Heatwave
It's summer, a particularly hot summer in Europe this year. 40 degrees outside. I board that plane and I soon as I pass its door I have the feeling that I have stepped into a refrigerator. At most 20 degrees, people dressed for 40 degrees hug themselves, rub their arms, retreat inside themselves like a nautilus. I walk down the aisle of the plane, my place is on the last raw today. My seat is on the aisle. As I approach my row, I scan my future neighbours. A cute petite with hazelbrown eyes and reddish-brown shoulder-long hair is seated on the middle chair. A black-haired boy, not older than ten, sits on the window seat. Ok, a single mom, I tell myself. A cute, young, lively one, moreover.
I say hello, she replies, I sit down. She wears a black, sleeveless blouse, with straps over her shoulders. Nice, tanned, soft skin, delicate shoulders, the devil inside me whispers inside my head. How should I turn in my seat and pretend that I try to look out the window in order to better scan her breasts? I lean forward and turn my head to the left, and before looking out the window my eyes briefly scan her bust. The black blouse hides a pair of little, almost virginal breasts. No nipples can be seen through the fabric. Only small bulges above the top line of the blouse hint to the existence of these beautiful --- I imagine ---, delicate, dormant breasts, something that needs to be brought to life, tittilated, aroused, sucked, enjoyed. Again, the devil talks too much.
Time to look below her waist. To my delight she wears a greyish-green mini-skirt, very short, the tennis-player skirt type. Her legs are crossed (towards her son), the thigh of her upper leg is flattened by its weight. Surprisingly for such a petite woman, her thighs are long and full. Their skin give me the same impression as her shoulders: fine, delicate. How would that skin smell? the devil wonders. But on their inside? Stop! don't go there, I interrupt my train of thoughts. Otherwise you'd start dreaming about pussies, their delicate shapes and folds, their smells, their juices, the shakes they give their owners when aptly handled. Or fingered? Or f... Stop, I said.
In the meantime, in the real world outside my devil-housing head, we've already taken off. It is still terribly cold. As I expected that, I've packed a light pullover, despite the Europe-wide heat-wave, and I put it on. The boy falls asleep, his head put on the armrest between him and his mom. The cutie on my left texts with someone (so much about turning off your phone in flight). I spy, it's in Spanish, I don't understand, but apparently there is a father somewhere, or a partner in any case. The stewardess passes and my neighbour intercepts her and asks for a blanket for her son. Sure, the stewardess says and disappears. Minutes pass, no sign of her or of the requested blanket. I close my eyes. cross my arms and pretend to attempt to sleep. More minutes pass, then I 'wake up', turn towards her, act surprised that no blanket covers her son and ask her: 'Did they bring you that blanket?' 'No, they must have forgotten' 'I can give you my pullover to cover him with it' After some polite refusals pro forma followed by repeated offers from my part she yields. (I love this sentence, 'she yields'.) I take of my pullover, she covers her son without waking him up. She becomes more chatty, complains about the cold, says that it wasn't so cold on her previous, connecting flight.
As the conversation dies out, she half turns away from me, crosses her leg away from me, crosses her arms too and curls, trying to sleep. After a while her head slips towards me, slowly slides dangerously close to my shoulder, to my mouth. I start to feel the fragrance of her hair, I approach my face to let it brush my lips, my nose, my cheeks. I inhale. I would like to hug her, to let my hand parse her whole upper body, to let it feel her small breasts, to press her flat belly, to slide to her pubis, to massage her flesh. But I don't do it. Yet. Only my companion, the little devil, does it, in my mind, his residence. Suddenly she becomes aware that her little head rests on my shoulder. She retreats and apologizes. I tell her that it is no problem, that her pose made me dreamy and was pleasant, as she's a beautiful woman. She smiled, embarrassed. Then a change of mind, an idea, seemed to pass through her mind, her expression changes and says that it is more comfortable to sleep with a pillow that without and if I continue to take pleasure from it she'll exploit me further. I nod and she places her head at the same place.
