, still flaccid, was beginning to stiffen slightly in anticipation of what was to come. Once dry, he moved over to the generously-sized bathtub and sat on its rim, his buttocks making just enough contact to comfortably support his weight. He waited.

Several minutes later, his vision suddenly blurred, so much so that he could now only make out rough shapes and colors. He was not surprised by this; he had granted the widow complete control over his contact lenses, as part of their earlier electronic exchange. The widow walked in, her form an indistinct pinkish column topped with light gray. She went over to the sink, filled a tooth glass with water and placed it on the edge of the counter near the toilet. Then she walked over and knelt before him. The man looked down and could see the top of her head, an impressionistic grey blob moving towards his penis.

She started licking the base of his cock. As her soft tongue met with his wrinkly skin, his heart rate pulsed more urgently at the edges of her vision. The widower shut his eyes, performed a series of eye movements, and was now able to see from a microscopic camera implanted between her eyebrows, effectively replicating her vision. They could both now see the tip of his own dick as she, holding it with both hands, licked around its midsection carefully and thoroughly. She was in no hurry, taking a full five minutes to leave a layer of saliva on every portion of his cock, save for his scrotum. That area she avoided entirely. She did pay extra attention to a sensitive area on the underside of the glans, and as she kissed and licked this area she could see that his pulse had quickened to near-orgasm levels.

Then, in a swift, single motion, the woman transferred her hands to the man's buttocks, and, using this new found leverage, pushed his entire dick past her open lips, past her tonsils, and then down her throat. In less than a second, her lips were touching the hairless base of his genitalia, her bottom lip just barely brushing his scrotum. The widower could see his navel through her eyes.

Her heart rate had gone up slightly by this point, but not by much. This increase was not due to sexual arousal on her part, but rather a sympathetic reaction to the quickening tempo of the man's heartbeats. Now that she had swallowed his dick completely, however, her heart rate actually slowed, approaching her usual resting rate. She wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging his waist tightly rather than gripping his butt cheeks. The widow felt a sense of comfort that she had not felt for days. She held this position for over two minutes, breathing easily and softly through her nose.

Next she withdrew her mouth completely from around his cock, waited two beats, then plunged the engorged member fully back in. The man moaned audibly. Effortlessly, she began to repeat the process of inserting and withdrawing his entire shaft, over and over again. She repeated this process for about six minutes, the widower watching through her eyes the entire time.

Then his view shifted, in response to some practiced ocular motions. Before him now was a split-screen view from two cameras, both embedded in pink, dry flesh, illuminated by LED light. The microscopic cameras were mounted on two Ben Wa balls that the widow had inserted several hours earlier. They were held in place by her powerful vaginal muscles. One ball, further inside her vagina, had a camera aimed at her cervix. It was attached, via a short cord, to a twin, lower down her vaginal canal. This one's camera looked downwards along a slender blue and white antenna that, out of sight, protruded two centimeters beyond the folds of her inner labia.

He set both balls to vibrate on their lowest setting. The woman moaned, and now he could see the telltale red pulses flash more quickly, on the side of his field of view. She continued her rhythmic blow job, still fully withdrawing his phallus from her mouth on every stroke, and then jamming it relentlessly back in. After about five more minutes of this, she stopped and stood up. The man stood up too.

"I'll switch back to my own eyes for a bit," the main informed her.

She was momentarily puzzled, then her face cleared with understanding as she noticed the large mirror covering the wall opposite them. If he continued looking out of her eyes, he would have seen her nude body as they walked to the bedroom.

"Thanks," she said, "I hadn't thought of that one!" She kissed him on the cheek.

The widow now placed her right hand on his cock and pulled gently. She guided him this way to the foot of the bed, which he could only perceive as a hazy white blob with two black streaks running down the center. Kneeling behind him, the woman attached a padded cuff to either ankle and tightened each buckle firmly but not uncomfortably. The man could still walk now, if he had to, but the silver steel bar would make it quite difficult. Next she helped him get his hands into the gloves, and tightened the attached buckles firmly. He could now grip the rope for leverage, but would not be able to let go completely, or even flex his fingers much.

Next she went to the closet, where she found an extra blanket. This she used to cover the mirror she'd used earlier.

"I've covered the mirror in here. You can switch back," she informed the widower.

She climbed onto the bed and lay on her back, between the two ropes which the man had now lifted off the bed. Her head was hanging off the edge. Looking through her eyes again, he could see his shaft and testicles looming above her face. She opened her mouth slightly and pulled down gently on his dick with one hand. He shuffled forward a few inches with his feet, then suddenly pushed hard with his hips, pushing his penis forcefully past her open lips, through her soft mouth and into her throat. Using his grip on the ropes, he was able to push his cock deeply into her throat. He left it there for half a minute, until she tapped him on his right buttock. This was a signal that she was having trouble breathing. His testicles were covering her nose. He pulled out until his glans was resting on the roof of her mouth, providing her an opportunity to catch her breath. She reached below her head to grab one of the washcloths, and wiped away the saliva that had already begun to drip down and sting her eyes.

Once her pulse had slowed a bit, he began rhythmically thrusting in and out of her mouth, on each forward motion using his leverage on the ropes to force the tip of his cock as far in as possible and hold it there for several seconds. Each time, his scrotum would firmly onto her nose and cover her eyes. He would then withdraw until the tip of his penis was again on the roof of her mouth. She licked the sensitive tip for a few seconds, and then he would repeat the cycle. Every so often she would use the washcloth to keep her eyes clear.

The widower switched his view back to the inside of her vaginal canal. There were faint signs of moisture on the pink flesh. He initiated a pre-programmed pattern that slowly alternated which of the two balls was vibrating, favoring the one closer to her now moist-looking cervix. This one was farther from her G-spot and provided her with less stimulation. For the next four minutes, he continued his relentless throat fuck. The widow, for her part, reveled in the widower's ever increasing heart rate and adjusted a few parameters, making the red pulses slightly more prominent than they had been earlier.

Despite the relentless and slightly painful abuse her throat was taking, the vibrating toys in her pussy were bringing her close to orgasm. The widower could sense this easily enough, as her heart rate had risen to a level he knew, from experience, meant that she was close. Without stopping his thrusts, he adjusted the lower ball, nearer to her G-Spot, to vibrate with maximum intensity. Within moments, the widow's hips bucked forward involuntarily and a powerful spurt of fluid shot from her pussy, leaving behind a streak of wetness between her legs. His view inside of her was now partly obscured by a milky-white fluid. Her legs began to spasm involuntarily and a red flush swept across her body. Throughout this process, the combination of his grip on the ropes, aided by her firm hands on his ass, allowed him to fuck her throat without surcease, even as her body writhed uncontrollably. After thirty seconds, she tapped his right buttock, a pre-arranged signal for him to switch off the vibrations temporarily. This was not a signal to stop anything else, however.