Gwyneth Paltrow

[Old_CSSA_Archive]

Gwyneth by unknown
Celeb(s) – Gwyneth Paltrow
Codes – MF, Oral
Originally posted on August 25 2002 at CSSA

"Last boarding call for flight 1278 to New York," the loudspeaker echoed miserably throughout the airport terminal, as I strolled to the counter, took out my ticket and license and handed them to the attendant.

"You’re the last person, sir," a young guy with a terrible mustache smiled at me as he handed my stuff back to me. "Thank heavens, the plane hasn’t yet departed."

I nodded. Great. I looked behind him. The time was 10:32 p.m. The flight was scheduled to leave at 10:35 p.m. My timing was perfect. He was staring at me, almost upset I wasn’t getting on with things. What? These idiots wanted me there two hours ahead of schedule. For what? So I could scratch my balls and be told the flight would be delayed another hour?

I did not look forward to the flight to New York. It would be long, for one thing, more than six hours from San Francisco and, like most everyone I knew, I hated flying. Simply despised it. And it wasn’t that I was afraid to fly–nothing goofy like that. No, it was that over the last seven years I’d logged on probably more than a million miles and I was tired of it. Tired of meeting with suppliers to haggle over the price of this and that, tired of meeting with lab after lab, hospital after hospital around the country, kissing ass left and right, making any concession necessary for the sale. I’d had enough. But it had paid off. God, had it paid off.

People think Silicon Valley and immediately they think instant riches from the Internet, computers and microchips. Sure, all of that’s there and one or two people I know have made hundreds of millions literally overnight in book money on some of the most fraudulent IPOs I could ever imagine, but they are a rarity, lottery winners, really, struck by lightening and all that. There are so many thousands of others, so many, who struggle and fight and simply disappear or lose their minds in envy after a year of two of trying.

What people know less about the Valley is that it’s the center of dozens of bio-tech companies. I’d started mine almost right away after getting my MBA at Stanford in 1991. And what did I sell? Drug of abuse assay tests, drug-testing kits. The market was booming (every employer wants to make sure his operator of heavy equipment isn’t a crack-head–can you blame them?) and, frankly, I figured the quantity, variety and quality of all of the drugs I’d done at Dartmouth and Stanford more than qualified me for the business. I knew the talk of the trade, so to speak.

In any event, after seven years with that baby, seven insane years, most of them on the road, the last year and a half with little or no sleep, my partner, Dana, and I (she’s the scientist, and my wife, by coincidence–she’s convinced the only reason I married her was for her brains–I keep telling her it was for her breasts, and I’m, well, the big mouth) sold the puppy, pocketing twenty-four million after taxes, expenses, everything. That may not be a lot by Valley standards, but we were more than happy.

I was going to New York to meet Dana for her younger sister’s wedding. She’d left on Monday to help her mom in the preparations. And, like I said, I hated flying. I was taking a direct, 10:30 p.m., on a Wednesday, which meant I would be in New York at around 7:30 a.m. Thursday their l time. Somehow, I would lose three hours. I would get them back, of course, but the thought of three hours of my life simply disappearing bothered me as I handed my ticket to the boarding attendant. She tore it, mumbled a few pleasantries, handed it back to me, and I headed down the noisy plank.

Sure, I would get the hours back, but not until we came back in about a week and a half. For that time, I was being short-changed and it made me mad. My whole sleeping pattern would get messed up. How many hours had I lost and gotten back over those million miles in the past seven years? Simply ridiculous. I was probably a couple of months older or younger than I thought.

"Good evening, sir," the stewardess greeted me, as I stepped onto the plane. "Glad you could make it," she smiled sarcastically.

I nodded and walked past the frizzy-haired babe, taking a quick glance back to check out her ass. I liked her. There couldn’t be enough sarcasm in the world for me. And, of course, her ass was nice, round and firm, something you could really sink your teeth into. I hoped she would provide a little entertainment during the miserable flight ahead. It would be fun to flirt with her for a few hours, get told to go to hell and laugh about it on the cab ride to Staten Island while Dana told me the latest family tidbit.

I smiled and looked at my ticket. Seat 3C. Aisle. No big deal. It was first class so I could relax. I walked a few steps to my row, thinking about whether I should meet with an investment banker friend I’d gone to school with out here, and put my walk-on in the overhead. I frowned to myself. No. Dana would shoot me if I disappeared for an afternoon leering about in the titty bars of Time Square with some old school chum, unless that fruitcake Guiliani had cleansed the place already. New York without Time Square and its seedy charms–what was the point?