I get bolder and do not hide my attempts to inhale the fragrance of her hair. She says nothing and her breathing tells me that she's not asleep. I pass my arm around her small body, above her beasts and blouse. My naked arm touches her skin between the base of her neck and bulge of her breasts. You'll be less cold, I whisper in her ear through her messy reddish-brown, fragrant hair. She says nothing, but it seems her body relaxes in my arm, after the first stiffness following my move. Her head gets heavier on my shoulder, she seems to push it to my face. My hand opens wide on the soft skin of her chest. First it goes up, to the base of her throat, it explores the depression there, it feels the hardness of her delicate collarbones, moves to the depressions above them, caresses her skin on a line between the base of her throat and the tip of her shoulder. Our 'relationship' is unambiguous now. I know she does not sleep, she knows I know. I know she yields. I know she wants something. What? An escape, a naughty episode, a parenthesis in time, her son asleep, the last row of a plane, two strangers never to meet again? Anyway, no time for analysis, just enjoy, I tell myself. My hand caresses her throat now, gently moves from its base to the jaw bone, to her ear. My nails move on the untanned skin of her throat. She seems to breath deeper, her body seems to get warmer, softer. I love it. Such a beauty, such delicate body.
I abandon those regions and my hand slips directly under her blouse, skipping the caressing of tits through the fabric of her blouse to go directly to the softbess of her nipples. She gets again a little stiff but relaxes almost immediately. Her breasts are small, as visually ascertained as soon as I saw her. Her nipple thin, but rather long. Soft but her body shivers as soon as I slightly pinch it. It goes without saying that I am horny as hell, that I would like to knee between her thighs, spread them apart, lift her blouse and suck on the long nipples of this petite mom, to make her moan, to make her leak, to make her ooze. But I cannot, I have to use my hand only, blindly kneeding the small breast, pinching the hardening nipple, teasing it, passing my finger innumerable times over its tip, my hand cupping and squeezing those machines of pleasure made of soft womanly flesh. Her breathing gets heavier, her chin drops to her breast, exposing her neck to my mouth, to my lips and teeth. I nibble on the stretched skin of her neck, through strands of rebel reddish hair. I inhale, I move to the back of her ear. She moves her head, adjusting the area under my exploring tongue and lips according to her needs. My hand continues to kneed her tit and pinch and tease her nipple. I get drunk on the smell of her skin and hair, on the softness of her tit.
It's been a long time since she uncrossed her legs. They are slightly parted and her feet are solidly planted on the floor of the cabin. She seems to push her body against the chair and against me. My hand quits the world hidden by her blouse and moves to the rim of her tennis skirt. I grab it and lift it. Until now we could have pretended that nothing goes on if her son suddenly woke up. It sufficed to hastily retreat my hand from her breast. But now, what could we say when he would see the skirt of his mom way up her hips, and, in the best of cases, her black cotton panty exposed, or, in the worst, even pulled aside to uncover the thin and long, glistening lips of his mom's aroused pussy? But we were too aroused to care. As already said, her short skirt slid up her hips, giving me a look to a black cotton panty cupping her pussy lips, the shape of which was clearly visible on the panty. My hand instinctively made a dash for that tender flesh, though what I would have liked would have been to part them with the throbbing glistening swollen head of my cock that begged for release from my pants and bermuda shorts.
