As you will see below, my wife wanted a story.  So did a charming lady I recently met.  She wanted hers for her husband.  She asked me, as a courtesy to her, if I would write the story out, the better to tease her husband with it.

Courtesy

    Pity how courtesy has increasingly disappeared from our society.  In this case, it was yet another alcohol afflicted passenger who whose opinion of himself far outstripped the reality.  A passenger who gave the appearance of being unable to understand how the pretty flight attendant could resist his virile demeanor and obvious charm.  He was seated across the aisle and one row up from me in business class, and I had heard him espouse this very insight to himself under his breath.  And more loudly and aggressively over an annoying period of time.  It was, after all, Saturday, and he needed a date.

When he grabbed her arm and pulled her down to whisper in her ear, I didn’t like the look in his eye.  He clearly wasn’t prepared to take “no” for an answer.  When he didn’t let go at her protests, I got up and stepped to him.  I took his thumb in a moderately painful come-along hold, and removed it from her uniform sleeve.  She jumped back, then hurried up the aisle.

I let his hand go, and suggested that manhandling flight attendants was not appropriate behavior.  As I turned back to my seat, he was up and at my back.  I had rather expected this, so, in deference to the tight quarters I was ready with an elbow to the solar plexus.  As his breath whooshed out, I stepped forward to let him fall to the floor.  He obligingly did so, but rather too limply for my comfort.  I checked him, and unfortunately, he had stopped breathing.  I hadn’t hit him very hard, but some people are more susceptible.  

I began rescue breathing, despite my reluctance to be mouth-to-mouth with this distasteful drunk.  Soon enough the co-pilot showed up, with the flight attendant, and he had her bring the plastic air way for mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from the first aid kit.  By the time she had returned, the man had begun breathing on his own, and was reviving in no better temper than before.  I held him still while the co-pilot put on the plastic wire-tie handcuffs that airlines seemed to have stocked recently.  We then moved him up to first class, which was nearly empty on this flight.

The flight attendant came back to my seat.  Her name tag proclaimed her to be Natasha.  She thanked me, and offered me a drink.  I shrugged off the thanks, and declined the drink.  I find that alcohol mixes poorly with adrenaline in me.

It was quite late when airport security finally let me go.  Having determined that the guy was apparently no terrorist, and after warning me to get a lawyer, since he would probably sue me, they handed me my bag and sent me on my way.  

By then, any trace of adrenaline was gone, so I stopped in an airport lounge to have a drink . . . not my usual habit, but then this had not been a ususal flight.  Natasha and the co-pilot walked by, late of their own grilling by security, I presumed, pulling their bags.  When she saw me, she stopped and said something to him.  He went on, and she came over to me.

“I want to thank you again for helping me today, Mr. Naismith,” she said.  “I owe you one.”

“Well, Natasha, it’s Miles, and if you owe me, which you don’t,” I replied, “please have a drink with me to help me decompress.  Or not, if you are in too much of a hurry.”

“Not much to hurry for here.”  She made a charming moue.  Yet another hotel meal with the rest of the crew, followed by an unfamiliar bed and an early morning return flight.  I’ll be happy to postpone that prospect for the time it takes for one drink, especially for my white knight.”

I couldn’t resist a little flirting.  “You shouldn’t see me as your knight, you know.  We men always knew how those maidens rescued from dragons were meant to reward their knights.”
Pointing at her ring, I continued, “I doubt your husband would approve.”

Fortunately for me, she laughed.  “You are probably right about my husband.  But perhaps we can settle on a lesser reward, given that you only subdued a man, not a dragon.  May I invite you to dinner with the crew.  We’ll pick up the check.”

“Who could refuse an offer like that?”

She gave me the information needed to meet them, and we each went our own way.  I had rented a small suite in a widely unknown but comfortable hotel, and there I went for a nap.  I called my wife and told her what had happened, and she twitted me for sticking my nose in, as always.  Then she asked me if I were interested in Natasha.  To my surprise, she told me I had her permission to bed Natasha if I could.  I laughed, but she persisted.

“You’re serious aren’t you?  Is this to clear the way for you to have an affair yourself?” I asked.

