Landed in Geneva for a 24-hour layover. Dragged my suitcase through the airport hotel lobby. Magnetic keycard beeped me into room 512. Impersonal king bed, minibar hum, runway views flickering outside. Colleague’s heart attack hit me hard. I’m 40, fit, handsome, but not invincible. Flipped open my phone directory. Picked first cardiologist: Dr. Dominique Abart. Clinic five minutes away by cab. Secretary booked Tuesday 9:30 AM. Next morning, suitcase parked in hotel lobby, I walked over. Nervous sweat. Clinic waiting room: soft perfume, feminine vibe. Door opens. Stunner appears: tall blonde, 5’11”, under 130 lbs, 35 max. Long hair with blue ribbon. Tight blouse straining over full, tanned tits. Eyes locked on hers. Luxe office: walnut desk, deep chairs, exam table, mirrors. Too damn hot. She sits opposite. I ask if doc’s delayed. She smirks: “I’m Dr. Dominique Abart.” Unisex name fooled me. Laughed it off, felt like an idiot. Quick interview: name, age, single. “Hot in here,” she says, unbuttoning blouse. Lace push-up bra peeks, bronze cleavage. My cock twitches. She tells me strip to boxers. Stethoscope cold on skin. Ear to chest: “Heart racing.” Asks: sex life? Jerk off? Confess solo pleasures. Boxer tents hard. She notices, sweats too. “Little test.” Leads to bathroom. “Drop boxers, shower up. I’m a doctor.” Obey. Cock springs rigid, veiny. She grabs showerhead, warm jet teases balls, circles shaft. Slow orbits, grazing glans. Breathe heavy, moan. Eyes shut, paradise. “You like it?” Jet strokes full length now. Beg: “More, fuck yes.” She moans: “Greedy boy, I love it too.” Blouse off, bra clings to perfect tits. Skirt drops, thong. Soaps my dick, strokes expert. Kisses tip, then sucks deep. Lips slide, tongue swirls. Edge me hard, stops before cum.
Pull her out. Carry to exam table. Rip bra, thong soaked. Pocket it for later wank. Knead tits, pinch hard nips. Fingers find swollen clit, dripping pussy. Asshole tease. She quakes, screams. Eat her out, face drenched. “Fuck me, wreck me!” Slam cock in, pound fast. We explode together, endless spasms. Panting recovery. “Heart’s fine. Come back for more tests.” Promise I will. Pocket her thong, she laughs: “Bring it back.”
The Stopover
Checkout time. Hotel keycard surrendered at desk. Corridor echoes, suitcase rattles. Runway lights streak by. Board flight, her scent on fabric in pocket. Ultimate stopover fuck: anonymous, raw, gone by dawn.