I passed by left arm around her, I couldn't leave her sweet breast unattended. So I embraced her from behind now, my left hand fondling her nipple, that I've dragged out of her blouse, just for the heck of it, to see it exposed, while my right hand stretched to her still covered pussy. Her head rested on my shoulder and chest, my face was buried in her hair. I loved the weight of her slim body against me, her yielding to whatever I wanted to do to her, her quest for pleasure, her lust. After brief caresses on the cotton-clad pussy lips, I felt her black cotton slip was moist. Without further ado, I dragged it aside, releasing her little pussy to the fresh air of the cabin. It was as I have imagined it: small, with sharply protruding, thin, pinkish pussy lips. So juicy, so arousing. I had to bury my head into her neck and bite it through her messy hair in frustration. As I passed by middle finger along her slit she almost moaned. I teased her clit from below at every approach, sometimes sliding very close to its base and putting a little extra pressure, sometimes teasing her by staying away from it. I listened to her breath, while I continued to bite her neck. She was getting so wet that my fingers could have easily slipped inside her. But I wanted to play with her clit and hood. I let it slide between two of my fingers, I slightly pinched it, I drove the tip of my finger around it, I wanted to make her cum, to see her shake, to feel her body getting stiff in my arms. So I accelerated the rhythm of my clit teasing, and pushed a little bit harder. Then my fingers started to fuck her, two, then three fingers. She was soaking wet, I couldn't resist abandoning her for a second and stuffing my fingers in my own mouth to taste her essence, her intimacy. She smelled of sex, of juices, of being dirty, figuratively speaking. I resumed the finger-fucking, trying to grab the inside of her pussy, to press on her g-spot. Her moans would have become too audible, so my left hand abandoned her breast and covered her delicate mouth. I held her like a hostage, from behind, my hand on her mouth, or like an anaconda, my arms wrapped around her, poised to squeeze and devore her. She started trembling, her lips opened, my fingers now on her teeth, she opened her mouth and bit my hand like a pillow in order not to scream. My other hand was rubbing her clit more and more sloppily and wildly. Her juice drenched my hand, I longed for that juice and for the moment her orgasm would be released. I didn't have to wait long. Her hips jumped from the chair, she pushed her pubis into my hand, her body stiffened, and I felt a sharp pain in my left hand as she bit it hard this time. Her legs shook, a long muffled moan escaped her, like crying. I buried my head deeper in her hair, and squeezed her stonger in my arms until the first wave of her orgasm passed.
Amazingly, her son was still sound asleep. Her slip was pulled aside, her skirt on her hips, her left breast, as little as it was, spilled from her blouse, the upper part of her thighs shone with pussy juice, and I didn't dare adjust any part of her clothing with my right hand as it was totally drenched. Eventually we became respectable again. And her son woke up, so we could not exchange our impressions. Later on we landed. As we got up we got to look each other in the eyes for the first time after her orgasm. If I read the expression on her face correctly she said "I would like to have you between my legs and be properly pounded now."
I say hello, she replies, I sit down. She wears a black, sleeveless blouse, with straps over her shoulders. Nice, tanned, soft skin, delicate shoulders, the devil inside me whispers inside my head. How should I turn in my seat and pretend that I try to look out the window in order to better scan her breasts? I lean forward and turn my head to the left, and before looking out the window my eyes briefly scan her bust. The black blouse hides a pair of little, almost virginal breasts. No nipples can be seen through the fabric. Only small bulges above the top line of the blouse hint to the existence of these beautiful --- I imagine ---, delicate, dormant breasts, something that needs to be brought to life, tittilated, aroused, sucked, enjoyed. Again, the devil talks too much.
Time to look below her waist. To my delight she wears a greyish-green mini-skirt, very short, the tennis-player skirt type. Her legs are crossed (towards her son), the thigh of her upper leg is flattened by its weight. Surprisingly for such a petite woman, her thighs are long and full. Their skin give me the same impression as her shoulders: fine, delicate. How would that skin smell? the devil wonders. But on their inside? Stop! don't go there, I interrupt my train of thoughts. Otherwise you'd start dreaming about pussies, their delicate shapes and folds, their smells, their juices, the shakes they give their owners when aptly handled. Or fingered? Or f... Stop, I said.
