The Adult Story Hub

This work is copyrighted to the author © 2000. =Please do not remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration.
By DrSpin May (drspin@newsguy.com)

# The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com
Acknowlagements: Ruthie edited expertly. Stimulating suggestions came from Nat and Virago Blue.

She was irritated to seething point. I could read her mood from the way she walked. She was far too precise with her feet, making staccato rude remarks with her high heels as she marched briskly around the airport terminal. A redhead, of course. Nobody gets madder than a redhead.
I was slumped in a chair, legs stretched out, arms folded, waiting for something to happen. The plane had broken down and more than 300 of us were holed up in this dead dump of a terminal while it was being fixed. It was as clean as a new, unused hospital, and just as lifeless, sterile, and devoid of charm or character. It had been two hours already. God only or in this place Allah knew when the flight to Paris might resume. From there I was bound for St. Petersburg and a special fixit job in Russia.
Nothing to drink, because Bahrain was a Muslim airport. Nothing to see, because this was just a holding lounge for international passengers. Nowhere to go, because soldiers with machine guns guarded the doors. Nothing to do but sit and wait. Or in the redhead's case, walk backwards and forwards, up and down, there and back. And in my case, watch her with growing interest.
I watched her hiss and spit like a ginger cat at a man curled up and trying to sleep in a chair. Her husband. Had to be. Drunk as a skunk, having imbibed too much free stuff on the plane no doubt. All he wanted to do was sleep. He waved her away without even looking at her, and she resumed her vigorous march with a mouth set tight, frustrated and angry.
I heard the heels behind me and she turned the corner and stopped, barred from passing by my outstretched legs. I looked up and she was glaring at me. We locked eyes. She expected me to withdraw my legs like any gentleman would.
But I was bored and feeling ungentlemanly. I smiled at her, slowly, lazily, arrogantly. She was smallish but red-hot attractive, with bushy ginger hair and witchy jade-green eyes. I left her gaze to look down the length of her body, slowly, lazily, arrogantly, then back to her face to see what she would do.
She was not amused. At all. Her mouth was shut tighter than a New Zealand oyster, and a thunderous frown narrowed her eyes to reptilian slits. I raised one eyebrow, challengingly.
She kicked me sharply on the ankle, and it hurt. But Ace Dyson is a sportsman who can cope with pain, and I did, showing nothing. She looked at me with eyes casting spells of misery, plague, and slow painful death for a few seconds, then stepped over my legs and swept away down the aisle.
Intoxicating. I wanted to fuck her more than any woman on earth. Such fury. Such fire. Such passion. I had to taste it, and my mouth was dry and metallic from wanting her.
She wasn't so special. Three or four women on the aircraft outdid her at face-value. But there was something about this pocket-rocket powder-keg, about the way she walked and swung her hips, about the aggressive set of her face, that put her on the menu in bold type. I knew, I just knew, the tension so obviously stretching her nerves could be turned into combustible carnal energy at the right time and place.
Without a cold plan but with a burning desire, I got to my feet and looked around the terminal. I needed to collide with her again, hopefully with enough friction to set the sparks flying. But how?
I spotted a likely conspirator. At the ticketing desk was a suave Arab clerk with an Omar Sharif moustache. I clicked open my briefcase and wrote a short note. <*> I walked up to the clerk and handed him the folded sheet of paper containing a fifty dollar bill. He opened the sheet of paper, looked quickly at the bill and back at me politely and enquiringly.
"The redhead," I said. "The one who is stomping around the place with ants in her pants."
He looked over my shoulder and nodded. "I see her," he said with a clipped English accent.
"Wait a few minutes and give this note to her. Say nothing, and keep the change."
He bowed his head fractionally. "Certainly, sir. Something for her ants?"
I nodded. "If I'm lucky, Omar, if I'm lucky."
I walked away and took up position at a suitable place for a fast-breaking opportunity. Like all new buildings, the terminal had a special toilet for the disabled. And there were no disabled passengers on the aircraft. I strolled over, leaned against the wall near the door with the universal wheelchair symbol, and waited.
Soon enough she came by, heels clacking. I lifted my hand casually in a minimal wave and it caught her attention. I smiled that insolent smile she didn't fancy and she stopped, turned, and marched directly up to me, my note in her hand and spoiling for a fight.
"Fuck you," she said savagely, thrusting the note into my face.
"American," I said.
"Canadian," she said automatically. Then: "Brit."
"Australian," I said. "Call me Ace."
"No thanks," she said. "Fuck you."
"Sold," I said, taking her elbow and steering her through the door of the disabled toilet so fast she couldn't begin to think about stopping me.
I swung her by the shoulders and pressed her against the closed door. She blinked in alarm and I could see she thought I was going to hit her. Taking advantage of her confusion, I kissed her hard on the mouth.
"Mmm." She squirmed, protesting, but I was now pinning her upper arms to the door. I persisted, kissing her closed mouth insistently.
"Mmm." She thrust out violently but I moved into her and pressed her flat, crushing and smothering her wriggling body.
"Mmm." She swung her right arm from the elbow and a fist whacked me ineffectually in the small of the back.
Suddenly her resistance collapsed. She opened her mouth and her lips changed instantly from hard to soft. I felt her shoulders sag as she pushed her tummy forward to meet me. She was kissing me back.
"Mmm." It was a mushy sound and there was an agreeable taste of accommodating woman in my mouth.
I disengaged slowly and drew back, but still pinning her upper arms. She looked me directly in the eye and I could read the challenge on her face. Well then, you big-headed prick, she was saying without saying a word, what happens next?