I sat down and glanced around a bit. No one else was on first class. Didn’t surprise me. Wednesday and all. And then, as I was turning on the overhead lights and opening up the air knob, I noticed someone had the window seat right next to me and was looking out. She was in the dark and all I could see were a long neck and short very blond hair. From the back she looked like a handsome young man, but her full hips and narrow waist told me it was a woman. A well-built woman. I turned from her and leaned forward for the airline magazine just as the engines began their intensified roar and the motion and jerks of plane told me we were backing out.

I yawned, as my ears started popping, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I could never sleep on a plane, in a car or anything moving. Simply couldn’t do it. I looked up and the stewardess with the nice ass was doing her spiel. I zoned her out and looked for my seat belt to buckle in. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the blond babe was doing the same. Incredible. Jesus. Absolutely stunning this chick was. Our hands touched as we grabbed for the same belt and she looked up and smiled at me.

"I think it’s mine," she said, with perfect diction.

I nodded, smiling and let it go. "You’re right." I loved people who spoke properly, accenting as they should. Myself, a nasally, fast, annoying, mumbling voice, I’ve been told. I put my belt on and rested back, closing my eyes, letting my head bounce and rock as the airplane slowly made its way for takeoff. The stewardess’s droning ended and the captain started his own spiel–we’d be right on time for taking off, things looked smooth and a further update would be forthcoming, blah, blah, blah.

"You get nervous, too," I heard her say to me and heard her overhead
lights being clicked on.

I opened my eyes and blinked once or twice at the sight to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. She was leaning forward and I was amazed, much more than the first since I could see her clearly in the light. She had lovely red lips, pale, pale skin and incredibly blue eyes. She was in an old worn baggy sweatshirt (with UC-Santa Barbara stenciled in and her tits barely perceptible) and had on faded, almost threadbare jeans. Wow. First class, baby. You don’t meet quality tail like this in coach. The only way to fly.

I shook my head. "No, just trying to rest."

She nodded. "Looks like we’re alone up here."

I got the hint but wasn’t about to move to an empty seat. Maybe later, but not while the damn thing was taking off.

"Yep," I smiled. She nodded, seemed to wait for a moment for something more, saw that I wasn’t going to budge and turned back to looking outside the window.

* * *

As the plane started leveling off from its climb and I finished the airline magazine, straining forward to shove it back in its hamper, I looked to my side and saw that the stunning blond was breathing in deeply and exhaling slowly, methodically. Each breath and release pushed her nice, round tits up and down slowly, evenly, and I stared at them for a lot longer than I should have. Dumbass. She, certainly, was a nervous flier. Maybe, that’s why she’d wanted to talk a little a few minutes ago. Nahhh. She wanted me to split. Still, she looked terrified.

"Hey," I called out to her. "You okay?"

She opened her eyes and turned to me and nodded, trying to smile, but not doing a very good job of it. She turned away and started her exercises once more. Her pursed lips had lost a little of their brilliant redness and she looked a lot paler than would seem possible for a living person. I shook my head. Poor kid, I thought.

* * *

When the seat-belt sign turned off and the pilot did his cruising altitude babble she seemed to relax a bit. I’d been watching her, intrigued by her beauty. I couldn’t get over it. Very little, if any, make up. Very natural. Goodness. California has tons (and I mean tons) of gorgeous blond flesh. At Stanford, in the Valley, before the seven-year hiatus from the real world, I couldn’t get enough of them (although my wife turned out to be a dark-eyed brunette). Most of them, however, were fake-titted lusciously painted fuck bunnies, which shouldn’t ever be despised, but after a while . . . .

This chick. Jesus. She looked like aristocracy, so thin, composed, high cheek bones, narrow, straight nose and deathly fair. Did I get a hint of an English accent when she spoke? That would make sense. Maybe she was some bastard child a poor servant of some lecherous English Marquess had had a couple of dozen years ago. Yeah right. No, she was probably some rich totsy whose parents were footing the bill for her for a few years until she tried to find herself by flying all over the country to visit friends from prep-school who were similarly confused.

She opened her eyes, a little red-rimmed and watering, and saw I was watching her. I didn’t turn away. We smiled at each other, some color returning to those lips, and she sort of shrugged.

"Always like that during takeoffs," she said, trying to explain.

I nodded.

"I’m Gwyneth," she said, extending her hand.