In the meantime, in the real world outside my devil-housing head, we've already taken off. It is still terribly cold. As I expected that, I've packed a light pullover, despite the Europe-wide heat-wave, and I put it on. The boy falls asleep, his head put on the armrest between him and his mom. The cutie on my left texts with someone (so much about turning off your phone in flight). I spy, it's in Spanish, I don't understand, but apparently there is a father somewhere, or a partner in any case. The stewardess passes and my neighbour intercepts her and asks for a blanket for her son. Sure, the stewardess says and disappears. Minutes pass, no sign of her or of the requested blanket. I close my eyes. cross my arms and pretend to attempt to sleep. More minutes pass, then I 'wake up', turn towards her, act surprised that no blanket covers her son and ask her: 'Did they bring you that blanket?' 'No, they must have forgotten' 'I can give you my pullover to cover him with it' After some polite refusals pro forma followed by repeated offers from my part she yields. (I love this sentence, 'she yields'.) I take of my pullover, she covers her son without waking him up. She becomes more chatty, complains about the cold, says that it wasn't so cold on her previous, connecting flight.
As the conversation dies out, she half turns away from me, crosses her leg away from me, crosses her arms too and curls, trying to sleep. After a while her head slips towards me, slowly slides dangerously close to my shoulder, to my mouth. I start to feel the fragrance of her hair, I approach my face to let it brush my lips, my nose, my cheeks. I inhale. I would like to hug her, to let my hand parse her whole upper body, to let it feel her small breasts, to press her flat belly, to slide to her pubis, to massage her flesh. But I don't do it. Yet. Only my companion, the little devil, does it, in my mind, his residence. Suddenly she becomes aware that her little head rests on my shoulder. She retreats and apologizes. I tell her that it is no problem, that her pose made me dreamy and was pleasant, as she's a beautiful woman. She smiled, embarrassed. Then a change of mind, an idea, seemed to pass through her mind, her expression changes and says that it is more comfortable to sleep with a pillow that without and if I continue to take pleasure from it she'll exploit me further. I nod and she places her head at the same place.
I get bolder and do not hide my attempts to inhale the fragrance of her hair. She says nothing and her breathing tells me that she's not asleep. I pass my arm around her small body, above her beasts and blouse. My naked arm touches her skin between the base of her neck and bulge of her breasts. You'll be less cold, I whisper in her ear through her messy reddish-brown, fragrant hair. She says nothing, but it seems her body relaxes in my arm, after the first stiffness following my move. Her head gets heavier on my shoulder, she seems to push it to my face. My hand opens wide on the soft skin of her chest. First it goes up, to the base of her throat, it explores the depression there, it feels the hardness of her delicate collarbones, moves to the depressions above them, caresses her skin on a line between the base of her throat and the tip of her shoulder. Our 'relationship' is unambiguous now. I know she does not sleep, she knows I know. I know she yields. I know she wants something. What? An escape, a naughty episode, a parenthesis in time, her son asleep, the last row of a plane, two strangers never to meet again? Anyway, no time for analysis, just enjoy, I tell myself. My hand caresses her throat now, gently moves from its base to the jaw bone, to her ear. My nails move on the untanned skin of her throat. She seems to breath deeper, her body seems to get warmer, softer. I love it. Such a beauty, such delicate body.
I abandon those regions and my hand slips directly under her blouse, skipping the caressing of tits through the fabric of her blouse to go directly to the softbess of her nipples. She gets again a little stiff but relaxes almost immediately. Her breasts are small, as visually ascertained as soon as I saw her. Her nipple thin, but rather long. Soft but her body shivers as soon as I slightly pinch it. It goes without saying that I am horny as hell, that I would like to knee between her thighs, spread them apart, lift her blouse and suck on the long nipples of this petite mom, to make her moan, to make her leak, to make her ooze. But I cannot, I have to use my hand only, blindly kneeding the small breast, pinching the hardening nipple, teasing it, passing my finger innumerable times over its tip, my hand cupping and squeezing those machines of pleasure made of soft womanly flesh. Her breathing gets heavier, her chin drops to her breast, exposing her neck to my mouth, to my lips and teeth. I nibble on the stretched skin of her neck, through strands of rebel reddish hair. I inhale, I move to the back of her ear. She moves her head, adjusting the area under my exploring tongue and lips according to her needs. My hand continues to kneed her tit and pinch and tease her nipple. I get drunk on the smell of her skin and hair, on the softness of her tit.
