Jet-lagged from my flight, I swipe the keycard at the airport hotel near CDG. Room 412 overlooks the runways, planes taxiing under sodium lights. Suitcase unzips on the bed, tomorrow’s flight looms. Anonymity hits hard—no one knows me here. I text Chantal, my 29-year-old teacher wife. She’s local, invites her colleague David for dinner. Divorced, charming, he’s eyed her forever. Heat’s cranked, good wine chilling.
Elevator dings. Chantal steps out, stunning in black pleated skirt, tight yellow belt, sheer blue blouse hinting black bra. Legs feline, blue-green eyes sparkling. David follows, shy smile. We eat room service in the lounge area, wine flows. Laughter echoes in corridors. Debate sparks: beauty’s inner, she says. No need for tits or ass. David counters—sexy dress keeps class, begs undressing.
The Layover
She’s tipsy, stands, unbuttons blouse showing bra, hikes skirt to thighs, vulgar poses. Silence. Her colleague’s eyes lock on her crotch. She’s class incarnate, hotter nude. Furious, she storms to bathroom, returns braless, stockings and garters replacing pantyhose. No panties—pubic triangle flashes as she flops on low couch, legs splaying. We stare, cocks throbbing. She smirks, ‘Still classy?’
The Hookup
More buttons undone, tits peek. Skirt up, pussy bare. She spreads wide on leather cushion, everything exposed. David red-faced, I smile—keep going. She triumphs, then retreats to bed.
David leaves, but I lure him to balcony overlooking tarmac. Volets up, night light spills. She’s in short nightshirt, combing hair, pubes flashing. Light off, she slips under sheets.