I took it. It was cold, but she had wonderfully long fingers.

"Robert," I smiled.

We released our slight grips.

"Pretty stupid," she continued. "I do a lot of flying. It’s just those takeoffs."

"No, I suppose. You can’t really ever get used to them."

She shook her head. "Nope," and was about to say something, but looked up.

"Anything to drink?" the nice-assed stewardess asked, but was looking straight through me to my companion. I turned to the blond who smiled, shrugging, and then back at the stewardess.

"Scotch. Straight," I said.

She jerked her head in my direction, sort of frowning, but recovered and smiled. "Thank you, sir," she said, and then looked endearingly at the blond. "Miss. Paltrow?"

"White wine," she said, and the stewardess nodded, with an uncomfortable degree of affected reverence and disappeared. I was glad. Even with a nice-ass, her weirdness was starting to bother me. I mean, a nice ass can only compensate for so much. Probably a lesbian, a little awe-struck by the beauty next to me.

I yawned. A stiff drink would wake me a little I knew. It always did. It would be a long night. And then I groaned to myself. Shit. How the hell. . . . I’d forgotten to buy a couple of papers. I reached into the pouch in front of me, and shook my head. Crap. Usually, someone would leave a paper to read. Nothing to read. The flight would be unbearable. I had the cute little prep chick with the pretentious name and the lovesick lesbian to look forward to.

I tried to console myself by getting comfort from the fact that Dana’s sweet little Irish mother was probably now trying to get her to talk to her younger sister about the terrors of the wedding bed. Stout old Catholics, Dana’s parents, even forced me to convert, although I was about as stringent a Catholic practitioner as I had been a Presbyterian. . . . I laughed to myself. Dana’s sister Mary was one of the wildest chicks I knew, had even hit on me while Dana and I were engaged (I rebuked her, of course–well, I shouldn’t say, `of course’. It was a hard decision, but . . . ), but her parents still thought she was a cute little kitten. Poor old folks. The wedding would be fun.

The stewardess returned and I noticed the blond opening her side tray. I left mine shut. A drink in my hand would give me something to fidget with for a few minutes. The wine was placed on her tray and I was handed my plastic cup. I thrilled at the touch. Something about booze in plastic cups did it for me. Maybe it was the endless restaurants and dinners I’d taken clients and customers out to over the past seven years. I don’t know, but I’d come to loath glass, especially nice glass. It gave me the heeby-jeebies. This was perfect. No pretense. My interest was in the booze, not the coverings. A styrofoam cup would have been best–this one was clear and thin–but I wouldn’t complain.

"Cheers," I motioned to the blond as I raised the cup to my mouth and then felt bad because she’d started already and sort of gulped in embarrassment. She coughed.

"Cheers," she said, throatily, and coughed again.

"Sorry," I smiled and she nodded and took another sip to clear her throat. Poor kid.

I gulped down my drink and felt better. The dry, burning liquid covered the back of my throat and I could feel it descend arrogantly into my stomach. Booze. Nothing can beat it. So uncompromising. I brought the cup up again and finished it.

She was smiling broadly at me.

"Like your scotch?" she said.

"When it’s around," I grinned.

She laughed and took another sip. I watched her bend back a little and simply couldn’t get over the length of her elegant neck. She was tall. Well over five-six. God, those legs. What a babe.

"New York on business?" she asked, smiling as I raised my eyes from her lap.

I shook my head. "Wife’s sister’s getting married."

Her face brightened. "That’s wonderful."

I shrugged. "You don’t know my wife’s sister. I feel bad for the guy."

She laughed. "No, marriage is a good thing. Everyone should get married . . . at least once."

We both laughed.

"I’m just kidding," she smiled. "I think marriage is good."

I nodded looking at her hand for a ring. Nothing.

She smiled, at my wandering eyes. "You’re meeting her there, then?"

I nodded.

"You’ll have fun."

"It’s not my wedding. I should have a blast."

She grinned and finished her wine.

"Where’s the wedding going to be?" she started, again, and it continued, inane babble about my wife and her family, harmless silliness about airlines and airplanes, the ins and outs of drug-testing–I didn’t tell her about the recent sale and riches (it was none of her business)–and the time passed, quickly, until, finally, after four more scotches for me and three more wines for her, she leaned forward, swaying a little trying to present a serious-look, but I knew she was pretty drunk.

"You don’t know who I am, do you, Robert?"

