Anticipation & Dreams

Literotic asexstories – Anticipation & Dreams by AnneOfVienna,AnneOfVienna
This is a story of how I met the most troublesome man in my life. Well… trouble in a certain sense of the term. In a particular flavor of trouble a woman associates with certain… *awkward* feelings “down there” between her legs. A *good* kind of trouble?

Though with this handsome & singularly devilish fellow there would prove to be other sorts of troubles too. Adventures both good and bad.

And here is how it all began…

I was at the airport one afternoon for a business trip. To London and back, with a one week stay there. Travelling alone, and first class.

For those who might care I’ll describe how I looked, both my figure and dress.

I had curly black hair, and while I don’t think I was thin I tried hard to achieve a decent enough balance of nutrition and exercise to keep my body in decent shape — I hoped anyway. Average weight for my height and that too I know was average for my age — lets just say in my 30s and leave it at that.

And what I wore?

Nothing exciting because I wasn’t looking to impress anyone but since it would be a long flight with lots of walking both before and after I wanted to dress light and simple: white blouse over cheap white bra, short black skirt and athletic shoes. And panties, of course. Also cheap and black. Though here perhaps is where my attire may have gotten unusual by the standards of a modern air traveler.

Because under my panties there was one rather interesting twist: jewelry.

Yes, jewelry “down there” — of the so-called genital kind.

Specifically I wore a type of rubber-tipped metal tweezers and they gently surrounded and gripped my clitoral flesh — my sensitive nub and some of the hood just around it. A small tight rubber band had been added on to the tweezer grippers ends in order to help keep it firmly in place.

And yes I was the kinky freak who had put it there.

Why?

Because the sensation was exquisite. Intense. Indescribable. And yes at times overwhelming.

When I felt it it was nearly impossible to take my mind off of it. It turned me on to no end. I was a little horny when I first put it on and once settled in place I became yet more horny still. It was called edging and its erotic effects were out of this world. The longer I left it in place then the bigger and more earthshattering the orgasm I would eventually have. Plus frankly I liked the challenge of it. The discipline I needed to have.

Oh and I loved the sheer idea of it. I felt like such a slut,  such a whore. It made me feel like some high class world-travelling elite escort or Saudi sheik’s consort — even though I sadly wasn’t, and had no realistic expectations of ever becoming one.

The biggest thing about it that sucked was not having someone to take charge of it for me — not having someone to force it on me, not having someone to answer to about it. Not having any sort of real structure or authority figure I could have the luxury of playing the role of the submissive, or slave or, yes, the well-paid whore or nameless harem girl.

Did I mention I was at an airport?

And yes that meant going through security  And yes that meant going through X-ray machines and scanning wands.

Let’s just say that I’m sure the security guards got a rather intimate hint at what exactly I was packing in my panties and somehow it must not have bothered them. They waved me through without issue. And secretly I got a pervy thrill from the idea of what they saw in their scan imagery. The exhibitionist side of me?

Oh and did I mention how conservative I was raised, and how strictly? Yeah, by adulthood I think it was starting to backfire. The girl who had spent so many years trying to be a “good” one had become a grown woman who spent most of her waking hours trying to keep secret just how *bad* she had become…

Long story short, my flight’s departure time came and I boarded, and made my way to my assigned seat, stowed my carry-on bag in the overheard and got settled in. I would have plenty of room to stretch except there would be another passenger sitting to my immediate left. My seat was on the aisle and theirs by the window.

Very few passengers were in first class that flight, for whatever reason, and it seemed that at most it would be myself and perhaps two others, all in a single shared cabin space of 12 seats total.

One of the other passengers in first class was a little old lady. Italian. Francesca. Also travelling alone. The thought made me sad for some reason.

The second?

It was a man.

And he came and sat down next to me.

There was technically enough unbooked seats he could theoretically sit elsewhere in order to give us each more privacy and room — perhaps he would change it up later, I thought — but… I did not mind.

Why?

First of all… damn.

Just hot damn.

He was tall, and muscular, a dark blonde, with some stubble, and cold gray steel eyes like a hunter.

Broad shoulders, thick forearms.

Long fingered hands.

A black jacket suit perfectly tailored for him, over a white long sleeve shirt.

His legs alone looked like they meant business… an athlete? Soldier? Dunno.

And though it was not as easy to tell the boy had a butt — a rather nice ass as far as men went. That I could sense anyway as I quickly checked him out as he put up his own bag and took off his jacket and then got himself down into the seat next to me.

