Twisted Vagabondage Tale From An Airport

My flight, for once, was not late. I’m almost not surprised, though. It seems part of the “meant to be” flow of the whole trip—the unimaginable coincidence of our having been sent independently on business trips to wildly different destinations that still require us to overnight at the same airport on the same day.

I step into a restroom between two closed gates. First I brush my teeth at the sink. Cinnamon is a much nicer taste for kissing than stale coffee. I then go into the spacious handicapped stall, unzip my carry-on, and take out a fresh dress to change into; I’m not going to come to you reeking of Tripoli airport cigarette smoke or the stale interior of an aircraft. I dab vanilla scent on the small of my back, the nape of my neck, and the pulse points of my wrists. I put on a new pair of sheer nylons and then slip on my black high-heeled pumps—also not something I’d travel in. I step into my black sheath and zip it up. I so love this dress, which hugs my curves just right. I look amazing in it, and I know it. Finally, I put on a pair of simple silver earrings and my silver collar. It gleams against my skin, set off by the black of the dress. There isn’t much to be done with my hair—I simply scrunch the curls up and shake them loose again. I wipe my face clean with cool water, and, just for you, put on a rare touch of lipstick. It’s a dark shade, and I pucker my lips in the mirror as I apply it. Looks a bit wanton, I think. Good!

It’s getting late, and the airport is not so crowded. The people seem to move more slowly, too; these are the stranded travelers whose flights have been canceled or those with long layovers. Schiphol means "ship hole" in Dutch. There used to be a lake where the airport stands—six miles southwest of Amsterdam—a lake that swallowed ships. As I walk through the wide hallways, the shops are pulling down their barred gates. No more Dutch chocolate and wooden shoes and Delft plates and vacuum-sealed bags of tulip bulbs till morning.

I cross from the E wing, stop before the F gates, and walk past the escalators as I always do to the stairs, continuing up one flight. I walk to the bar at the end of the balcony. I slow down to make sure you are already there, but I am not surprised to see that you are seated at a table. No food in front of you, only a drink; you probably haven’t been there long. I seat myself before any helpful waiter can approach, making sure that I’m sitting where you’ll catch sight of me when you look up. While waiting for a menu, I take out my book and start reading.

Before long, a menu arrives. I pretend to study it, glancing out of the corners of my eyes to see who is seated nearby. A few couples, a few single travelers, and one party of four men who look as if they’ve been sitting a while, unless they started drinking somewhere else first. I’m attracting some glances myself, dressed more elegantly than one expects for a traveler, but the unwritten rule in airports is to travel in your own bubble, so the looks are discreet.

I see you talking to a waiter, loud enough for people around you to hear, though I can’t make out what you’ve said. A few moments later, the waiter arrives at my table, carrying a gin & tonic. “From the gentleman,” he says, motioning to you. I look over at you as I hesitantly accept the glass and nod a thank you. You raise your own glass in salute. A few people now look on with amusement or curiosity. An old-fashioned gesture, and an unexpected one in an airport.

You rise, pick up your drink, and walk confidently over to my table. “May I?” you say, in a voice that carries somewhat. People are looking less discreetly now and are less amused. Do I need rescuing from this man? How dare he approach a single woman? But I put my book down on the table and gesture to the chair opposite, inviting you to sit. You take the seat on the side instead and raise your glass. I hesitate, blush, and then raise mine to yours.

The waiter is carrying a plate of something over to where you used to be sitting; he looks around in confusion, but then spots you and comes over. He places in front of you a large plate of shoestring sweet potato fries; he looks rather pointedly at my wedding ring and then moves away. You move the plate in between us. You think of everything, don’t you? You know I don’t drink much and will need something salty to eat. “Those look delicious,” I say. “Though a bit greasy. It would be a shame to stain the pages of my book.”

“Then I shall just have to feed them to you,” you grin.

As you start feeding me the fries with your fingers, people stare at us more openly. I eat delicately at first, between sips of my drink. But soon you are running your finger over my lips, and I can’t help sometimes advancing my tongue to lick a little salt off, then closing my lips around your finger. … Soon I am kissing your fingertips whenever you’ll let me, trying to suck your fingers more deeply into my mouth. Around us, a few people look amused (or envious?), though most react with shock or disapproval. Still, though, they cannot help watching us.

I hadn’t even noticed you pay the bill, but you let me know when it is time to go. You stand back to let me go first, and as I pass, you slip your arm around me. You let your hand settle briefly on my hip, then slide down further till it is cupping my ass. “There’s a little hotel at the end of this floor,” you say loudly. “They rent rooms by the hour.” Everyone in the restaurant must have heard. I can feel my face flame, but it’s also all I can do not to laugh. We wheel our carry-ons out the door, walking side by side, your hand still on my bottom, possessively.

It’s true, of course—there is a hotel at the other end, the Yotel, a sort of budget travelers’ place, and of course you’ve already checked in. We separate just a bit as we get to the door, so it’s not clear whether we’re two single people coming in at the same time, or if I’m really with you. I fumble in my purse for something—my key?—while you swipe your key card in the lock. When the door opens, I follow behind you. I can see the questioning look on the face of the woman at the desk. She doesn’t remember checking me in, and yet I could have done so before her shift started. You’ve paid for a single room, so surely you couldn’t have…but we have already vanished around the corner.

We turn another corner in the narrow hallway, then another. … Suddenly you push me back against the wall, take my face between your hands, and kiss me deeply. It’s the same demanding kiss that I love so well, but this time it expresses a new intensity, some emotion I don’t expect. I pull back just a little, and you let me go. You have an unerring instinct for when to pursue and when to back off and let me come to you. And the night has not even begun for us.