I tried to think clearly. Until now, I realized, we’d not said much about her, except she was from California. Jesus. If I’d met this babe before I couldn’t believe I wouldn’t have remembered her. I took a deep breath, starting to feel a bit sorry for myself. My God, if you fucked this chick and can’t remember doing it, it would be like losing something I should have been cherishing for the rest of my life.

I mean, I knew I’d been going like a nut-case since the company got started and this last year or two had been a blur, but I remembered, distinctly, only three lapses in judgment during that entire time. Nothing serious, nothing special, and, most important, nothing local. Certainly nothing to compare with the goddess now grinning her lovely face at me. And it couldn’t have been in college or at business school. She was probably in junior high or grade school during that fucked up time in my life. And pervert I may have been, I drew the line with girls younger than nineteen . . . well, maybe, eighteen . . . once, but I was still in high school and . . . Fuck. I gave up.

She was waiting, smiling, enjoying my cluelessness.

"I’m sorry, no," I said.

"That’s so cool," she laughed, polishing off her glass. "This is SO cool."

"I’m glad you find this amusing."

"Were you in prison, maybe . . . no, in prison you’d probably have heard of me or at least seen a picture or something. I don’t know. No, I’m being stupid," she giggled, reaching out to touch my hand. "I’m sorry. I’m sure you weren’t in prison."

"No, no prison, yet, but I’m still pretty young."

She continued grinning, and squeezed my hand slightly. "The name Gwyneth Paltrow means nothing to you, does it?"

I shook my head.

"Shakespeare in Love?"

I hesitated. "Shakespeare in Love." What the fuck is that? I’d had a Shakespeare class at Dartmouth, during the summer quarter before my Senior year, but the professor, if I remembered, didn’t even think Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare. A waste of time, or, better, I was wasted pretty much all of the time. In any event, I remembered none of it. Fuck. What was she talking about? I looked at her. She was staring at me, at the edge of her seat, taking a lot of pleasure from my discomfort. It seemed she was genuinely astounded I didn’t know who she was. Her hand had warmed up. How the fuck would she be connected to Shakespeare? Grad student? No. She was talking about something she would be expecting most people to know about. Most people. . . .

"A movie . . . right?" I tried. Come on. Be right. Her eyes brightened and I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Yes," she said gleefully, almost bouncing in her chair and releasing my hand. She clapped her hands together. "That’s right. It won the Oscar for best picture this year."

"You were involved with it?" I muttered dumbly, seizing on the small
opening she’d provided.

"Yes," she laughed. "Oh my God, this is SO cool. I can’t wait to tell my parents. SO cool."

And from there, of course, it was easy. She was striking, well-spoken.

"You’re obviously an actress, right?"

She nodded, smiling broadly, her face flushed and warm.

"And you were in this `Shakespeare in Love?’"

She shook her head, in disbelief, her face brighter and happier than anyone’s I’d seen in a long time. She took my hand again and leaned forward.

"I won an Oscar, best actress," she whispered, as if we were sharing a cherished secret. Her breath smelled lovely from all the wine.

"Did you?" I laughed.

"Sure did," she said quickly. "My acceptance speech was a little dramatic, but it was a great night. . . ." she stopped. She was watching me, trying to see whether I was condescending or whether I was the genuine article. She let go of my hand.

"Wish I’d been there," I encouraged her.

She laughed, relieved, and we were silent for a moment, a sweet rosy blush on her face, smiling at each other. Finally, she looked down at her watch. "Whew, almost halfway there."

"Do touchdowns bother you as much as takeoffs."

"Sometimes," she smiled. "When the weather’s bad, but not as bad, you know."

"My wife told me before I left the weather’s super in New York."

"Super," she laughed and then stopped. "That means I won’t make such a fool of myself, again."

"You hardly made a fool of yourself."

She smiled and breathed in deeply, trying to clear her head. "Wow," she sighed. "I’m starting to really feel this wine." She drained her glass.

I nodded. She was, and before my eyes, her demeanor was changing; she wasn’t as friendly or as open as she’d been just a minute ago. And, of course, I understood why. She was a little apprehensive about revealing herself to me even though it was more than obvious the revelation meant nothing to me. All I saw was a highly intelligent, gorgeous young woman. "Shakespeare in Love?" The Oscars? That was about as far from my reality as could be. It meant nothing to me.

She was also probably reproaching herself, hoping she hadn’t come across as a flaky actress-type. But the real issue was, she didn’t know me at all and she’d come to the realization she’d been a little too open, a little too giggly for comfort. She probably came across a lot of people who wanted to embarrass her, hurt her and the poor kid had to be careful. I wanted to tell her to relax, but I knew that would do no good.