Oh and… a confident smile. Smooth tone of voice, strong and masculine, but friendly and egoless.

We introduced ourselves to each other and made a little small talk. Time passed fast enough and we were in the air and into the early portion of our long non-stop flight to London….

I had a magazine on my lap to flip through. And he had brought a book out from his carry on. A thick history book — I remember that part quite distinctly because of its title and topic: The Rise and Fall of The Third Reich, by William Shirer.

His brow furrowed as he read, his expression reminding me of a very serious & studious school boy who found himself lost in time or some adventurous dream. Myself I was immersed in the latest tips on home furnishings and interior decoration — quite the contrast!

Eventually the crew dimmed the lights in first class, and I think the older Italian lady had dozed off. The crew left us alone to rest if we wished — it would be a long overnight flight with a landing in the morning.

And the entire time I sat there and read, and especially the entire time I had chatted with the hunky mystery man next to me I never once lost awareness of what was going on down between my legs.

Down in my panties.

The obscenity of sorts which was playing out down there. The unignorable sensations. Like a tingling tease raised to the power of ten.

And I never planned to leave the clamp on the entire flight — that would be too much! I had planned to get up at some point and go into the little private restroom and sneakily remove it in there. I could not bear to leave it on the entire flight to London without losing my mind. And I didn’t dare try to frig myself to crisis in the restroom — I was not quite that dirty and uninhibited. Plus between the clamping on my clit and the sheer perfection of the man near me I knew I was wet. And I was getting worried I might get in trouble from it,  somehow. Afterall I was a “good girl” still, deep down. I was not the type of woman who would–

And that’s when He interrupted my thoughts. When he belly-flopped right smack into the middle of my otherwise manageable pool of feminine self-analysis. Without warning — and as my own eyes were focused down on the pages of the magazine on my lap — he whispered to me these words:

“Look, I know the, uh… *aroma* of it. Especially when its this close. Its unmistakeable.”

It was as if the world suddenly came to a stop. And grew silent. I quickly looked up at him, my eyes going wide I imagine.

“What?! W-w-what are you talking about?” I asked, in clear confusion if not indignation.

He grinned. Like the Cheshire Cat.

“Of a cunt in heat, dear lady. And trust me: my nose knows *precisely* which passenger its coming from. Though I don’t mind. Really. Makes the flight more interesting. Much more.”

He grinned wider at me and held my eyes for a moment too long, and I froze as I fell into that bottomless well of masculine gravity, and then he turned back to face his book.

“But I–

He cut me off:

“Oh don’t deny it. Your eyes are dilated. Cheeks flush. Breathing quickened. The sharpness & defensiveness of your tone. Bet you’re making that seat a little uncomfortably damp even as we speak?”

I was speechless. In shock and yes in shame. Though wildly aroused. I didn’t know if I wanted to slap him or curse at him or jump his bones. Hell I wanted to do all of that — and ASAP! — however the paradox.

“Well I… I just…”

I could not complete the thought. I was both humiliated and also, I knew, thrashing around in some new & much higher level of arousal than I ever was before. There were certain things which part of me wished to say to him back and yet also I dared not say them over fear of where it might lead. I had business in London! I was a single woman and travelling alone, and all that implied. And this guy looked like he had walked into my life right off the cover of some bestselling romance novel. The kind with well-worn pages and dozens of bookmarks. Hundreds?

If an opening had presented itself to me, well, lets just say I had dropped it. Bungled it, totally. Like I had regressed back to some tongue-tied Catholic school girl again. Except the kind who now found herself all grown up and flying first class to London in the middle of the night with a ridiculously insistent piece of clitoral jewelry currently clamping down hard on her most intimate femininity.

And being the rather hot modern man that he was surely he would be a Gentleman and respect a fellow lady traveller’s apparent wishes to be Left Alone for the remainder of her pervy but admittedly sad little flight to—

With a slight cough the man used the excuse to raise his hand for a moment, up from his lap, and a few seconds later when he brought it back down again he appeared to make a mistake in his landing: his hand settled on my leg. My upper thigh. Palm down. On top of the skirt fabric — clearly he *was* a Gentleman, now confirmed.

I did not flinch. I did not even look up from the magazine. If anything the magazine became more important. As an anchor to counter-balance the depravity going on inside my panties still, and now also the electric shockwave of the touch of this man’s large hand — and long fingers! — on the cloth of my oh-so-short skirt. On my thigh. While I was wet and on fire and the furnace only a few inches from that man’s bold hand.

