Sex with a Sting: Six Erotic Fantasies with a Kink in the Tail (2 page)

“You relax,
resting your eyes, and you feel my hand caressing your smooth legs. My fingers
move slowly from your ankle, to your knee, to your inner thigh and underneath
your flimsy summer dress.” Adam paused briefly to carefully breathe a kiss onto
Helena’s neck. She felt herself shiver in anticipation. “My hand moves higher,
hardly touching your skin, almost tickling, and your body twitches at my touch,
but you keep your eyes closed. I can see you trying to stifle a smile, trying
to act as if I’m not touching you, as if we’re both not a little drunk, as if
we’re both not imagining making love in the open air on the blanket. And
finally my fingers reach your soft, lace panties and you feel the pressure of
my fingers between your legs. You open your legs just a little more, inviting
me to continue, but I stop…”

By this time, the
cabin crew were all seated and strapped in. The plane had halted, waiting for
the signal to roar forward. Everything was still. When the accelerators did
finally hit, making the plane lurch and shudder towards take-off, Helen barely
noticed. “I lift the hem of your dress. I move my body between your legs. I
kiss your skin, warm from the sun, and run my tongue right to the top of your
thigh, tracing the edge of your lingerie. You can feel my hot breath through
the lace, you can feel my tongue begin to press against it, touching your clit
through the material…” The plane shot into the air. Helena was gripping Adam’s
hand, her eyes closed, her mind on the meadow. There was a pause.

“And then there’s
the blindfold.” Adam was suddenly speaking at a normal volume. She glanced at
him through a half-opened eye and saw him holding the blindfold up.

“Tease,” she
murmured, and closed her eyes again, hoping he would continue.

He leant back to
her ear. “The blindfold is easier. We’re staying in a palatial suite in a five
star hotel. It’s not just a bedroom. There’s a living room, a dining table, an
enormous hot tub. All for us. Room service on tap. You’re wearing a business
suit, a hot, tight one, short skirt, your breasts straining at the buttons of
your pure white shirt. I’m in a dark Armani suit. We have a drink, then I
produce a blindfold from my pocket and demand you put it on. You do so. You’re
an obedient lover.

“Then I order you
to strip down to your underwear, stockings and high heels only, and once again
you do so, immediately, eager to please. I look you up and down, drinking in your
gorgeous body, hardly able to contain myself. You hear me get undressed. You
feel me in front of you, then holding you, our skin touching. You can tell,
easily, that you’ve aroused me. You try to touch it, but I take your hand and
lead you to the bedroom.” Adam moved his hand to Helena’s thigh and she caught
her breath as perhaps just one finger moved underneath the hem of her skirt.

“I pick you up and
gently drop you on the bed. You lie there, unable to see a thing, then you feel
me take a wrist and tie it – not too tightly, and with a silk
handkerchief – to the back of the bed. Then I take your other wrist, then
an ankle, then your other ankle, until you’re helpless, unable to see, unable
to move…”

“Oh God,”
whispered Helena, but once more Adam pulled away. Another brief pause. She
opened her eyes properly, a little surprised that the plane was already beginning
to level out – it seemed like seconds since they were on the ground. Adam
had a slightly perplexed look on his face. He was looking down at something.
She followed his gaze. In his hand were the earplugs. “Ah,” she said. “Good
luck with them.”

“Oh, there’s no
problem with these,” he laughed. Quickly he leaned back to her ear. “These are
for me to wear. I don’t want my hearing damaged when I make you scream. Over.
And over. And over.”

Helena started
giggling. “I rarely lose control, sir.” She looked down again. “Okay, the
socks, then. What sort of twisted, perverted fun do you get up to in a pair of
thin red socks?”

Adam thought for a
moment. “You know, I saw a film once. A French one. A sort of coming of age
story about teenage kids in a normal, medium-sized French town. There were two
boys who were friends and they were obsessed with women and boobs and sex, as
you are at that age.”

“Like you’re not
now?”

