Point of Departure

No matter how many times I fly, I will never enjoy sitting in a departure lounge. When I was a kid, and foreign travel was a novelty, the moment when you parked yourself on an uncomfortable plastic seat, making sure you had a view of the runway through a pane of glass so thick you could barely hear the planes taking off, was the moment which signified the holiday was really, truly over. Now they just bore and depress me, those plastic seats give me back pains for a couple of days and there’s no longer the cheap thrill of duty-free shopping to soften the blow.

We’re in Málaga, though in truth all airports merge into one after a while. Same selection of passengers: the nervous flyers calming their fears with tranquillisers or too much booze; the seasoned travellers with their feet up on their battered, over-filled rucksacks, bragging about barely noticing turbulence. Same smell of floor polish and sweaty, too-tanned flesh. Same stale air, heated past the point of comfort by the midday sun. Same tannoy announcements, barely audible over pointless chatter and the screaming and fighting of fractious kids. Same arguments, same tears, same delays.

I shift my position, feeling the backs of my thighs sticking to the plastic of the seat on which I’m perched. I’m still dressed for the heat of southern Spain, in khaki-coloured vest top and denim skirt with a fashionably frayed hem. When we get back to Luton, it’s bound to be twelve degrees cooler and raining. If we get back to Luton.

I’m sure Ewan thought he was getting a bargain when he booked with one of those no-frills airline. The only trouble is one of those frills, at this precise moment, appears to be the actual plane. The last piece of slightly garbled information we were given is that the one scheduled to take us home is currently sitting on the tarmac at Paris Charles de Gaulle, suffering from an unspecified mechanical failure. A replacement has been found and will be with us in some equally unspecified amount of time, by which stage we may well be too old to care.

What Ewan also didn’t realise is that to get from Málaga to the coastal resort where we were staying involved a bus journey of a couple of hours. We should really have flown to Almería airport, which was only a matter of miles away. But that would have more than doubled the cost of the air tickets, so it was never seriously considered. Like everything Ewan gets involved in organising, the whole thing was half-arsed, half-hearted….

 

The thing which saved the holiday from being the last nail in the coffin of our fragile relationship was the villa. Again, Ewan had settled on it because it was the cheap option, so I was expecting very little from it. I had visions of neighbouring building works that started at eight in the morning, cockroaches in the shower, and a fridge that didn’t work. I was wrong. It was beautiful. Set up in the hills, it was just far enough away from the concrete sprawl of new-looking hotels which had sprung up along the shoreline to give us some privacy without making the trek into town a chore. The tiled floors and blinds at every window made it cool and dark in the surprising heat of the September day. Pink and purple bougainvilleas grew in clusters round the door, and there was a pool at the back which was secluded enough for us to swim and sunbathe naked, if we chose.

 

Indeed, the first morning I woke at about eight, slightly disorientated as you always are having spent a night in a strange bed, to the sound of water splashing. I wrapped a robe around my body and padded out to find Ewan in the pool, his lean body cutting through the water in a slow breaststroke. I watched him, admiring the play of the muscles in his back and arms as he moved lazily. It was only when he levered himself up on the edge of the pool and reached for a towel to dry himself that I realised I had caught him skinny-dipping. Not only that, but he had the beginnings of an erection, his cock looking thick and tempting between his thighs. He caught me glancing down at it and smiled.

Back in London, we would have been getting ourselves ready for the Monday morning struggle to work, shovelling down toast and coffee before heading out to cram ourselves on to the Northern Line. If Ewan had been standing in front of me naked, and clearly aroused, I certainly wouldn’t have been thinking about taking his cock in my hand and stroking it to full hardness, as I was now. I would have been making some excuse to put the sex off until the evening, when I would come home grumpy, stressed and too tired to even think about keeping the promise I’d made earlier. I couldn’t remember the last time I had gone without breakfast in favour of swallowing a mouthful of Ewan’s salty cream, or been late for work because we had been in the shower together, exploring every inch of the other’s body with soapy fingers. No wonder things had become so rocky between us.