We were silent for a minute or two more, the dull omnipresent white hum of the engines softly interrupted by her breathing, the only sound I could hear. She turned to me again and smiled, seeming to have resolved that there was no harm in a few more pleasantries with me and was about to say something, but stopped.

"Another round, you two?" the stewardess seemed to materialize out of nowhere. She was happy, attentive. I’d been tipping her well. She should be.

I looked at the actress. She looked at me, trying to suppress a grin, wondering, hoping I would continue the fun and I laughed. "Yes. One more would be nice."

"You think we should?" Gwyneth laughed.

"It would be insane not to."

The stewardess smiled and walked to her task.

I turned to her. "What were you going to say?"

She blushed. "Nothing, really."

"Okay," I replied. Actress or no actress, I knew she was dying to tell me so I turned away from her, pretending not to care.

She held her breath and I could see her turn to me.

"I," she started and then blushed some more when I faced her. "I was going to thank you for making this flight so much fun. Usually, they’re a drag and I spend most of my time staring out the window so no one bothers me."

I laughed.

She stared at me. "What?"

Wonderful.

"What?" she repeated, a little annoyed.

"I’m sorry," I finished laughing, shaking my head. "You’re thanking me? Good grief. I’m sitting next to the most gorgeous, obviously most talented, woman this side of the Mississippi. . . ." I stopped and saw her listening closely, waiting.

I frowned at her. She looked back, a little surprised.

"Which side of the Mississippi are we on now. I mean, I doubt it would change what I just said, but. . . ."

She laughed.

The stewardess returned. "Here . . ." she started.

"I’m sorry," I said to her. "But are we west or east of the Mississippi now?"

She looked at me, confused. I heard a snicker. "I don’t know, sir. Sorry. I’ll ask," she tried. I heard another snicker and the stewardess took a deep breath and then silently gave us our drinks. She looked down at our dumb-grinning faces and walked away in a huff. As soon as she did, the blond started laughing, trying hard, of course, to quiet herself, but not doing a very good job of it.

"It was a simple question," I said, turning to her and saw she was shaking trying not to laugh louder. "I don’t see any reason to pee in your pants."

She bit her lip, put her hand over her mouth, and her eyes started watering as her body continued with small, little convulsions. She reached for her wine and as she did the stewardess returned.

"Sir–"

The poor kid was startled and fumbled with the glass. I tried to grab it, but it was too late and suddenly I felt a dull thud on my crotch.

When drunk things tend to take a bit longer to register. Not this time. I jumped. The glass fell to the ground and I was frozen. Directly on my cock, in between my legs and on the seat. I held my breath, straining up a little to try to get away from the cold. It didn’t help. I was soaked.

"I’m so sorry," I heard her moan, next to me, horrified.

It was cold, so cold, with the slightest burning. I felt the poor guy quickly starting to shrivel up in protest. I understood his dilemma. A gorgeous woman and the fantasies that only he would entertain were nearby, but the need for shelter was too strong. Life wasn’t fair. I felt bad for him.

I was about to turn to her, tell her not to worry, but the stewardess’s triumphant smile caught my eye. There was redemption, after all, and I felt good for her, even though my intention had been anything but to make her feel bad. She would have known, instantly, if that was my intention. She saw me looking at her and tried to wipe her grin.

I laughed. It was wonderful. I was cold, almost shivering, but it was heavenly to see a small justice done. Strike one for the working class getting one over on the over privileged and spoiled.

The stewardess looked relieved that I hadn’t blown up. "Let me get something to help with that, sir."

I nodded, watched her walk away, and turned to the poor kid.

She looked stricken and it broke my heart to see her so effected.

"I’m so clumsy–" she started, but then stopped, and turned away.

I shook my head and reached for her shoulder. "Are you crazy?"

I massaged her ever-so-slightly and she turned to face me, hoping we were still friends.

I smiled and reluctantly, slowly, I saw her relax. She glanced to my hand and I continued stroking her.

"You okay?" I asked.

She nodded.

"Good," I smiled and released her. I saw her watch my hand leaving her and we looked at each other a bit awkwardly.

"What will your wife say?" she broke the silence.

I strained a little. The booze had gotten to me. "I’m sorry, what did you say?" I asked.