“Well, I like to
think I’ve matured a little bit. Anyway, one friend would constantly visit the
other because there was this woman – I suppose she would have been called
a MILF if this had been an American movie – who lived in a flat opposite.
And every evening she would undress in front of her window, giving the boys a
perfect view of, well, everything.”

“Did she know they
could see her?”

“No, I don’t think
so. I think she caught them watching her towards the end of the film and was
mortified. Anyway, the boys would make sure they were alone in the room at the
time she’d get ready for bed each night and watch her, sharing one pair of
binoculars between them.”

“Okay, I’m not
seeing what this has to do with socks. Are you trying to change the subject so
I’ll forget about how right I was and about how wrong you were?”

“Wait for it, this
is about socks. I promise. Anyway, so they watch her and, together, they
masturbate, careful not to look at each other, obviously. They get themselves
really hard and,” he dropped his voice even lower, “and quickly they get to a
climax. But they never see each other’s cock and they never make a mess.
Because…” he paused for dramatic effect, “they were
wanking into socks
!
They each wore a sock like a… like a
freaking cotton condom
!”

“Oh God!” Helena
let out a yelp. A couple of people looked at her. “That is fucking
gross
,
Adam!”

“Well, you did ask
how a sock could be sexual. That was the only thing I could think of.”

“Urgh. Their poor
mother having to wash those socks. Oh, gross. Gross.”

“So… you’re saying
you don’t want to watch me toss off into this airline sock, then?” he asked,
holding it aloft between thumb and forefinger.

“Oh, take it away,
no, definitely not… well, it depends how much I have to drink. Maybe it’d be
hot!”

They were
interrupted by the Captain’s voice making various announcements about altitudes
and temperatures and speeds and so forth. He sounded like every Captain Helena
had ever heard on any plane. She was sure they all underwent a ‘speaking in a
calm, confident, mildly sexy voice’ module at pilot’s university. Eventually,
the singular noise utilised by all plane companies to signal the extinguishing
of the seat belt sign was sounded. Had Helena been in economy at this point
then she would probably have started reading a book or watching a film. But she
wasn’t in economy. She was in business class. There was no need for such run of
the mill entertainments. It was time to hit the bar.

This was how all
travel should be, thought Helena. 11 hours on a plane for her would normally be
uncomfortable at best, screamingly infuriating at worst. Instead, here she was,
perched at a rather sleek bar with an extremely attractive and attentive
gentleman, ordering a martini. She never drank martinis. She preferred a glass
of Chablis or occasionally a bottle of Sol or Peroni. But she was in business
class. A martini just felt right. “Can I have
two
olives?” she asked,
just for the hell of it.

“Of course,
madam,” said the young bar tender. Helena felt that he would have acquiesced
with just as much charm had she asked for 30 olives and a cupcake. Adam ordered
a martini too. A quick toast and within a few minutes they were already
ordering a second. It’s easy to get tipsy on planes, and this drink combined
with the champagne earlier meant that Helena was already feeling pleasantly
light-headed. Any nerves about this trip, about this big, unusual, maybe even
risky, decision she had made, were now long forgotten.

“So,” said Adam,
twisting the toothpick that was skewering his single olive, “when was the last
time you flew? Where did you fly to? Bad memories of economy class?”

“Oh
dahhhling
,”
Helena began in her best posh voice. “It was
frightful
, it really was.
All those… those
people
. You just can’t imagine.” Adam smiled. “It was
fine actually. Short hop to Milan for a weekend away with a couple of
girlfriends. Before that… God, it was probably with the ex. I haven’t been away
much the last couple of years. We went to Madrid for four or five days.”

“How was it?”

“Same as usual.
Great for the first day, lovely first evening, then by the end of the third day
we were pretty much sick of the sight of each other. We had a weird
relationship like that. Very good in small doses. But marriages don’t come in
small doses, do they?”

“I suppose not.”

“Sorry, you don’t
want to hear all this nonsense, do you? That’s not what we’re here for!”

“No it’s fine,
honestly. Was he a nightmare?”

