Jet-lagged from the red-eye, I drag my roller suitcase through the marble lobby of the transit hotel. City of a thousand rooftops sprawls below the panoramic windows. Check-in’s a blur: magnetic keycard buzzes green. Elevator dings to the executive floor. Conference room booked for my lit agent meet—perfect anonymous pitstop before tomorrow’s flight.
Sun blasts through floor-to-ceiling glass. Silhouette against the blaze: Mona Gaze, my advisor. Can’t make out details, just curves—delicate profile, mid-length black hair pinned up, neck arched low, pointed nose, lips chewing a pencil. Legs crossed, one heel dangling from painted toes. Fresh print of my book on the low table. Back cover: me, tanned forty-something, three-day scruff, wavy chestnut hair, crow’s feet fanning wise laugh lines. Linen shirt open at the throat, Adam’s apple prominent.
The Layover
Room’s plush: elliptical wood conference table, empty chairs, sofas, minibar stocked, author portraits in black-and-white. Mirror reflects my rumpled self—same as the book jacket. Successful novelist, killing time in transit. Mona stretches, yoga-like, arms overhead, soft moan escaping. She stacks pages, glides over elastic steps.
“You write fast,” she says, perching opposite, legs crossing—fishnets to mid-thigh under black mini, heels inviting glances. Crop top bustier hugs her full breasts, glamorous edge. We dive into feedback. Her absinthe-green eyes pierce. Debate my sci-fi tale: transhumanism, larynx as future sex organ. She laughs, calls me obsessed. Publisher bursts in, air-kisses, gushes sales. Mentions tonight’s drinks with ‘Pierre’—me? She whirlwinds out.
Mona stands, hands on hips, skirt hugging ass curve. Swallows hard. Circles behind my chair. Fingers graze hair, settle shoulders. ASMR whisper: “Larynx is voice, breath… power.” Hands trail down. Back in front, backlight goddess. “You meant throat-fucking, right? Experimenting the mutation.”
Points to her old seat, manuscript there. I grab it? No—frozen. She mimes: fist at crotch like gripping cock, other hand clutching imaginary head. Hips thrust violent. “Like this? Heroine proves it getting face-fucked?”
The Transit
The Transit
She commands: “Touch yourself. I see it bulging your linen pants.” Fingers obey, stroking hard length through fabric. She demonstrates—pelvis snaps forward, holding phantom shaft deep. Thrust, thrust. Legs spread, fishnets taut on firm thighs, skirt hiking, bustier straining tits begging free. “Deeper, fingers in your mouth. Suck.”
I do. Saliva slicks digits, mimicking her fantasy blowjob. Hips buck wildly, hair tousling, green eyes locked, lips parted in mock-moans. “This what readers imagine? Throat as cunt?” Pressure builds, belly tight. Knees weak. Cum erupts, soaking briefs, staining beige linen dark wet patch. Fingers pop out, gasping.
She smooths hair, smirks. “Cute. Rewrite—make hero male this time.” Shoulder caress, final green-eyed spark. Door clicks shut. Alone, suitcase by door, keycard ready. Corridor hums—wheels rolling, voices foreign. Rooftops glitter sunset. Wild parenthesis over. Quick shower, fresh pants from bag. Checkout dawn, flight calls. Larynx throbs memory. Best layover ever.
The Departure
Elevator descent: sticky reminder fades under AC chill. Front desk swallows keycard. Cab to airport, city roofs receding. No numbers swapped. Pure anonymity. Her moans echo in my throat—voice as sex organ? Fuel for next book. Wheels up, grinning.