 

But here, we had all the time in the world. No rush, no pressure, nothing to think about but our own pleasure. It was too much to resist. I almost shoved Ewan’s still-damp body on to the sun lounger by the side of the pool. He sprawled there, watching as I unfastened the robe and let it slither to the ground, then got to my knees at the side of the lounger and reached for his erection. Bending my head, I took the tip of his cock between my lips; the earthy, early-morning smell of him was overlaid with chlorine from the pool, little drops of water shining in his blond pubes, but it didn’t stop me from swallowing more of his length. It felt strangely like the first time I had done this; the greed to taste him mixed with the need to take time to study and admire the way he was put together. He felt hot and alive in my hand, that column of dusk-pink flesh straining to touch the back of my throat. My fingers found their way between my legs almost of their own volition, rubbing with a mindless intensity that matched my mood. If he was startled by the enthusiasm I was showing for what, over the last few months, I had increasingly treated as just another on the list of chores that kept our household ticking over, he didn’t show it; he just lay back and went with the flow. I sucked him till he was thrusting his hips at me, begging to come in my mouth, and then I climbed on top of him and rode him for the few moments it took to reduce us to a sweaty, gasping mass of orgasm. Then I led him by the hand into the shower and we started the whole process of touching, teasing and getting to know each other sexually all over again.

That seemed to set the pattern for the rest of the holiday. We had made vague plans to explore the area, based on a couple of pages of local tourist information Ewan had printed out from some website he had accessed one lunch break. The fisherman’s quarter of Almería, where gypsy families still lived in caves and you could watch flamenco dancing and browse in the street market, sounded like it was worth a visit, even if you were advised to hang on to your handbag if you did, while Ewan fancied taking a guided tour out to the town known as Mini Hollywood, where all the old spaghetti Westerns had been shot, and living out his Clint Eastwood fantasies. But in the end, A Fistful Of Dollars was replaced in our interest by a fistful of cock. Sightseeing, shopping, sending postcards back to our families – all seemed less important than our sudden, overwhelming need to catch up on all the sex we had been missing out on.

We stocked up on supplies in the nearest supermercado, buying fruit, cooked meats, cheese and bottles of the best white Rioja they stocked, giggling like a couple of kids when we discovered the local bread was a brand called Bimbo and the coffee was the appropriately named Bonka. Everything we bought was designed for snacking, something simple to refuel us before we headed back to bed, or the poolside, or the front porch, or wherever else the mood had taken us for a quick fuck.

Of course, it didn’t take long before we realised we could combine the two; the first time Ewan tasted a strawberry after he had dipped it in my juices, he called it the food of the gods. And I responded by drizzling thick acacia honey over his cock and slowly, languorously licking him clean.

We began to experiment in ways we had never considered: vanilla sex was off the menu; raspberry ripple was the flavour of the day. Ewan had tried to get me to take his cock up my arse a few times in the early days of our relationship, usually when he judged I was just drunk enough to go for it, but I had always refused. Lying on the sun lounger naked one afternoon and feeling Ewan’s fingers straying nonchalantly down my crack, I hadn’t guided them back in the direction of my pussy, as I usually did. Instead, I let him touch me, rubbing and pressing against my anal hole until I began to relax into the feeling. The afternoon air was still; apart from the occasional snatch of birdsong, there could have been nothing else but the two of us in the entire world. I felt safe enough to let Ewan push me past my limits, and when his finger worked its way through the little ring of muscle, lodging itself in my arse, I didn’t object. To tell the truth, I had no reason to: what he was doing felt dirty, but so good, particularly when he pushed another finger up my cunt, stimulating both holes at the same time. I responded by thrusting my bum back at him, urging him on.

‘Do you want something bigger up there?’ he had asked me, and I’d just made some noise of encouragement, not sure how it would feel to have his thick cock forcing apart the walls of that tight passage, but willing to take the risk. And then his finger had slipped out and something thicker was replacing it. But it wasn’t Ewan’s cock; it was something cool and strangely rigid. Craning my head over my shoulder to see what the hell he was playing at, I realised he was thrusting a gnarly carrot he must have scavenged from the bottom of the fridge in and out of me. It was so unexpected and the sight was so depraved, it was almost enough to make me come on the spot.

