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Michelle responds to a voyeur, pushing the envelope
The airplane was delayed, but they asked us to stay near the gate. The airline was blameless, for once, as the delay was caused by thunderstorms rolling in, one after the other. I had a seat in the gate’s waiting area, at the end of the row, the hallway end, and I was comfortable. It was a hot day, and I had dressed accordingly. It was hot outside, but actually a little cold inside the terminal.
My legs were crossed. They were one step away from acquiring goosebumps. I’m Michelle, and I’m 29 years old, now for the third time. Next birthday I’ll jump to 32 years old, I guess. How long one can stay 29 is highly variable, but tiny crows’ feet are appearing, so probably I’m at my limit. I’m completely ordinary in appearance and non-memorable; sometimes even my iPhone’s facial recognition gets confused. I do have a decent figure, and my big selling point is my legs. That’s why I always wear skirts, and usually short ones, the day all this happened being no exception.
Modern chemistry fixed the weakest point in my appearance, which is my hair color. Mousy brown is fine, and I’m sure even desired, if you’re a mouse, but my hair turned me from ordinary and reasonably attractive – to meh – not worth a second look, if you know what I mean. Now I’m a sexy blonde. It’s what God intended when I was created; God just had a bad day I guess – everyone has them – and God’s error with my natural hair color is fixed every six weeks in a lovely, and appropriately named, beauty salon in midtown Manhattan, for only $350 a pop.
Women made quite a few advances in the twentieth century. First, we got the vote, via the 19th amendment, in 1920! We also got property rights, the possibility of divorce, and World War II paved the way for women to enter the work force. My great grandmother worked in a factory making bullets during the second world war. More recently, it was the antiwar movement during the Vietnam War, combined with “the pill,” that really changed things a lot re reproductive freedom. In the 1960’s we began to acquire the right to have our own credit histories, independent of our husbands. We got control over our bodies via Roe versus Wade back in 1973, although we’re losing that, little by little, and we got the Equal Rights Amendment, known as the ERA – oops, no, we didn’t, actually. It failed ratification by one state.
Nothing compares, however, in terms of advancing women in society, to the ability to change the color of our hair. This matters especially for hair becoming gray. Forget the Mommy track; if you have prematurely gray hair, you’re put into the Grandma category. Luckily, I don’t have the problem of gray hair, being only 29 for the third time. It’ll come, however, if Covid-19 or something else doesn’t kill me first.
So, there I was, sitting in the airport, waiting for my flight to Indianapolis, feeling sexy in my newly refreshed blonde hair, with my new Razor Cut Shag haircut, and my short skirt with my long, sexy legs sticking out. I had my legs crossed in the classic feminine way, when I noticed him staring at my legs. It was quite a serious stare.
He was sitting across the hallway, one row south of mine, giving him the perfect angle to stare at me. His flight was for Cincinnati. Then I noticed he had his cell phone out, and appeared to be taking a video of me. But why? I was just an ordinary woman, with a ‘to die for’ new haircut, granted, and long, shapely legs, granted again. Big deal, right? I still wasn’t worth such an intense stare! It was as if he were waiting for something to happen. What could it be?
Okay, I’m not a rocket scientist; far from it. Even I knew, however, that he was hoping for a flash of my panties. I’m sitting there, feeling sexy in my new haircut, with my gorgeous blonde hair, and I’m never going to see this guy again, right? So, I began to text my best friend Nicole. She responded right away, so I called her. I told her the score. Then we went back to texting.
Me: Should I flash him? What do you think?
Nicole: Of course you should. You know you want to. How old is he?
Me: How should I know? Maybe güvenilir canlı bahis siteleri 40?
Nicole: He can handle it, then. Go for it. Let me know what happens.
Me: Easy for you to say. Where are you now?
Nicole: On my bed, with my fingers in my panties. Do it! I want to know before I cum.
I changed my position while I texted. My legs were no longer crossed, but my knees were touching, of course. I adjusted myself in my seat, so that my knees were facing mystery man. He was still filming me, as near as I could tell. I let my knees drift apart just a little.
Me: I’m doing it. My knees face him. They’re a half inch apart. He’s filming me with his iPhone.
Nicole: Spread them, baby. Wider! At least an inch, better if two
Nicole: You heard me. Look: it’s an airport. He’s a random guy. Just do it!
Me: Next, you’ll want me to go to the restroom and remove my panties
Nicole: You said it, honey, not me. Yes! Is the bathroom close?
Me: Yes, ten steps behind me.
Nicole: You know what you have to do. First give him a good flash, then hightail your sweet little ass to the little girls’ room!
Me: You really think I have a sweet ass?
Nicole: Everyone does, you insecure moron. Now get thee to a nunnery. I mean, the ladies’ room, and do it, pronto!