She demurred, “No, Sweetheart, I have no one I want.  But I know we have fallen into a routine, and this could spice things up.  If you succeed, I know you won’t fall in love – men are well known be able to have just sex.  But I also know you will not succeed . . . Your stewardess is married!”

“Now I know I’ve slipped.  Back to gym for me if you are so sure that I cannot charm a woman who doesn’t owe me marital duties!  Or maybe I should try pheromones . . . But seriously, don’t worry . . .”

She cut me off.  “Don’t tell me you won’t even try.  I want to worry.  If you are too chicken to actually try, then you had better think up a good story to tell me, at least.  Besides, I want to plan how to seduce you back to me after your tarty conquest.  You wait . . . your cock will be so hard it hurts when I get through with you after you get back.”

I was taken aback.  She never used the word cock.  She really seemed serious.  “Alright, I’ll tell you I’ll give it a shot.  But only on this condition: when the occasion arises, you must do the same.  And I’ll decide when the occasion arises.”

It was her turn to be taken aback.  With an odd note in her voice, she agreed.  We professed our mutual love and hung up.  I called my partner, a litigator, and told him the firm might be defending me, and gave him the initial information that I knew.  Even though I had only an office practice, seldom going to court, I knew it was all too likely that the jerk on the plane could find a lawyer to take his case.  Finally, I slept.


I dressed with special care for that dinner.  I wasn’t sure I could even begin to think of seducing Natasha, but having my wife’s permission to try did make the situation piquant.  In an unusually jaunty frame of mind, I joined the party at the restaurant.

It was great fun.  They weaseled out of me enough of my military experience to know where I had learned the close combat and the first aid, I learned more than I wanted about their  spouses and families.  They made me laugh with stories of weird passengers, and the pilots and I talked flying until we recognized the glazed look on the faces of the others.  Natasha was charming, but two of the other flight attendants were single, and felt free to flirt outrageously.  A cute brunette named Janet, in particular, seemed to take it upon herself to make me feel properly commended for coming to the aid of her compatriot.  I was not used to such treatment, and, frankly, reveled in it.  Dinner was over too soon.  I didn’t want the evening to end, so I invited the whole group to go to a club I knew.

The married members, other than Natasha, begged off, and the other single girl, Allison, I believe, was meeting a friend.  So I was left with Natasha and Janet.  I was surprised thatNatasha had joined us, but I believe she thought of me as her property, and was a bit jealous of Janet.

I am not a celebrity, but through my clients, I know a few who are.  And I knew where they hung out.  I was sure the girls would enjoy seeing some of these famous people, so we became people astronomers, although I didn’t expressly state this course to them.

We were not lucky enough to see any first magnitude stars, but we saw several lesser lights, including a soap opera star that I didn’t recognize, but Janet did, a Senator, a popular novelist, and a couple of sports personalities.  My stock rose considerably when I was accosted by an old classmate, now President of the National League, who was seated with Bryant Gumbel, apparently giving an interview for Gumbel’s HBO sports show.  Probably the ever popular Pete Rose issue, I guessed.

Shortly after midnight, the girls said they had to be back, claiming to need some sleep before their early flight.  Natasha gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek, proper and discrete, and thanked me again.  Janet said, “Well, if Natasha won’t thank you properly for your bravery, I will!”  Pulling me close and molding her body to mine, she threw her arms around my neck and gave me a kiss that promised more than most women could deliver.  It was quite an effort of will to break it off, but I didn’t have permission for Janet.  As I looked up, I noticed an odd look on Natasha’s face.  Again she looked jealous, or maybe possessive?

Sunday morning, there were no early flights.  Dense fog closed the airport until lunch time.  About noon, I was surprised to get a call from Natasha.  I had given the girls my cell phone number the night before amid inebriated promises to reunite whenever we were all in town.  I had never expected it to be used.

“I’m calling to take you up on your offer,” she said.

“I thought you were flying out today,” said I.  

“Our flight was delayed, and the later flight was half empty, so they cancelled it and put those passengers on our plane.  One of the crew of the later flight needed to get home, and asked me to switch with her.  I can’t have to leave until tomorrow morning.”