Needless to say, I did take his cock there, though not on that occasion. That was a couple of nights later, when we had ventured out of our self-imposed exile down into town for dinner at one of the little restaurants on the beach front. Walking back to the villa, hand in hand, our whole conversation had been about all the deliciously filthy things we were going to do to each other when we got there. Ewan had told me how he was going to make me beg him to fuck my arse, and I had told him he could dream on, but my head was filled with thoughts I had never thought I could share with him. Perhaps tonight would be the night when I admitted I had fantasies in which I was tied to the bed, face down, while Ewan spanked my bottom and I pleaded with him to use my body in whichever way he wanted.

By the time we unlocked the door of the villa, we had got ourselves so horny there was only one way the evening was going to end. We stripped each other, leaving items of clothing strewn in a haphazard trail that led down the hallway to the master bedroom. Ewan practically threw me on the bed, hoisted my legs over his shoulders and started licking my pussy with almost manic enthusiasm, his tongue moving in long, slick sweeps from my clit all the way to my arsehole. When he started concentrating on my rosebud, I knew all his dirty talk hadn’t been just for effect; he really did intend to fuck me there. For once the thought neither alarmed nor repelled me; now I knew how fantastic it could feel to have something in my arse, I was willing to let him try.

There was a bottle of after-sun lotion on the night stand, and Ewan handed it to me. ‘Grease me up,’ he ordered, and I squeezed a dollop of the cool, white lotion into my palm before rubbing it along the length of his already hard cock. He used more of the lotion to lubricate my bum, thrusting his finger in far enough to get me squirming with pleasure and anticipation. Then I lay prone on the bed, limp and relaxed as I could be given how excited the situation had got me, and let him gently push his cock into me.

At first it was the slowest, most tentative fuck we’d ever had, Ewan desperately mindful of not hurting me. But as I got used to the unaccustomed fullness, the feeling of being stretched where I had never been stretched before, I urged him to thrust harder, faster. ‘Told you I’d get you to beg,’ Ewan said smugly, as his rhythm speeded up until he finally, inevitably, came inside my arse.

And so it went on: more sex, better sex than any we had had even in the first weeks of our relationship, when everything had been new and exciting and it had been impossible to keep our hands off each other. The bikini wax I had invested in before we came here, ludicrously painful though it was, had an unexpected side effect. All the beautician had left, at my request, was a little tuft of hair on my mound. At first, I had been shocked by the result, feeling it made me look like a porn star, but Ewan showed his appreciation for my smooth new look with his lips and tongue, spending hours licking the hairless flesh till I lost count of how often I came in his mouth.

In return, Ewan confessed he had always wanted to be sucked off while he was wearing a pair of my knickers, so we tried that. The pink panties were a tight fit, even with his slim hips, but he looked so horny with the shiny fabric clinging to his tackle, outlining every contour, that I couldn’t stop myself from licking him through the silk, getting him almost to bursting point before pulling down the panties so I could take the head of his cock in my mouth and swallow his spunk.

We were talking more, too, and not the monotonous conversations we had after a day at work, when all we did was complain about the impossible deadlines we had to meet or bitch about our colleagues in the office. Instead, we were talking about us, finding out about the other’s dreams and desires. I still hadn’t revealed all my fantasies to Ewan: I felt I had to keep something back for when we were in rainy old London, tempted just to slump in front of the TV and settle back into our mundane routine. All the things we had discovered about each other, here in the villa, were too good to forget about once we were back home, and I was sure I could find ways of keeping this Mediterranean spark alive. When the time was right, I would let him know about the blindfolds and the handcuffs and let him take it from there…

 

I look up, suddenly aware that Ewan had said he was going to get soft drinks for the two of us with the last of our euros and that was ages ago, maybe even before they announced that our flight might be with us some time between now and the end of the decade. And that’s when I notice the bloke in the seat opposite me is staring at me – or, more accurately, he is staring between my legs – with undisguised lust.

I follow his gaze, as discreetly as I can, and realise that when I’ve shifted in my seat, trying to get comfortable against the hard, injection-moulded plastic, my already short skirt has ridden up a little further than might be considered decent. The wisp of white nylon that passes for my underwear is clearly on display, and not only that, I have got myself so turned on thinking about all the sex Ewan and I have been having over the past few days that I can feel my juices soaking through them. I don’t want to think about what that will have done to the material, how the inner lips of my pussy, so neat on other girls and yet so big on me that they always bulge against my knickers, will be as good as exposed to the world. No wonder the bloke opposite is practically fucking me with his gaze.