“No he was okay.
But we were just too different. Especially when we drank. When I drink I try to
maintain a sense of decorum, you know, to stay at least a little ladylike
– as you can tell,” she giggled, reaching forward and patting his knee.
“Okay, so maybe I was a bit wilder in my 20s, but for the last few years I’ve
been a good girl. Mainly. It’s not the done thing for a woman of my age to be
found drunk in the gutter, skirt hitched above hips, empty bottle of Lambrini
in hand, mascara pouring down face and vomit drying on cleavage.

“I matured, you
know. But my ex couldn’t let go of his 20s. When we went on that Madrid trip we
had a meal on the third night and he had a cocktail to start, a strong one, and
then we shared a bottle of wine, although he probably drank two-thirds of it.
Then, even though I’d had enough, he ordered another bottle, which he drank by
himself. And then he had a cognac. And another, just to round the evening off.
He was just sitting there garbling nonsense at me. Not with me. At me. It would
have been okay if he’d have shut up. We were out in a lovely square, it was a
warm evening, there were families and lovers and sweet grandmothers all out for
a stroll, having a nice time. It was really beautiful, you know? I could’ve sat
there in total silence just enjoying the atmosphere, sipping at a coffee. But
he was legless. I mean, I was a
bit
drunk, but he was out of his tree.”

“It’s not
necessary,” agreed Adam, and then ordered a third martini each, making Helena
giggle again.

“So, finally, we
get up to leave, but as soon as he stands up his legs buckle. I have to hold
him up. I can feel people staring at us. We walk for a bit, but then he sees
this kid, this three-year-old, I swear, riding a little scooter. So he runs up
to him and asks him, in English, if he can have a go. The kid doesn’t
understand and looks at his parents. The poor mite looked terrified. But the ex
just asks the parents if he can have a go. In English, of course. They look at
me and can tell I’m mortified. I try to get him away, because he’s got his
hands on the handlebars of the scooter, but he won’t let go. He asks the
parents again and they say something in Spanish to their poor, terrified kid,
and he lets go of it. So the ex gleefully jumps on and begins scootering around
the piazza, singing, I shit you not, ‘O Sole Mio’. The twat thought he was in
Italy or something. Finally, he falls off, hurts his knee, staggers back, gives
the kid his scooter, ruffles his hair, insists on shaking the kid’s dad’s hand
and then, before I can stop him, he
kisses
the mum’s hand and starts
bowing and then tells them how much he loves the footballer Andres Iniesta, who
even I know plays for Barcelona, so that’s a dumb thing to say in Madrid, and,
finally, I drag him away.”

“Oh Christ. What
was their reaction?”

“Well, they smiled
at me pityingly and waved their hands as I apologised. But, you know, typical
bloody drunken Englishman abroad… Still,” she took a sip of her drink and then
took the stick of olives and carefully pulled one of them into her mouth with
her lips, ‘I don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

An hour or so
later, having both finished a rather lovely meal ordered from a menu, like in a
restaurant, not thrown at them from a tray following the usual ‘Chicken or
beef?’ question/demand, they settled back into their extremely comfortable
chairs and watched a couple of old episodes of
Seinfeld
. Gradually,
lights all around them flickered out and a sort of dusk fell inside the plane
as people began dozing off. It was incredibly peaceful and relaxing. After the
first episode, Adam had suggested that they both make use of the blankets, so
by midway through the second (Kramer falls helplessly in love with Jerry’s new
girlfriend), they were both feeling warm and cosy.

It was around this
time that Adam moved his hand over to Helena’s leg. She held it, slipping her
fingers between his once more, but soon he moved his hand under the blanket for
a more direct connection with her thigh.

Helena knew
exactly what was going on. They had discussed it all. Adam, a little more
experienced in this kind of thing than her, had explained how it would all
work. Thanks to his little stories earlier, the flush of alcohol and, of
course, his magnificent hotness, Helena had, in fact, been dying for this
particular dance to begin for some time. Sitting at the bar she had constantly
touched his thigh, wishing they could be alone. As they walked back to their
seats she had admired his tight behind. When they sat down she had even dared
to sneak a quick glance at the full bulge around his crotch.