Wheels of my suitcase rumble down the airport hotel corridor. July heat clings like sweat. Keycard beeps. Door clicks open. Room smells of stale AC and jet fuel. View over runways: planes taxi, roar. Unzip suitcase, shirt sticks to back. Phone buzzes. Beatrice: ‘Come to 412. Paul abroad. Talk jealousy.’ Paul’s wife. My best mate. Met her two years back on a gig here. Coup de foudre for them. His jealousy festering.
Elevator dings. Corridor echoes footsteps. Knock. She opens. Short light dress hugs curves. Magnificent. ‘Shower? You’re soaked.’ Paul’s clothes here, same size. Bathroom steam. Cool water cascades. Soap suds on skin. Think of her. Cock hardens. Hand wraps, strokes slow. Imagine her sucking Paul. Tongue on glans. Balls cupped. Jerking him. Cum jets on her face. Lick clean. My load spills. Rinse quick. Peignoir loose.
The Layover
Her bedroom: linen pants, white shirt on bed. No boxers. Drawer: Paul’s string. Slip it on. Peek lingerie drawer. Lace whites, pastels. Silk bustier, cutout nipples, garters. Knock. ‘Found it.’ Troubled yes. Balcony terrace. Ice bucket, white wine. Sit facing. Her bend: free tits peek. Lace flash. Runway lights flicker.
‘Paul’s rage grows. Maître d’hôtel smiled Saturday. He snapped.’ ‘That bad?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘He’s sweet with you.’ ‘With beauty like yours, sure.’ She blushes. I kneel. Hands on thighs. Lips on skin. Sweet musk. Fingers under dress. White lace panty. Kiss fabric. Tongue teases. She spreads. Slide string down legs. Kisses trail. Bare pussy glistens. Nectar pearls. Tongue dives. Clit sucked. Finger in. She moans. Gyrate. Second finger. G-spot rub. Flood of juice. ‘Yes! Fuck me!’
The Hookup
Pants drop. String off. Sit chair. She straddles. Impales hard. Furious bounces. Tight wet grip. Trembles hit. Orgasms crash. Collapse together. Bestial release.
She flees inside. Shame hits. Dress quick. Scribble on hotel pad: Sorry. Thanks. Door shuts soft. Keycard return tomorrow.
Next afternoon, post-meeting: note on desk. ‘Abandoned hangar by airport, 6pm – B.’ Rush over. Park by hers. Dark inside. Machine husks. ‘Eric, run! Paul’s mad.’ She sobs at feet. Paul steps out. Gun steady. ‘Thought you in Germany.’ ‘Came early. Knew some fucker banged my wife.’ ‘Found note. She confessed.’ ‘Sorry, man. One-off.’ ‘You perverted her. Run now. Die fun.’ Turn. Walk slow. Heart pounds. Plane roars outside. Anonymity shattered. Stopover thrill peaks. Departure looms.