The Air Hostess
She sits at the bar stirring a dirty martini.
“Is this seat taken?” you ask.
“Huh?” she looks up, smiles, “oh yeah, sure, it’s yours.”
“The midnight flight, cancelled again.”
“Again,” she sighs, she doesn’t look up.
Her hostess uniform, a neat navy pleated skirt, neck scarf and taut white blouse, the buttons pulling at the seams desperately as her breasts plead freedom. She crosses her legs, she’s aware you’re there, she feels you looking. She tugs at the hem of her skirt, her suspenders easing out beneath it.
You sit in silence for some time, breathing each other in.
“Where are you from?” she eventually asks.
“Hong Kong,” you somehow pull the words from behind your teeth, why am I suddenly so nervous?
She smirks and starts to play with the martini’s olive, peeling it from the toothpick and teasing it around the glass like a cat with a mouse, piercing it once more.
“You’re flying for business?” she pauses, “or pleasure, Sir?”
She catches your eye, pulls the olive from the toothpick with her lips, slowly, lazily, without breaking your stare and you imagine the olive swimming around her mouth, warm and firm and salty and covered in her wetness. God dammit, I’m jealous of an olive?
“Umm, well, a bit of both, I suppose, I umm, hope?” In truth it’s been too long, a purge that’s been beckoning you and she senses your hunger. I want her.
She plays with her top button, confidently.
“I’ve got a room at the airport hotel,” she turns in her chair and places her hand gently on your thigh, “if you’d like some company?”
(The Air Hostess Fantasy is available upon request)