Reviewing the prior evening with a vaguely aching head, I dimly remembered offering to show the girls the various tourist sites in town.  Apparently, they never had time to sightsee in the ordinary course, despite coming to the city regularly.

I made an appointment to pick her up from her hotel in an hour, and called my limousine service.  I think Natasha was impressed with the limo, and even more so with the helicopter.  After a wonderful day, we settled into the limo for the long drive out of the country for dinner at an small Japanese inn and spa  known for its outstanding cuisine . . . and romantic and intimate gardens.  

I found the first chink in Natasha’s armor on that drive.  When she slipped off her shoes, I thought about her profession and insisted on massaging her feet.  You would have thought she was near orgasm from her sighs and moans.  This gave me another idea.

Pulling out my phone, I called the Inn and scheduled us both for full body massages.  Natasha initially said no, but reassured of professionalism, she agreed.

Dinner was served in an intimate alcove, looking out over the Japanese garden.  As a concession to inflexible gaijin like me, there was a small hole under the table where I could stash my lower legs.  Natasha could probably have sat on her heels, Japanese style, but gracious as ever, she followed my lead so as not to embarrass me.  The pit was small, though, and our legs necessarily rubbed together.  I know I was very conscious of it, and I think Natasha was too.  

After dinner, we were led to the spa.  We were each handed a kimono, and told to remove all our clothing, each in a small dressing room.  Natasha looked dubious, but finally gave in to the exotic atmosphere.  When we emerged in our kimonos, the attendants laughed.  One came over and insisted on opening and reclosing my kimono with the opposite flap on top.  She explained that the way I had it, the way a man buttons his shirt, was only done for a corpse.  I blushed as this operation had probably flashed my privates at Natasha.  

We were then led into the bath.  Neither of us had anticipated a Japanese bath before the massage, but in charmingly accented broken English, we learned that it was expected.  When the two women attendants pulled the kimonos off of our shoulders, I remembered that the Japanese are oblivious to mixed bathing.  Wanting to hide my nudity under the water, I started toward the pool, noticing Natasha doing the same.  Both of us were stopped, however, and pulled to the side.  The attendants then began to wash us with soapy sponges, then rinsed us with clean water.  Only then could we enter the hot water of the small pool.

I admit that I peeked at Natasha while she was washed.  Well, stared, actually.  Lord, she was gorgeous.  I was surprised at the darker pubic hair, thinking her a natural blond.  And that figure, so in proportion, each part complimenting the next.  I was hard put, so to speak, not to be hard.

In due course, we were alone in the bath.  Extreme heat, I learned, inhibits the normal male response, even with the visual stimulus before me, letting  me appear the gentleman, thank Heaven.  The heat did, however, intensify the effect of the sake left for us by the attendants.

I duly apologized , saying that I hadn’t intended to put her in this position – that I didn’t realize the implications of the Japanese massage.  She blushed with me, and laughed sheepishly, saying that it would be a great story for her husband.  We talked more, and she allowed as to how he often questioned her as to whether she would ever succumb to a smooth talking passenger.  She said she knew that he knew that she was faithful, and that she suspected that he kept asking because he got some kind of sneaky thrill out of the fantasy.  I agreed, and told her I encouraged my wife to show off and flirt for the same reason.  She questioned me closely on this, to her strange, aspect of male sexuality, and finally seemed to chalk it up to all men being turned on by anything at any time.  I agreed.  We didn’t touch in the pool, except incidental contact as sake cups were refilled, but the circumstances and the conversation made it seem deliciously intimate.

After what seemed like a long time, but probably was not, we were summoned from the pool, dried, and dressed in the kimonos again. The attendants led us to a small room, again overlooking a garden, with two massage tables.  Convention reasserted itself momentarily when the kimonos were once again pulled off our shoulders and we were asked to lay down on the tables.  Natasha was so cute, what with the way that blush reached all the way to the tops of her breasts, though I admit my face was also red.  Small towels materialized over our buttocks, and the massage proceeded.