You take me by the hand to your (well, our) room. Although I couldn’t explain why in words, I’m somehow pleased that you knew to ask for the very smallest. We barely fit: two bodies, two carry-ons, one purse. I don’t think it's possible for us to stand in any configuration where we are not touching, and I intend to take advantage of this. I kiss you again, and you respond lightly for a few seconds. You unzip my dress and ease it off. I reach for you, but you stop me and hold my arms to my side. “Let’s shower first, so we can go straight to bed and stay there.”

I hate to wait even ten minutes, but I know that you’re right. Taking out toothbrushes and removing shoes means we’re constantly rubbing against each other, and I’m getting more agitated. Finally, though, we manage to undress, put our clothes away and step into the shower. There’s almost more space in the shower than in our “room.” I lather my hands with soap and run them over your body to wash you. I kneel in the shower to wash your legs, moving slowly up. You’re hard, even in the hot water. I open my mouth to take you in. I run my tongue over the tip, then down the underside of your shaft, cup your balls with my hand, and move to take you into my mouth; but you stop me with your hand. “Be patient, now,” you say with a smile, though I can’t see why I should have to wait. I do what I’m told, however. I stand again, and it’s your turn to wash me, which you do with firm, knowing strokes. It feels heavenly. Any touch anywhere melts me, but even when washing my breasts and pussy you don’t linger. You don’t tease. Your matter-of-fact touch is maddening. I almost say something, but think better of it.

You turn off the water, towel me off and then yourself, and we edge toward the single bed. Oh, finally! You switch the light to what Yotel calls their “mood” setting, an odd but not unpleasant green glow. You know I like you to look at my body as you take me.

I lie face down on the bed in the enclosed capsule-like alcove. My body is warm from the shower, still slightly damp, and needing you. You move over me—we can just manage to fit two bodies here, as long as you don’t lift your head abruptly. You shift my body a bit to a position that pleases you. I can feel you over me—your body heat, soft kisses that land on my shoulders and upper back. I can feel your cock, hard against my thighs and ass, and I open my legs to the extent that I’m able, trying to raise myself up to meet you. And … you’re still caressing me—a kiss here, a kiss there. Sometimes your stiff cock presses into one ass cheek or the other but doesn’t stay for long.

What the hell are you doing up there? Are you positioning yourself? I know there’s not much space, but I’m lying down, you’re lying over me. How difficult can it be? I’ve been waiting for this all day, I’ve been teased along for over two hours now. I am ready.

“Just fuck me already,” I mutter in irritation into the pillow.

“Excuse me?” you say. “Were you talking to me?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I was,” I said. “Just fucking fuck me already.” My words still half go into the pillow, though I’m sure you heard. But you lift my head and turn it so my mouth is free, and ask me to repeat it again.

“Will you fucking fuck me already?!”

SMACK. Your hand lands on my ass, totally unexpected. I don’t know how you even had room to swing, but you hit me hard, harder than usual, and I jump.

“How about a little respect?”

I can’t believe it. I’m so frustrated. I need you so badly that I’m actually angry at you. Between clenched teeth, I hiss, “FINE. WILL YOU FUCKING FUCK ME ALREADY … SIR.”

You laugh out loud. “You’re pretty mouthy for a submissive woman, aren’t you?” You bend to kiss my neck tenderly, though with a bite at the end that makes me shiver. “But you know that I like that about you. And you know that I always take care of your needs, Shar, I always take care of you.” And finally, finally you enter me. Slowly, so I can feel every blessed inch fill me. I hold absolutely still at first, not wanting to miss a single sensation. This is what the wait was for—this heightened sense of you, of me, of us together. Then you start moving, and I want to move with you. I try to push back against you, but I can’t. Somehow I’m lying too flat, and my knees and elbows can’t find purchase on the narrow mattress. You put an arm under my waist, raise my body, and slip a pillow under my hips. You pull my hands over my head, pressing them against the wall, and hold them down with yours.

Yes, this is the right angle! I push back to meet your thrusts. I know I’m making some kind of sound in my throat, and I wonder very briefly how soundproof these walls actually are, but I don’t care. I try to pull my arms out from under your grasp, which tightens. The more I struggle, the more firmly you hold me. I’m so turned on I’m panting now. When I stop fighting you, you release one hand, and I move it under my body, over my pussy, to finger my swollen clit. Your free hand finds my ass; you work your thumb into my asshole, which clenches around you, and you grip my cheek with your fingers. I can feel my body gathering up, pulling me together from neck to toes, all energy flowing to my groin. After the slow, drawn-out build-up, my orgasm is hard—hard and long. The irregular spasms of my pussy and ass over your cock and thumb pull your orgasm into mine, you starting as I finish, you finishing as I lie beneath you, not breathing, for I don’t need oxygen now, every cell is full.

After some period of time (minutes?—I wouldn’t know), you roll to the side, your back against the wall. You pull me to my side too, so that you’re spooning me; it’s the only way we’ll both fit in the bed. I switch off the mood light and we’re in total darkness. You have one arm up over my head and the other across my body, holding me close to you. I’ve already warned you that I don’t sleep much. Indeed, I hadn’t expected to sleep at all this night. I was too wound up with the excitement of seeing you again, not wanting to miss a moment. I thought we’d talk all night, about important things and trivial ones. But I feel so safe and natural, curled up against you. I find I have nothing to say, for you know it already. You kiss my hair, then my neck, and give my torso a squeeze with the arm around me. I sigh, and settle. And I sleep.

Sharazade authors Twisted Vagabondage Tales for travelers who like it rough. She is prettier than Vagabonding author Rolf Potts (though Rolf is very pretty) and could kick his ass (though only if he'd like that). Her new book called Transported: Erotic Travel Tales is published by Fanny Press.