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Only one thing that can make it worthwhile to sit in the very last of an overstuffed commercial jetliner, and then having the next flight cancelled — and that would be, sitting right next to a gorgeous, strawberry-blonde 18 year old. Who, it later turned out, was a nasty, dirty SLUT who loved a big cock up her tight ass.
Wow, what a great fucking trip it ended up being after all.
That trip sure didn’t start out well. It was the first leg of my flight from the Midwest to the Mid-Atlantic, leaving late afternoon one day early in the summer. I was going to a college town for a business meeting. Yeah, I’m a lawyer, truth be told. My cheap client wanted me to save money, so I ended up booking one of those regional air carriers with connecting flights. That, alone, was going to make it a hellacious trip. As I borded the plane for the first flight, my heart sank. It sure wasn’t the biggest plane ever — only 19 rows, and only 2 seats on each side of the aisle. Yuck, it was barely better than a cropduster.
Fuck this shit-eating trip, I swore under my breath as I trudged my stuff onto the little plane. As I walked down the aisle to my seat, I got this sinking feeling, I was near the back row. Row after row went past, and my disapointment grew even worse. No, it couldn’t be, right? But, yes, it was true: I was in the VERY last row. If you haven’t been in that row on these kinds of planes, it is like an extra penalty — the seats don’t lean back, and it can get really bumpy. Plus, you have to wait until literally everyone else is off the plane before you can disembark. Truly, it’s air travel hell. “Hi, welcome to our cheap-ass airline, please don’t enjoy a minute of the flight, thank you very much.”
And, the seats weren’t numbered the same as regular planes. Seat “D” wasn’t on the aisle, it was on the window. I was trapped in the back corner, the worst possible seat on the plane. (Tied with the schmuck who’d get stuck on the other window across the aisle from me.)
So I’m sitting there in that back window, fuming, hating that my secretary could only get me this seat. Last minute is last minute, it seemed. Well, maybe my fortunes would be better on my connecting flight, right?
I don’t know what caused me to look up. Glancing to the front of the small plane, my eyes saw something unexpected. Angelic, really. A beatiful, vivacious smiling face of a gorgeous young woman. She was short with flocks of long, curly, strawberry-blonde hair cascading down her petite shoulders. Wearing a tight, white blouse showing off a black bra inside, I could make out eye-catching C-cup tits on her otherwise slim torso. She had a glowing face, with a big smile and thick, red lips, and bright brown eyes. The woman was excusing herself as she tried to make her way down the crowded aisle, being bumped around by other passengers, she was apologizing profusely with every step she took but, really, it wasn’t her fault no one would get out of her way.
And she kept walking up the plane, looking at the row numbers. I kept watching, seeing that she was traveling alone. Wow, some lucky stiff was going to get to sit next to her. And, as she slowly trudged towards the back of the cabin, it seemed that lucky stiff was sitting near me. Four rows away from me, she stopped, I figured that’s where she’d sit. No, actually, she was just putting her bag — a backpack from school, it looked like — in an overhead bin. She had to really cram it in there; but, it was a glorious sight. As she reached up to push the bag into the bin, I caught sight of the shape of her meaty round tits from the side, damn those hooters were sexy. And her jeans were tight on a hot round butt, she had a little meat on it but she had skinny thighs, so that ass stuck out a little, instantly making my mouth water. My cock twitched a little too, that girl had a great body. Looked young, though.
For a guy like me, just over 50 years old and married since the Big Bang, just the sight of a hot young women like her was enough to constitute a sexual relationship. If she’d have stood there ten minutes, I was sure I could have gotten a full boner and rubbed myself through my pants to an orgasm from just staring at her tits and ass, plus her pretty face and sexy hair.
Her bag stowed, the girl moved on. Towards the back! Three rows up; two row; now she was in the aisle even with the row in front of me. Her big brown eyes were staring at seat numbers above her head, I could see her counting rows. Then, her eyes dropped — right towards me. She was looking at me, and smiling.
Stepping to the very back of the plane, standing in the aisle right to my left side, she squeaked with a young voice, “Hi, looks like I’m stuck back here with you.”
And the hot strawberry-blonde sat her exquisite little body right next to me.
I was going to share my doom, stuck in the back of this little plane, with the sexiest female I’d been near for a very long time!