I let my legs part a good two inches, and then I bent over, pretending to adjust the straps on my shoes, and I gave my voyeur a really nice look down my boat necked blouse. The blouse falls away from my body when I do that, and usually one of my hands instinctively clasps it tight against my chest. Not this time: My brain overrode my instinct.
He had to have seen the lace bra I was wearing. It was a lovely shade of baby blue.
Pleased with myself, I leaned back and let my voyeur have a leisurely look at my panties. Then in a moment of extreme reckless stupidity, drilled onward by my best friend Nicole, I went to the ladies’ and removed my panties, but throwing caution to the wind I also removed my bra. That’s yet another disadvantage of having such a large purse: Everything fits inside it, even my underwire reinforced bra. Yeah, my boobs need the support if I want them to pop.
I returned to my seat. People were beginning to line up for the Cincinnati flight, so this was my voyeur’s last chance. I made it good for him. He whipped out his cell phone and resumed filming, so I spread my legs wide, maybe a good three inches apart at the knees, giving him the chance to verify that I was most likely not a true blonde. (You can in fact have dark pubic hair even if you’re a natural blonde, however.) He practically had his tongue hanging out.
My nipples were hard from all of the A/C, or at least that was my excuse. I would never admit this was turning me on. Next, I leaned forward giving him a man’s lecherous wet dream of a downlook, letting him see my boobs and my hard nipples, too. Terrified that others would also benefit from my brazen behavior, I quickly sat up straight and closed my legs.
Me: I did it! He got to see my pussy, and I took off my bra, too, and threw in one hell of a downlook! He must be in voyeur heaven
Nicole: You go girl! Oh! I’m cumming!! Muchas gracias girlfriend! ?? ??
Nicole: Where is voyeur heaven, by the way? New Jersey?
Me: Probably. Everything else a little seedy is there.
Nicole: Catty today, aren’t we?
My voyeur was cutting it pretty thin! Everyone had boarded for Cincinnati, they were about to close the door, and he hadn’t even raised himself to walk over to the gate. Now they were boarding my own flight, to Indianapolis. I stopped worrying about my voyeur and got up and fell into line. I was in boarding group two, a perk from traveling way too much, so I got on early, and never looked back. I got installed in my seat, and reflected on my wanton behavior, giggling silently about it to myself.
I panicked, and almost peed in my panties, which anyway were in my purse, so I couldn’t have. They were keeping my bra company, don’t you know? My heart stopped when güvenilir illegal bahis siteleri I saw my voyeur enter the plane. He took his assigned seat on the aisle, two rows behind me. I had a window seat. Once everyone was seated, the flight attendant came over to the man seated next to me, and asked if he would exchange seats with my husband, so we could sit together?
Since I’m not married, being only 29 for the third time and not feeling in any rush, and besides no good man has ever tried to land me as his spouse, I was a bit flummoxed. The flight attendant, all smiles, ushered the man next to me back two rows, and my voyeur, posing apparently as my nonexistent hubby, took the seat next to me.
Once he was all settled, I spoke to him first. “I’m a bit confused. When exactly did we marry? I don’t even know your name.”
“In three months if I’m lucky, in six months if I’m not,” he replied. A bit cheeky if you ask me, but I was having fun.
“In that case, we should introduce ourselves. I’m Michelle, of New York, and I’m flying to Indianapolis on business,” I said.
“I’m Thomas, as in the tank engine, and I too am from New York, and I too am flying to Indianapolis on business,” he replied.
“Were you filming me in the airport?” I asked.
“Yes, I find your beauty compelling,” he said.
“You just like blondes,” I said.
“You do have a haircut to die for, I must confess. Your legs are gorgeous,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I greatly appreciated the flashes and the downlooks, too, you know,” he said.
“Well, I should hope so. I’d be devastated if you hadn’t!” I replied.
“I’m staying at the Hilton downtown,” he said.
“I’m a Marriott girl, myself,” I said. “The Book of Mormon is such fascinating reading,” I deadpanned, and then panicked: What if he thought I was serious?
“Our first incompatibility. We can work through it,” he said.
“Hopefully before the marriage,” I quipped. “I’m going to have a nap, if you don’t mind,” I said, and I put my Bluetooth headphones on, chose a playlist from my phone, closed my eyes, and lay back, relaxed, and enjoyed the flight, right up to the moment I felt Thomas’ fingers slipping up my thigh, under my short skirt. Shit.
What would Jesus do? He’s a guy. More important, what would Nicole tell me to do? Well, Nicole’s inevitable advice would be to ignore it and see how far he goes. Meanwhile, Nicole’s brother (if she were to have had a brother) would tell Thomas to keep going, and to see how much he can get away with, right? This is not a recipe for good airplane behavior.
I guess it’s no surprise, but Thomas’ hand did not stop of its own volition. It would have reached my panties, had I kept them on, but as it was, his hand reached my pussy. He doubtless discovered it was wet. Indeed, it was wet enough for one of his big, masculine fingers to slip inside it. His fingering loosened it up enough, due to some magical movements, to the point where it yielded room for two masculine fingers, instead of one. Who was Thomas to deny me two of his fingers? Who indeed?