It was an act that any *normal* woman should object to. But I *was* not a normal woman (dammit!) and furthermore I was horny as hell.

I made my decision.

Very casually I flipped the magazine spread to a new page — I didn’t even care if it was a totally different article now compared to before — and, for my follow-up, with my left hand I quickly grabbed his, lifted it up, and in the fraction of a second it hovered there I also yanked my skirt hem up a little. I then released his hand and it came to rest on the skin of my thigh, directly.

I then took my magazine back into a firm two-handed grip and resumed reading.

The man seemed to be not exactly entirely “unwise” to the ways of ladyfolk, to put it mildly, and so I am sure he Got The Message.

He gave a little laugh.

“Well now…” he said.

I might have laughed too but I didn’t want to make it any easier for him. We women like to be pursued so much we can be naked on our back with legs up and still maintain the illusion of being hard to get. I mean, or so I’ve heard.

Within a minute he began to slide his hand a little back and forth along the inside of my thigh — now beneath the cover of my skirt. It was as if he were testing the waters before diving in deeper.

I continued reading.

He shifted his hand further up towards my crotch.

I may have parted my legs a little wider apart then. Though I am fuzzy on that exact point, looking back

“Oh!” I blurted out, though at a low volume. It was the moment his hand made contact with my pussy.

Well, with the fabric *over* my panty-clad pubic mound. And yes I bet the asshole would have been able to tell just how wet I was. He would have been able to feel that the panty fabric was… damp.

“Fascinating!” he said, though also at a low volume. I doubt either of us wished to awaken the little old lady from Sicily (who knows, perhaps she was some Grandma Corleone type?)

“But not… unexpected.”

By now I could tell this guy might spell doom for me. And not necessarily in the bad way.

He began a rubbing motion, pressing more firmly against my vulva, even starting to make a little circular motion. The boy… had skills. Dammit.

In his circular rubbing motions he must have soon made a discovery. He detected the clamping tweezer jewelry down there — that I could tell. I almost yelped when he caught it accidentally and caused it to tug suddenly on my clitoris.

“Naughty, naughty…” he said to me then. It was like a lover’s whisper in the bedroom. By now this commercial jet’s technically public and therefore zero-privacy first class cabin had become, in effect, our bedroom.

“Such a bad girl,” he then said.

And resumed his circular motions. Not caring if he caused any jarring, punishing tugs on my clit. It was being tortured now, in effect, and frankly I think neither of us cared. All I cared by then was to reach my O. And hop up on his hard cock ideally sometime along the way. I barely knew his name — John something, and with a passion for World War II history it seemed — and already I wanted to ride him and feel him erupt his virile seed inside of me. It was insane, yes, but then sex itself was insane.

“Oh god! Keep doing it! Fuck…” I begged him, at this point clearly beyond shame.

My words seemed to snap him out of a haze of his own.

His hand froze and then he withdrew it.

I grabbed his wrist as if to not let it escape, and lifted my hips up in a rutting motion as if to chase feebly after my pussy’s tormentor/suitor even more boldly.

“NO!”

He was firm when he said it, and with a sharp commanding tone, but not too loud. Out of instinct, we both snuck a fast glance over to grandma as if to confirm she didn’t hear it.

“But… I need it…” I pleaded.

“I don’t care. If you think you need it or not. I don’t want you to go too far. Don’t let yourself tumble across the cliff, little one. Or I promise that you and I will never meet again after we land. It pains me to promise that but its better I draw a line early. Women without any self control tend to bore me. And I don’t peg you as that type. Am I wrong?”

He was… not wrong. However frustrating. My pussy was screaming for satisfaction by then.

“I… I understand.”

I looked at his face as if to gauge if I had said what he wanted to hear or not. Then blurted out:

“… Sir.”

I added the last part without thinking.

*Sir.*

It just kind of exploded out of my mouth before I could stifle it.

*Sir.*

You know, as if he were my boss. Or my owner? A man I had just met — yes, it was fucking crazy!

Long story short: he resumed his rubbing of my needy cunny, resumed his wicked edging of me, on and off, for all the rest of the multi-hour flight. With enough skill (or luck?) in timing that he (and I) backed off always in just enough time so as to never reach critical mass and the resulting orgasmic explosion.

Honestly I might have felt a few small ones, but small enough I could camouflage them from his knowing eyes and ears — a skill any whore learns whether a formal professional or the purely amateur and part-time sort that I myself was.

