The bar was so elegant I could have been in Manhattan or Paris. Only the monitors showing arrivals and departures revealed the truth.
Heads turned when I walked in. The Versace skirt – split to the thigh – was one reason. The shiny, black, stiletto-heels were another. I’d had my hair stubble cut and bleached platinum blonde, it was ultra-short with the design of a Celtic knot razored into the back above the nape. I looked dangerous and I knew it. I sat at a table, letting the skirt slide away from my hip, revealing my burgundy hold-up stockings. I smiled at a couple of men who clearly thought their airport wet dreams had come true, and something in my smile made them look away nervously.
I lifted my spritzer so I could watch a pretty girl over the top. A very pretty girl. She was wandering around the airport, introducing herself to upscale female travelers, talking to them for a few minutes, and then presenting them with an envelope. The whole process had a vaguely oriental feel to it – from the golden, Oriental-style tunic she was wearing, with its wide pale, green sash – to the deferential bow with which she said goodbye. She wasn’t Oriental, though. She was small enough, and her long black hair could give that impression from the back, but her tiny, up-tilted nose and freckles destroyed the illusion. She had long legs, slender but well-muscled, the kind of legs that grip tenaciously.
I let her catch me looking at her, before lowering my eyes to her small, high breasts. She blushed.
I beckoned her over.
“You’re selling something,” I said.
“Why don’t you try and sell it to me,” I invited.
She went into her sales routine as if on auto-pilot. Had I heard of Venus Spas, she asked?
No, I hadn’t.
They were the most exclusive, the most cosseting, the most female-centered experience available to a woman, she said.
I snorted, to let her know I doubted the accuracy of that claim. She faltered a second before recovering.
A visit to a Venus Spa would make any woman’s holiday or business trip complete. The stress of flight delays could be eased away right here, in the mini-spa attached to the departure lounge. Alternatively, the Venus Spa at my destination or stopover point would soothe away travel weariness and send me out as fresh as a rose. She grinned at me, no doubt thinking I was the kind of rose that was mainly thorns. I grinned back. She raised an eyebrow. I shook my head.
“I’m not the spa type,” I said, and watched her face become smooth and blank with disappointment. She was working on commission, I thought.
“But I’ll buy you a drink in your lunch break,” I added.
She blushed again. “I’m off for an hour at 12:30,” she muttered, before skittering off to try and sell her spa experience to somebody else. I sat back – I had seventeen minutes to wait.
I saw her hand her envelopes to another kimono-wearing girl, so I stood, throwing back my drink and strode across the airport to gather her up. Her daffodil-yellow ballet pumps barely touched the ground, I moved so fast.
“Where are we going?” she asked. “Aren’t we having a drink here?”
I replied by bundling her into a taxi. The journey was swift and silent. Several times she looked up and began to speak, but fell silent. I hustled her through the lobby of a chain hotel and pushed my card key into the bedroom door.
“Look . . .” she said, but I put my hand over her mouth and held it there while I eased her into the room.
She gave up all pretense of resistance. Her dark eyes got darker and she licked her lips invitingly. She swayed towards me, until her hips and breasts brushed mine. I felt tiny electric shocks where our flesh touched, and those little sparks moved through me like fire, making me hot, making me wet, making me want to come.
I put my arms round her, grabbing the ends of that stupid sash. “I’m wondering if this thing is long enough to tie you to the mattress,” I said. Immediately, she lay down on the narrow single bed.
Decisions, decisions. Should I tie her hands and leave her legs free, or tie her legs and leave her hands free? If I tied her hands I would be able to push her legs open and tease her with my tongue – that would be great, but I’d only be able to see her up close. If I tied her legs though, I could pin her arms with one of mine while I hand-fucked her – and I would have a great full-length view as she came.
“Bev?” she said. “I’ve got to be back in an hour.”
It broke the mood. I glared.
“Sorry!” she said. “Sorry, Bev. I mean – sorry.”
I swatted at her with one end of the silk and she grabbed it, pulling me down to kiss me. I lifted her right arm above her head, tying the apple-colored material to her wrist, before reaching behind the headboard with the fabric, and knotting it round her left wrist.
“Now I’ll teach you a lesson, Anna,” I said.
I stepped back from the bed slowly, and turned in a circle, letting her get a good look at me.
“Do I look good?” I asked, knowing I did.
“You look gorgeous,” she replied. “Where did you get those amazing clothes?”
“Dress agency – I hired the entire outfit,” I said, kneeling on the bed, pushing her feet up and to one side, so she was curled like a baby. Under the kimono she was naked, and I paused to look at my favorite view.
Anna’s slim hips hid a surprise – she had a lush vagina, with gorgeously ripe plum-shaded lips. And she was so receptive that if I brushed my hand over her thick pubes, she would moan and thrust her hips upwards. At first I’d thought she was faking it, but no, she really was so hair-trigger, the slightest touch would get her writhing and hot. A dirty girl, a very dirty girl indeed.
I held her ankles with one hand, and dragged the fingers of my other hand across her tight, high buttocks. She thrashed her head, her hands pulling on the silk bindings. She was going to pay dearly for breaking the spell of my carefully choreographed scenario. I glanced at my watch, letting her see me do it, before sliding one finger inside her.
She was slick and hot. She tried to spread her thighs but I held her ankles tight, keeping her feet pinned to the bed. It was an arousing picture. Her arms were tied crucifix style, her hair flowed across the pillow like ink, and her nipples showed sharply through the tunic. Her body twisted sharply at the waist, where the yellow fabric was rucked up to reveal her legs. Her knees were bent and almost touching her left arm and her feet, still in ballet pumps, were kicking against my hand.
“Please,” she said.