Natasha had opted for a deep massage, and looked sexy as hell, all but nude on her stomach, while a rather large Japanese man in a white loin cloth tried to flatten her into the table.  The sounds she made suggested she was happy, but it looked painful to me.  I opted for a more subtle massage, delivered by a tiny woman in a bra and a loin cloth similar to the man’s.

The masseur and masseuse left us, telling us to relax on the tables as long as we wished.  I turned my head face Natasha and smiled, trying to sink into the tatami mat on that table as my body did its best to imitate a puddle.  She smiled back, apparently feeling the same way.

Suddenly the peacefulness was rent by a playful scream and giggles from next door.  Then another couple raced by, nude, pink from their own massage.  Down the little hill they went, and then jumped into what I had taken for an ornamental pond.  Looking closer, I saw that it was actually a well disguised swimming pool.  Concentrating on the pool, I was surprised when I felt my towel pulled off and my butt slapped.  Jerking up, I was treated to the glorious sight of Natasha’s backside as she too ran giggling to the pool.  I jumped up and followed.

When I jumped in after her, it was cold.  But we warmed up a little as the four us ended up in some uncoordinated game of tag, or at least some furtive feeling up of each other, according to rules that were never enunciated, but seemed to be known to all anyway.  I had quick handfuls of both women’s breasts, and felt two sets of hands on me in seemingly inadvertent touches.  I can state with certainty that cold, unlike heat, does not inhibit the normal male response.  The game ended with Natasha in my embrace in the deep end, with my erection pressed against her stomach as we kissed, our ardor increased by the noises made by the other couple, who sounded to be involved in more intimate pursuits.  I raised Natasha up to my lips for a kiss as our legs scissored to stay above water, and my erection slid across thick pubic patch toward her slit.  We were wrenched back to reality in that instant, and quickly backed off from each other.  

We got out of the pool and went back to the massage room.  We used the towels there to dry off, facing away from each other, and then pulled on the kimonos.

I figured I had blown it.  “Natasha, I’m sorry . . .”

She surprised me.  “You’re sorry you kissed me?”

“Well, no.”

“You’re sorry we touched?”

“Well, only for your sake.”

“It’s insulting for you to be sorry.  You should be excited, at least.  I’d hate to think it was a trial for you to kiss me.”

“If you must know,” said I, finally catching on, “it was exciting as hell.  You are one gorgeous, sexy woman, and the only thing I’m sorry for is pressing on without first ascertaining your limits.”

“Ascertaining my limits?  Heavens, Miles, do you always talk like an organic thesarus?  To woman you just kissed in the nude?”  Even if she were laughing at me, her laughter was a gift, the more pleasurable for having been freely given in these circumstances.

“Unless you object, Miles, I’ve decided to give my perverse husband a real story.  I won’t go all the way with you, but I want us to go back in our kimonos.  I promise only to give you one more kiss.  Anything more than that, well,  we’ll see how it goes.  But no promises  Unless you object?”

“Consider any objection I might put forward overruled, your honor.  Let me call the limo.”

And so it was that she was snuggled against me in the back of the limo, drinking fine Champagne, dressed only in a kimono.  The driver had raised the partition, and we were alone.

It took us three glasses of Champagne, and some nervous chatter before we relaxed.   I knelt before her and again took her feet, removing the Japanese slippers.  This time the foot massage was as sensual as I could make it.  She lay back on the cushions with heavy lidded eyes.  She gave no indication that she knew that her kimono had parted, offering me a clear view of her mons.  In fact, I thought I was going to lose her to sleep before I got the promised kiss.

Languidly, she reached down and pulled me up to her.  Her lips sought mine, and I had my promised kiss.  Tongues fought lazily for dominance, but without urgency.  My hand slid slowly under her kimono to caress a perfect breast.  She arched slightly to me, and sighed.  Never taking my lips away, I teased her nipple until it was fully erect.