Grabbing my cellphone, I banged out an IM to a colleague at work, escort ataşehir who shares my prurient affections for all things female and sexy. “Trip to coast, $600… Hotel room, $200… sitting next to hot blonde on flight, priceless!” I sent it off, hoping to make him jealous.
Turned out to be a great flight, after all. (But, as I’ll explain soon enough, it gets a lot worse, then a lot better!)
Stacy was her name. Not only was she pretty and had nice tits, she smelled great and was sweet and talkative. I would have figured her to be stuck up and quiet, I mean, why would a girl that looked as good as her want to chew the fat with some unknown guy twice her age? But you know, she was exactly the opposite of stuck-up. Bubbly and cute, she started babbling about the plane and parking, and that got us talking. For the full two and a half hours of the flight, plus the thirty-plus minutes on the ground. I’m serious. We hardly shut up, keeping our voices low, but carrying on like long-lost friends.
I learned a lot about the sweetie. She was 18 years old, had just finished high school, and was flying out to spent a couple months of the summer with a long-time friend who had moved away with her family, before starting a job in the fall. No college for her, at least not right away. Her destination on the flight was a completely different part of the country than mine, but we were both headed to Cincinnati to catch connecting flights. She had been on her school’s swim team, also did yearbook and chorus (she refused to sing on the plane, even at my strident request, however), and had a boyfriend back home whom she “loved and loved.” But was still going to “look around” for a while — “I’m not married yet, ya know.”
There wasn’t anything sexual about the flight, not in the least — as in, in our conversation. She was extremely pleasant, smiling amicably the entire time, asking questions about my work and where I lived, my wife and kids, my college years, all sorts of stuff. Inane, pointless babble for nearly three hours. Meanwhile, I was just soaking in the adventure of merely sitting next to her. Wearing a sweat, cheap perfume that blended perfectly with her natural aromas, every breath I took for three hours was a delicious flavor of the girl. Her tits really swelled out her white blouse, which I don’t think was an effort to tease men, as much as it was her “style.” She had a vest to go over it, she told me, but it was in her backpack, she didn’t want to make it sweaty and wrinkled on the flight. I even caught some glances of her tight jeans on her crotch, where her skinny thighs merged together, and damn if I didn’t see some camel toe, I thought. Maybe that was just my imagination.
Basically, just sitting next to and talking to her? Yeah, I had a hard-on for most of the flight. It was uncomfortable, too, trapped in a bizarre angle against my abdomen, my underwear — sweaty from moving briskly through the parking lots and airport before the flight — had bunched and seized my shaft as it grew to size. Ugh. I didn’t want to make the girl uncomfortable (“Ewww! I’m sitting next to a perv!” — wanted to avoid that), so I left it alone. I tried shifting around, but it didn’t help. Finally, near the end of the flight, she got up to use the lavatory, and I took a few moments to straighten out my johnson in my pants.
All good things must come to an end, and soon we were descending for landing.
Landing in Hell, that is.
The weather outside the plane was ominous. Above the bank of flat, pillowy clouds, it was still sunny; it was about 8 pm, but still daylight at this time of early summer. Way off at the horizon, there were huge clouds seeming to reach into the sky, flashing with lightning. That made me think, this might not be so good. As we made our way through the clouds, it was dark as shit on the ground. We were traveling inside a full-fledged rain storm. The plane started bouncing around. Stacy was growing nervous, too, leaning over me to look out the window. I did like that part, smelling her perfume and even shampoo even more strongly.
We landed in almost total darkness, and by the time the plane pulled to the gateway, sheets of rain were dropping from the black sky. The flight attendant didn’t bother announcing connecting flights. My stomach churned, I was enough of a veteran at travel to know what this meant.
Doom, lots of doom.
All connecting flights were cancelled for the night. Nice of them to fly us here, at least, right? Lines at the counters were a mile long, everyone trying to rebook.
Stacy and I said good-bye to each other hurriedly as we got off the jetway into the terminal. I had already known I’d never see her again, as we were heading in separate directions for the rest of our trip. So I didn’t linger to talk to her any longer, instead I had my cellphone out and I was on the phone with my travel agency to figure out my options. The terminal was a madhouse — jammed with families and crying babies, all sorts kadıköy escort bayan of people on their cellphones, people screaming at counters as if the airline representatives were responsible for calling in a thunderstorm. I could barely hear my fucking phone against my ear, as I figured out my plans.