Yes, I was a “good girl” in that ancient and primal sexual way. Obeying this man’s bedroom rules to the letter. My favorite kind of Man: the hot muscular hunk kind who knew how a lady’s clitoris worked, and loved giving her Rules. And enforcing them. Strictly.

By the time we arrived in the sky above London and had landed and de-planed I was was one big jangly mess of feminine need & unquenched lust between my legs. I had trouble walking straight!

And the clamp on my clit didn’t help. I planned to remove it long before we landed but John — this new de facto lover/dom of mine — had forbid it.

“It stays on til you get to your hotel room. It will still be on when we part ways here,” he said to me. More like: ordered me.

The way he said the phrase “when we part ways” freaked me out a little. By now I definitely did *not*  want *that* to happen. I wanted to fuck his brains out, stat! I had only some fuzzy recollection of some Business Reason for the trip. “Uh… why am I in London?” I thought to myself. My swollen vulva throbbed with a mind of its own, and it was long past the point of getting Hangry for Love.

In the airport we didn’t kiss, or hug, nor did we shake hands. Instead there was a moment of shared silence. I’m sure I looked into his eyes far too long. But eventually the moment was broken. One of us was Back to Business anyway:

He fetched a wallet from a jacket inner pocket, and retrieved something from it: a card  Then he handed it to me. It was like an old fashioned 1960’s American business card. It was white and on its main face it had one word, in black ink and a large font, which read:

“Adventure?”

And then it had contact details below that, in a small type size. That was it, nothing else. No name or company, etc.

“Call me, maybe?” he said, and smiled.

And then he turned and left, disappearing into the crowd.

Within the hour I had made it safely to my hotel, got checked-in, then raced to my room, slammed and locked the door, plopped myself down on the bed, flipped up my skirt, panties pulled down, then began to undo the clamp — thought better of it, knowing how intense the pain of the blood rushing return might be, and chickened out — and instead began a wild frigging.

My pussy gushed fluids and I came *so* hard I might have passed out!

In my brief seconds of a masturbation fantasy my new & Domly lover John had me held firmly over his lap, my big tits out & drooping toward the floor (nips stiff), his own huge erect dick out and pressing against my womanly belly, and he beat my slutty bare ass red — with his strong large right hand — as I cried.

“No orgasms without permission, little slut! Never! Not even when I share you with all of my men. Not even then.”

Because you see, at least in my little fantasy, he had by then turned me into an *anal-only* whore.

And he had long-prior sealed my vulva’s labia lips shut with cruel piercings of thick golden rings.

And he rarely let me cum anymore — never touched my clit! — and kept my tight dirty ass lubed with the semen of all his most lusty friends and allies. My pussy, however, was his. It was *His* pussy, to do with as only *he* pleased. It was a cock sleeve fitted only to his (admittedly immense & Alpha) cock, alone.

In other words: I was a set of holes to be used, and from that all other bliss flowed.

I mean, in my little fantasy anyway.

However depraved.

I was raised a Good Girl type, however, so the above was of course not appropriate for me in the actual real world. No… only in idle fantasies. Only when masturbating, and alone.

That night in the strange hotel room I slept perhaps more soundly than I had for years.

In the morning — and like a total dumbass — I fetched out his card from my purse, brought up my phone, and texted him. These words, precisely:

“I decided to wait. When can we meet next?”

After I hit send I realized how stupid and desperate it sounded. I assumed it would be hours if not days before I got a response, if ever. I probably came off as way too loose and slutty on the plane  — “Hell, what sane man could trust her?” I could see it playing out from his perspective.

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*BING!*

It had only been a minute. Granted it might have been the most tortured minute of sheer *anticipation* in my life, exceeding even our little edging adventure on the plane the night before.

“Friday. Dinner. I know a place near Trafalgar Square. Don’t touch yourself until then.”

I probably should play harder to get now, however late to the game.

“Deal!” I texted back.

I had removed the clamping jewelry before bed the night before, but now I quickly put it back on again. I had some business meetings to attend that day but plenty of time to begin my descent into utter depravity again. I fantasized about John whipping my bared ass, then whipping my hairless pussy in front of a large crowd of strangers. Of John leaning down over me to take first one of my nipples between his cruel teeth, then the other, back and forth, even as his right hand was slapping my sloppy wet, mindless, cock-hungry pussy—

*BING!*

I froze.

“Remember: no playing with yourself until our date.”

Dammit. The man was Trouble. At least for me anyway.

And I sped up the pace of my frigging. Friday was too far away.

*BING!*

“I do spank.”

My London stay might need to be extended…

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