It's been a long time since she uncrossed her legs. They are slightly parted and her feet are solidly planted on the floor of the cabin. She seems to push her body against the chair and against me. My hand quits the world hidden by her blouse and moves to the rim of her tennis skirt. I grab it and lift it. Until now we could have pretended that nothing goes on if her son suddenly woke up. It sufficed to hastily retreat my hand from her breast. But now, what could we say when he would see the skirt of his mom way up her hips, and, in the best of cases, her black cotton panty exposed, or, in the worst, even pulled aside to uncover the thin and long, glistening lips of his mom's aroused pussy? But we were too aroused to care. As already said, her short skirt slid up her hips, giving me a look to a black cotton panty cupping her pussy lips, the shape of which was clearly visible on the panty. My hand instinctively made a dash for that tender flesh, though what I would have liked would have been to part them with the throbbing glistening swollen head of my cock that begged for release from my pants and bermuda shorts.
I passed by left arm around her, I couldn't leave her sweet breast unattended. So I embraced her from behind now, my left hand fondling her nipple, that I've dragged out of her blouse, just for the heck of it, to see it exposed, while my right hand stretched to her still covered pussy. Her head rested on my shoulder and chest, my face was buried in her hair. I loved the weight of her slim body against me, her yielding to whatever I wanted to do to her, her quest for pleasure, her lust. After brief caresses on the cotton-clad pussy lips, I felt her black cotton slip was moist. Without further ado, I dragged it aside, releasing her little pussy to the fresh air of the cabin. It was as I have imagined it: small, with sharply protruding, thin, pinkish pussy lips. So juicy, so arousing. I had to bury my head into her neck and bite it through her messy hair in frustration. As I passed by middle finger along her slit she almost moaned. I teased her clit from below at every approach, sometimes sliding very close to its base and putting a little extra pressure, sometimes teasing her by staying away from it. I listened to her breath, while I continued to bite her neck. She was getting so wet that my fingers could have easily slipped inside her. But I wanted to play with her clit and hood. I let it slide between two of my fingers, I slightly pinched it, I drove the tip of my finger around it, I wanted to make her cum, to see her shake, to feel her body getting stiff in my arms. So I accelerated the rhythm of my clit teasing, and pushed a little bit harder. Then my fingers started to fuck her, two, then three fingers. She was soaking wet, I couldn't resist abandoning her for a second and stuffing my fingers in my own mouth to taste her essence, her intimacy. She smelled of sex, of juices, of being dirty, figuratively speaking. I resumed the finger-fucking, trying to grab the inside of her pussy, to press on her g-spot. Her moans would have become too audible, so my left hand abandoned her breast and covered her delicate mouth. I held her like a hostage, from behind, my hand on her mouth, or like an anaconda, my arms wrapped around her, poised to squeeze and devore her. She started trembling, her lips opened, my fingers now on her teeth, she opened her mouth and bit my hand like a pillow in order not to scream. My other hand was rubbing her clit more and more sloppily and wildly. Her juice drenched my hand, I longed for that juice and for the moment her orgasm would be released. I didn't have to wait long. Her hips jumped from the chair, she pushed her pubis into my hand, her body stiffened, and I felt a sharp pain in my left hand as she bit it hard this time. Her legs shook, a long muffled moan escaped her, like crying. I buried my head deeper in her hair, and squeezed her stonger in my arms until the first wave of her orgasm passed.
Amazingly, her son was still sound asleep. Her slip was pulled aside, her skirt on her hips, her left breast, as little as it was, spilled from her blouse, the upper part of her thighs shone with pussy juice, and I didn't dare adjust any part of her clothing with my right hand as it was totally drenched. Eventually we became respectable again. And her son woke up, so we could not exchange our impressions. Later on we landed. As we got up we got to look each other in the eyes for the first time after her orgasm. If I read the expression on her face correctly she said "I would like to have you between my legs and be properly pounded now."
7 months ago