Deliberately, so she could watch it happen all the way, I slid my right hand under her jacket and cupped a breast through her silk blouse. It fitted comfortably and I waited for her reaction.
She looked down at my hand, then back at my face. A trace of a smile appeared on her lips, though her eyes still carried residual hostility, and I put the question to her. "Well then, Ginger," I said, "shall we go on with this?
She knew she could say no and I would let her go. Red, amber, green, red, amber, green. It was like watching traffic lights changing at lightning speed. She was weighing the possibilities and the consequences, and mixed up in the process were considerations like her anger, her drunken and sleeping husband, and the frustration of being cooped up in the most boring airport terminal in the world. That, and a heroin-like smack of raw unadulterated lust that had jumped into her bloodstream.
She reached out an arm, snaked it around my neck, and pulled me back into another kiss.
Suddenly, time accelerated. Hands were everywhere and two of them were mine. Her dress came unbuttoned and I roughly shoved her bra above and away from her breasts, needing urgently to get at the hard points of her nipples. She ground her stomach against my erection and the hand around my neck dropped to press demandingly against my buttocks, urging me to push into her.
I ripped my mouth away from hers. Hurry, the pulse beating in my temples was telling me. Stick it into her as deep as you can and don't hang about.
Her mouth was open invitingly and teeth showed, her dress gaped open, and the bra was listing crazily up near her neck. She had a light dusting of freckles on her breasts and the nipples were small but eagerly rigid. Her eyes, watching and waiting, were greedy-green and calculating.
I looked around the small tiled room wildly, blood pumping so fast it was hard to think. What? Where? How?
She made it to a plan before I did. She put a hand against my chest and propelled me steadily backwards. My back hit the cubicle door so hard it banged against the wall. I felt the stool of the toilet against my calves and she pushed firmly. I toppled back and sat heavily on the low, wide seat.
She looked down at me and laughed, little more than a short bark. Eyes boring into mine, she hiked up her dress, tucked it into her belt, and whipped her pants down.
A true redhead, ginger top and bottom. Narrow hips. Looked small. But lithe, hot, and spicy.I got rid of my trousers and briefs fast, and she was on me in a flash, straddling me awkwardly and lowering herself with single-minded intent. She grabbed my stiff penis, guided it into the right position, lined it up, lodged it, wriggled, settled, and slid it home.
We were eye to eye, so close that in the antiseptically clean, unused cubicle I could smell her face makeup and hair shampoo. My hands went straight to her breasts. Immediately she started to pump, using the flat of her hands on my hips for leverage.
"Mmm." It was a strain for her. Lift, settle, lift, settle. Slowly, like doing pushups and coming to your limits. I flicked my thumbs across her hard nipples.
An impossibly loud speaker burst into life immediately above our heads. We jumped like startled springboks and nearly fell off the pedestal.
"Ladies and gentlemen, your aircraft is now ready for departure. Please board through gate one."
I grabbed her around the waist just as she was toppling and pulled her upright. I started to laugh. Couldn't help it. She laughed too. I could feel the vibrations right through the length and breadth of my penis embedded within her.
She could feel the vibrations too and she stopped laughing and wriggled lasciviously. Her eyes, so close to mine, closed for a moment. Then she reached out and placed her hands on my shoulders. After a scorching deep look to show she meant business, she hurled herself into action. She bounced hard, grunting softly with the effort. Faster. Faster still. All the way up to the top.
"Mmm." Mouth tight, eyes shut, she frowned with concentration and then suddenly dropped her head between her arms hanging on to my shoulders. Strands of her red hair on the top of her head tickled my nose. As she was coming down from the height of her orgasm I went up and into her with a vengeance, erupting. The effort made me dizzy.
We sat together on the lid of the toilet, resting. She was breathing deeply and her hair was hanging down.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your final call for Paris flight 131. Please board through gate one."
"Mmm." She lifted her head, looked at me without expression for a second or two, and climbed off my lap. She shook out her dress and pulled up her pants, grimacing slightly.
I remained slumped on the toilet seat, instantly sleepy and unmotivated to get up. Dressed once more, she looked down at me with a glacial glint in her green eyes, pausing, measuring, considering. I thought she was going to say something, like maybe thanks for an interesting interlude. Instead she flashed out a hand and smacked me stingingly on the side of the face.
"How dare you," she said.
I raised my hand to my burning cheek, blinking. She was already on her way out, and she was laughing like she was thoroughly pleased with herself.
I dressed and splashed cool tap water on my red hot face, using a few minutes to put some space between us. I slipped out of the toilet and joined the end of the short remaining queue at gate one.
Omar Sharif inspected my ticket. "Ah," he said, his tone suggesting an issue. "Mr. Dyson."
"Yes?"
"The lady asked me to give you this." With his head tilted politely and eyebrows raised solicitously, he handed me a piece of paper crumpled into a tight little ball. It was my note to Ginger. "Our facilities were to your satisfaction?"
I fished out another fifty dollar bill which he palmed so smoothly you'd have missed it if you blinked. "You run a nice little terminal here, Omar," I said.
I was last on the aircraft. Halfway up the aisle a woman stuck out a leg deliberately in front of me. I stopped and looked at her.
"Forgot to tell you something," she said softly. "No apology. I should have kicked you harder."
I paused. Her husband was sitting by the window, looking out, attention elsewhere. "Redheads rarely apologise," I said, stepping over her leg and continuing to my seat. "Makes life interesting."