Fortunately, I was lucky. There was a connecting flight at 7 a.m. the next morning, and I had a reserved seat — in coach, middle seat, but not the last row. (I asked.) It would do. Then, the agent got me a reservation at an off-airport motel, not even five minutes away. I was set, it was sweet! I called my wife, explained my situation, and felt confident things were going to work out despite the weather.
Suckers, I thought about everyone who was going to be left at the airport behind me, trying to figure out their plans, while I was smartly walking down the corridor to head for the taxies and a nice, comfortable bed for myself. Well, maybe at least a bed; whether it would be comfortable was another matter.
Suddenly, I stopped. There she was.
Stacy, standing in the middle of a mile-long line to wait to rebook, looking glum. Lost. Sad. The 18 year old princess with the cheerful outlook and glowing smile had been replaced by a scared, bewildered, inexperienced victim of the weather and the FAA.
My reaction was instantaneous, I didn’t even really think about it much. Time to play hero!
“Hey, Stacy,” I called out, walking up to her, toting my roller baggage, “let me help you rebook.” I flashed my cellphone. “It’s easier to use an agent, don’t wait in a line like this.”
Raised properly by her parents, the sweet strawberry-blonde politely refused my offer. No, it’s okay, I shouldn’t bother, she would be fine, it’s not like she had someplace else to be, that’s too much trouble for me.
Refusing her refusals, I stood my ground. “No, you’ll see,” I said, standing right next to her. I dialed my travel agent agency, and said I needed to rebook another ticket. Of course, it wasn’t on my account, but with a flurry of typing on the other end of the call, that problem was overcome. I took Stacy’s ticket, read the information, and got her rebooked on a 7:30 am flight in the morning to her destination. I copied down the confirmation number and seat (aisle seat, the lucky hottie), handing back the ticket to the teenager with a all-knowing grin. “There, see, you’re all set.” I glanced at the elapsed time of the call. “Seven minutes — way better than waiting in this line, right?”
She blinked, her pretty face studying the ticket, and she could hardly believe it. “Really?” It seemed to easy to her.
I pulled her out of the line, taking her to a self-service kiosk, and had her print herself a new boarding pass. She was all set.
Stacy almost wanted to cry, I think her emotions were stretched from the bouncy end of the flight and now facing the prospect of waiting in line for a couple hours to rebook. With the sudden resolution, she didn’t know what to think, it happened so fast. Tears welled up, she thanked me with a grin, choking back some emotions. Made me feel great, I’ll tell you that — she was definitely overcome with happiness.
Now, that presented her with another problem. It was about 9:30 pm, she had ten hours to kill until her flight.
And nowhere to go.
I didn’t even bother asking if she had a place to go — no, of course she didn’t. I offered to see if a motel had an extra room. At first she made up an excuse to say no, something like, she didn’t have enough money. Well of course she did, the fucking Motel 7 or whatever would cost about $50 to $80 bucks, plus the cabride. No, she didn’t even have that much to spend, she repeated, but I could see there was something holding her back. I prodded a little more, pointing out her only alternative was to sleep in the fucking airport — with about 10,000 of her closest friends, my hand waving to the masses scattered around us. Stacy admitted she didn’t want to sleep alone at a motel room, she had fears about being alone in a room like that — so, yes, she’d prefer crashing on a floor here at the bright airport, instead of getting a room for a few hours.
Now, you might think, my brain received a message from the horny cock in my pants. I swear, that’s not what motivated me. Really, you have to believe me.
In my father mode — I had kids, after all — I said, “You can no to this too, but trust me, you should say yes.” As predicate to my offer to her, I pointed out I was a father with a daughter and a son, that I was fatherly to lots of my kids’ friends — including their female friends. I was like dad to them all, I said. “So, let me play dad here,” I explained further, and said I had a motel room five minutes away waiting for me. I said, if she wanted, I’d get a room with two beds, and she could have the other bed. For free. “I know you must think I’m a creep for offering, and if you do, you can say no — but, seriously, you won’t regret it — it’s escort bostancı like a sleepover — you can sleep in your jeans and shirt, of course — it’s just a place to crash a few hours.”