Now, for some reason, God gave Thomas two hands, and his other hand wormed its way under my blouse, reaching my now braless boobs. So that was God’s thinking? Oooh, that felt nice. He was so gentle, and tender, and it felt divine the way he played with my nipples. Then he leaned over towards me and we kissed.
I now had his hand pumping fingers quickly, in and out, in and out, in my pussy; his other hand caressing my boobs under my blouse; and, we were kissing. I just closed my eyes and let the endorphins flow. The endorphins flew all over my body.
I woke from my reverie when the flight attendant asked me if I wanted a drink. This was new; because we were in Economy Plus, we were actually offered drinks. I looked at her, knowing she could see Thomas had one hand under my skirt, and the other under my blouse, and his lips on mine. I pushed him away so that I could ask for orange juice.
“It’s so nice to see a couple in such deep love as the two of you,” she said.
“Today is the anniversary of the day we güvenilir bahis şirketleri met,” I replied. Anniversary Zero.
“How very romantic. Here is your juice,” she said, lowering my tray for me and placing the juice upon it.
Thomas turned and looked at her. “I’ll have a Scotch whisky, please.”
“That will be six dollars. You’ll have to use your hands, I’m afraid. Only credit cards, you understand,” she said, and just at that moment my body decided to orgasm. It was not one of those subtle ones, either. No screaming was involved, but there was a lot of quivering and shaking. I was thoroughly embarrassed, as Thomas withdrew his hand from under my skirt, revealing to the flight attendant just how soaking wet his fingers were (three of them!) with my love juices. She just smiled at me as I blushed furiously, and Thomas signed for his drink.
The airplane landed, we collected our luggage, such as it was, and Thomas asked if I wanted to share a taxi. “I’ve decided to stay at the Marriott with you, if they have a room. I’ve never read the Book of Mormon. I’ve seen the Broadway play, though.”
We took a taxi to the Marriott. He got a room, and asked me if I was free for dinner? I was. We took another taxi to a nice restaurant he knew about in the northern immediate suburb called Carmel. Both the food and the ambiance were, respectively, delicious and delightful. I got a little tipsy on the French wine he ordered. I don’t know wine, so the only two things I can report is that it was red, and it was wonderful.
A taxi back to the hotel, and Thomas walked me to my room. I guess this was our first date, so protocol called for only a kiss goodnight. However, given what had happened on the airplane, it is perhaps not too, too surprising that I asked him in for a nightcap from the minibar, and we ended up having breakfast in bed together in the morning. All four of my emergency condoms (that I routinely carry in my cavernous purse, because, well, you never know, do you?) were now used and discarded.
We had two more nights together and it was time for me to return to New York and reality. We exchanged social networking information, and he promised not to post his video of me that he took in La Guardia airport. He’s due to return to New York this coming weekend. Now I have the question every girl has after such an adventure: Will he call? Will I see him again?
Nicole says yes. She says I’m one in a million and he’d be brain damaged if he didn’t follow up. I said maybe he was in fact brain damaged? I knew his cock worked fine, even quite fine, but his brain? The jury was still out on that one. And what about the fact that he’s 41 years old, and still single? Doesn’t that sound warning bells? Maybe he’s divorced, Nicole countered. Maybe he’s on parole for having killed his first wife, I countered back.
Maybe he meets a tramp like me on lots of his business trips? (I’m not usually such a tramp, you know. I’d had the four condoms for months. This was all atypical!) Maybe he’s shacked up with some trollop in his own Marriott room in Indianapolis this very minute as I write this? Maybe he took an axe to his wife and is now a fugitive, wanted for murder in six states? Oh wait; I’d already run through that one.
Nicole says no, but she’s not the Oracle of Delphi. She’s not even from Indiana, where Delphi is. Okay, there’s one in Greece, too, but there’s a perfectly fine town of Delphi right in northern Indiana, and I’m sure there must be an oracle there. Perhaps I should have asked her while I was out there?
Time will tell, and sometimes time is more accurate than even Nicole, known to her friends as the Oracle of Astoria. I’m rooting for Nicole, though. I surely do hope she is right, and Thomas calls me or texts me or emails me, or Facebooks me, or just somehow reaches out for me. I so loved the way he did exactly that in the king-sized bed of the Indianapolis Marriott.
The way he reached for me in that king-sized bed, turned me over, gently spread my legs, kissed and licked me down there, and then finally, just before I broke down and begged, he inserted his lovely cock into me, right where God in his wisdom (and this one he got right!) intended it to go! It was all so perfect, and no axes were involved!
I’m meeting Nicole for dinner tonight. I told her to bring her crystal ball. I need some oracular wisdom. Wish me luck!
I hope you enjoyed the story. I’d love it if you’d leave a comment!
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32