Still holding that kiss, I slid my hand down, out over the belt of the kimono, and then back in, touching the uncut forest of hair between her legs.  No Brazilian bikini wax here, but instead a real woman’s thatch.  I thought she’d push me away at that point, but no obstacle intervened between my hand and her peach.  Slowly I caressed, all around, but never into, that slit.  Her hips moved slowly in response.  When I thought she was ready, I let fingers open those lips, feeling the wetness there.  Her hips moved more urgently, and her hand came down on mine.  I thought I had reached her limit, but she didn’t pull me off.

I pulled my own hand away, and captured hers.  Against a slight resistance, I put her hand on me.  I pulled her hand up, and pushed it down.  She continued on her own as I returned my hand to its former position.

We kept at our separate fondlings, while our kiss continued.  Her tongue became more demanding and her hips started to pump more forcefully.  I wasn’t ready for her to orgasm yet, so I took a chance.  I broke the kiss.  She had only promised me one kiss, and it had seemed so far that almost anything went during that kiss.  I wasn’t sure what would happen when it ended, but I wanted to make her come on my tongue.  I broke the kiss and slid to my knees in front of her.  She started to push my head back, but I murmured, “It’s only another kiss . . .”

Her hand relaxed and I tasted her.  She surprised me in that she seemed less ready to come with this stimulation than with my hand.  Her hips pumped and her hand twisted in my hair, but I couldn’t seem to push her over the edge.  I finally resorted to the old trick of writing the alphabet with my tongue on her clitoris.  She came on “j.”

I would have continued, but she pulled me to her face, and we kissed again.  She didn’t give me a chance to wipe my face, so she tasted herself on me.  It didn’t seem to bother her.  This new position, however, presented me with a test of my character.  My cock was at her vagina.  A small adjustment and a hip thrust, and I would be in her.  Heaven knows I wanted it.  But she had said we would not go all the way.  Then suddenly it was not up to me.  The car lurched, or her hips bucked slightly, or both, and I was in her.  Only an inch or two, but in her.  She froze.  I froze.  The kiss ended as she looked down between our bodies, to where the head of my erection had disappeared into her.  Deliberately, she moved her hips so that another inch disappeared.  I am not big, so this was half-way for me.  I stayed still, waiting.  After a second, she pulled her hips back abruptly.

“I’m sorry, Miles.  I can’t do this.  This is more story than I planned.  I’m not even sure I can tell my husband this much.  I have to stop.”

“I understand, Natasha.  I shouldn’t have plied you with so much liquor.  I wanted us to have fun, but I didn’t want you to regret it later.”

“Oh my, Miles,” she laughed, “ I won’t regret it.  I wanted a naughty story to tell my husband – not quite this naughty, mind you – but I won’t regret it.  Someday I’ll probably regret stopping now, but not tonight.  Tonight I regret nothing.”  And then she kissed me one last time.

We cuddled for a few more minutes, and then the intercom dinged.   The driver informed us that we would be at Natasha’s hotel in a few minutes.  We scrambled to dress in street clothes, giggling and playing like children.  The limo stopped, and the door opened.  And then she was gone.  I haven’t seen her since, but one of these days we’ll be on the same flight . . . and we’ll share a secret smile.

Or perhaps she did continue her hip thrust, and buried me in that extraordinarily tight sheath, moving up and back until I took over the rhythm.  Telling me not to come inside her.  Me telling her it was inside her or in her mouth.  And it was, one or the other.

Or maybe coming up to my suite, murmuring, “Might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb . . .”  And after mutual oral resuscitation, considerably more pleasant than what I experienced on the airplane, reprising our performance in the limo.  

Maybe she was tied face down and spread on the bed, with her charmingly reluctant consent, while I took what she said was her last virginity.

Or maybe a just peck on the cheek after dinner was all that happened.  She was a faithful wife, you know.

The story ends differently each time I tell it to my wife.  By the way, I was pleased that my wife found the story erotic, and doesn’t seem threatened by it.  Whether I will ever get her to come through with her side of the deal remains to be seen.  I am not holding my breath.  

Well, that is the story, told in just the manner I think they wanted me to tell it.  Most of it, or maybe all of it, is even true.  Or at least, that’s what I tell my wife.  I don’t know what Natasha tells her husband.

mnaismith@hotmail.com

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/mnaismith/www/