The hot teenager, her brown eyes weary and still slightly teary, stared at me a moment. Not like a monster; instead, she let out a little smile, followed by a sniffle she had to wipe away, followed by another smile.
“You know,” said the girl, trying to dab the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand, “I really should say no — but, I dunno, I trust you — and I really don’t wanna sleep on the floor, here.” A little chuckle punctuated her conclusion. “With 10,000 of my friends.”
“Don’t let me force you,” I said, making sure she wasn’t going to have a basis to call the cops on me, “I know it seems weird, but we’re sorta like friends now — it’s just a bed for a few hours, someplace to go — if you want time to think about it, that’s fine.” I hurried to point out that I really didn’t care what she did. I didn’t want to sound like I was talking her into it.
The slim teenager with the nice bosom batted her long eyelashes at me, picking up her backback from the ground. “No, actually — I know my mom would kill me, but — well, I appreciate the offer, I’d actually love to have the other bed.”
And, with that, I was taking the pretty, 18 year old girl back to my motel room!
Okay, not for sex, admittedly. But, really, with my flight cancelled and me having to catch the next one in the morning? Having the company of a gorgeous young woman was a very positive development. Even if it meant nothing more than having her snore in the bed across from mine.
She was quiet in the cab ride, then as I checked in, making sure the room would have two beds. I had thought the travel agent told me the motel had plenty of availability, but with the storm, I’d have thought other travellers would be showing up in droves. Not yet, at least.
As I fumbled with the passcard at the doorway, I looked to my companion, standing there with her black vest now over her white blouse, backpack slung over her small shoulder, her hair slightly damp from a few moments of rain we endured while climbing into the cab. “If you want,” I said, “I might even be able to get a second room — I’ll make up some excuse to bill it — if you really don’t want to be stuck with me.” I was interpreting her shy demeanor, so different from the flight, as reticence or remorse from having decided to accompany me into the room.
But the girl only shrugged. “You’re too nice,” she said in a playful tone, albeit without a lot of energy, “no, it’s really fine, I’m sorry I’m being a pest.”
Pest? Hardly. She made me laugh, as we entered the dingy, cheap little room.
Things were awkward, for about the first twenty minutes. I was nervous that she would be nervous; she was a little uneasy too, definitely keeping a distance from me, but I wasn’t trying to get close either. Father mode, you know. She used the bathroom, then I did. We faced the crossroads of whether to change out of our shirts and jeans into something more comfortable for sleep. I said I’d stay dressed, and I didn’t raise the issue of what she might do. But she said she had on a nightshirt and shorts, and I was welcome to put on my “pajamas” — not that men my age travel with them. I did, in fact, have a t-shirt and jogging shorts, so I went into the bathroom again and came out in those. I thanked her, it was going to be more comfortable to sleep.
I was already lying in bed, under the covers, as she emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later in her night garments. She had on a knee-length, very loose-fitting cotton nightgown, a pale lavender color with little purple hearts and flowers as the print. If she had shorts on underneath it, I couldn’t tell. It wasn’t sexy at all, to be honest; it did show off her nice tits on her chest, but otherwise, it was rather matronly. I’m married to a 52 year old woman, trust me, I know the look.
The unease was ending, we were both in our separate beds, and the night was over. I set the alarm for 5:30, so I could get us up and over to the airport in time for me to make the 7 o’clock flight. That wasn’t so early, really, it was 6:30 to my body clock given the time change.
Honestly, I was tired, and was descending into sleep, not really caring a sexy young woman was in the room with me. Still up to that point, it wasn’t about sex at all. Ten minutes passed or so, as I quietly lay there thinking about my travel in the morning — I’d have to make some calls to push my meeting back, but there wasn’t anything I could do about the fucking weather. Across the darkened room from me, Stacy was sitting back, her face glowing as she rapidly typed away at her cellphone, sending emails or messages to unnamed persons. Soon, though, she shut off her cellphone, and the room was dark, quiet, ready for us to sleep separately.
A clap of thunder, very close to the hotel, woke me up. I checked the clock, it was only about twenty minutes after we’d crawled into bed. On the other bed, I heard Stacy let out a little yelp, then she giggled. Midwesterners like us aren’t frightened by thunder; it’s just noise, not a threat. But, it can be a lot of noise.
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