It shouldn’t excite me; I should sit up straight, adjust my skirt, block his view. Instead, fired up by the thought that this is probably the sleaziest, riskiest thing I will ever do, I find myself wanting more.

I slump back in my seat, let my thighs loll apart just a little further. I know that if I wriggle ever so slightly, the thin gusset of my knickers will slip into the groove of my sex. I like the thought of that: the way the fabric will press more tightly against my gently pulsing flesh; the view this stranger will have of my smooth pussy lips, bisected by a strip of damp nylon. I want him to see how wet and ready to be fucked I am.

The stupid part is he’s is not even worth the show I’m putting on for him. In his fifties, probably, balding, paunch hanging over the belt of his trousers. On his own and likely to remain so. I see desperate blokes like him on the Tube all the time; indeed, I’ve had them press up against me in a crowded carriage, letting the stubby length of their cock push against my backside, ‘accidentally’ touching my breast as they reach for something to hang on to. My usual reaction is to oh so casually stand on their foot, feigning surprise at how sharp a kitten heel can actually be. It’s certainly not to invite them to look, to spread myself wide as I am doing now.

Ewan should be back at any moment, but when I risk a quick glance around the departure lounge to see whether anyone else has noticed my shameless display, he is nowhere to be seen. Part of me even suspects that, if he were to return with a couple of cans of pop in his hands and catch me flashing at an ugly stranger, he would be as turned on as I am. There would be more than enough time for him to drag me into the toilets and fuck me up against the cistern, with my skirt hiked up and my soaking wet panties pulled down round my ankles. I can see us staggering back out into the main departure area, flushed and feeling too satisfied to care how much longer we will have to wait for our flight.

But Ewan isn’t here, and I have reached the point where I am so desperate to feel fingers on my pussy that my own will do. Another check, to make sure there are no curious security guards patrolling, and then I move my bag so the view of anyone passing in the aisle is obscured. Ewan and I had bagged corner seats when we first sat down, however many hours ago it was now, and I’m pretty confident the only person who will see what I do next is my admirer opposite.

I glance across at him, establish eye contact for the briefest of moments. A more furtive voyeur would look away at this point, embarrassed to have been caught looking, but this guy doesn’t even blink. But this is still my game, my rules. I will go as far as I want to, and no further.

Almost as if I am not aware of what I’m doing, I let my hand stray down between my legs, let my index finger rest lightly against the apex of my sex. Another glance at him: his gaze is riveted to that finger, but his expression tells me he can hardly believe that I am doing this. When I casually run my finger along the point where my pussy lips touch each other, I could swear a bead of sweat breaks out on his brow. If I were to look at his crotch, I am certain I would see the bulge pressing against his fly; the bulge I have caused. I have him exactly where I want him.

My nipples press stiffly against the thin sun top. My finger works its teasing way back to my clit. I would love to string this out, but a pulse is throbbing madly somewhere deep in my cunt and I have to make myself come before anyone cottons on to what I’m actually doing.

My finger slips beneath the edge of my knickers, touching the slippery flesh there. It only takes the merest pressure against my clit for me realise that my orgasm is only a few strokes away. My eyes are half-closed as I begin to rub in earnest, but I am still aware of my audience of one, watching every movement avidly. I can’t make any noise, or it will immediately alert everyone in the immediate vicinity to what I’m doing, so as my hand moves faster, I bite on the fleshy mound beneath my other thumb. Hot, fierce spasms of pleasure shoot through me, and I arch my back against the hard plastic seat as I come and come.

When I finally open my eyes, I see the man opposite is studying the small print on his airline ticket, as though it is infinitely more interesting than what he has just watched me do. No one else seems to have noticed a thing. I give a satisfied little sigh and ease my skirt back down to a respectable position, just as Ewan comes wandering back towards me.

‘Good news,’ he says, handing me a cold can of fizzy orange. ‘I’ve spoken to someone from the airline and they say the plane’s on its way. They’re reckon they’re going to be calling us to the gate in about fifteen minutes.’

I smile, pop the ring pull on the can and take a long swig, slaking my sudden thirst. When we are finally in mid-air, I think I might have to tell Ewan what I’ve been getting up to in his absence. When we get home, I think he might have to punish me for having a naughty holiday adventure without him. And I think I might like it.

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