She was about to answer, but the stewardess returned with several towels–polyester towels I thought as I took two. Lots of good these will do. I was about to clean myself, but then looked up and saw the stewardess looking down. I looked over and the poor kid was doing the same. Until that moment, I’d felt no arousement or excitement sitting next to the beautiful babe next to me–sure she was incredible, but, come on, let’s be serious. And the reality hit me then. I was about to . . . well, scrub myself down, and I was being watched by two lovely women. I know I should’ve felt like some . . . well, like a little kid who’s peed in his pants, but I felt good, very powerful being watched even though I was drenched and cold sitting in wine. And then, out of nowhere, an urge to strip-down, take it all off and do it right overcame me.

I did the only thing that made sense at that moment. I started taking my pants off. I heard them both catch their breaths when I unbuckled my belt.

"Sir–" the poor stewardess began.

I looked at her as I started unzipping myself.

"Maybe you should go to the bathroom and . . . "

I started tugging them down over my hips, sitting up to help the process. I smiled up at her as I pulled them down over my thighs.

"Not very nice to wake all those good people back there, don’t you think?" I grunted, lifting myself and pulling down.

"But, sir–" she tried, but they were falling off and with hardly a sound were at my ankles. And I was in boxers.

Men when they shower or wash themselves, take a lot of time–a lot more than needed- -scrubbing their crotches. It feels good. All the suds, warm lubrication and hot water streaming over you. You can’t help pulling and tugging a little. Women, on the other hand, like my wife, for example, certainly wash themselves, but the task seems uninspired, very utilitarian.

Like I was in the shower at home, I started wiping away with the barely absorbing cloth. I did it right. I never felt so calm in my life. I wiped deliberately, slowly and without a hint of what I really wanted, which was to pull out my hardening cock and stroke it to my heart’s delight. I felt them, watching, could smell their dueling uneven breaths in my nose, but didn’t take a moment to acknowledge either of them.

As I continued, wiping and stroking, the hardening of my cock became evident. The poor guy was triumphant, unleashed and he wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass without trying to make some acquaintances. I skipped not a beat and reached underneath to adjust the good fellow, letting him rest and grow in total comfort (damp though he may have been) against my lower abdomen. The maneuver was quick, precise (I’m sure they noticed, nevertheless) and I continued with the pleasant task of drying myself.

After, perhaps, two minutes of this, I felt a little drier, my cock was fully engaged, throbbing for attention, sneaking out of the band of the boxers and just hidden under a shirt tail and I looked up. The poor woman was staring down at my lap, saw me, almost jerked to attention and I smiled at her. I handed her the wet cloths.

She took a deep breath, looked down, for a split second and walked behind us. I could hear her trying to draw another, heavier curtain to save the sleeping passengers from the idiocy going on near the cockpit. She walked past us, shaking her head.

I turned to Gwyneth. She smiled in disbelief at me, and then shook her head, holding it up with one hand, as if to say `I can’t take you anywhere’.

"You’re totally crazy. You know that?"

"Tell me. What was I going to do?"

I saw her glance down and then blush a little. She turned away and faced straight ahead.

"I will not speak to you until you . . . " she started giggling. "Until you put your . . . pants on."

"They’re still drying. Service a little slow today."

She shook her head and didn’t respond, but I could see her long throat shimmering and quaking in a frantic little dance as she suppressed her laugh.

She took a deep breath and turned to face me once more.

"Come on. I’m serious. You’re going to get us in trouble."

"What? They going to throw us off the plane?"

And she broke down, laughing loudly. She bit her hand, trying to stop herself, but it wasn’t helping. Tears were streaming down her face.

"You have an erection, you know," she blurted, in the middle of it, giggling hysterically.

I laughed and pulled up my shirt tail and there, indeed, was the swollen head, smiling drunkenly up at me.

"Yes. I think you’re right."

She looked down and screeched, jerking her head back and almost bending over to compose herself.

"Put that away," she cried. "Please. Are you mad?"

I looked at her. It was an opportunity even a dunder head like me could not let pass. Her eyes were sparkling, drunk. "Put it where Gwyneth?"

A shocked look came across her face and she was about to yell, but I continued:

"There’s not enough room in the overhead compartment."

That did it. Both of us broke down. When you’re drunk just about anything stupid and asinine can trigger it and once it starts, it’s hard to stop.

The stewardess returned, grey and very serious.

"I’m afraid," she said officially, but who was paying attention to her, for God’s sake? "I’m afraid," she continued a little more loudly. "I’m going to have to ask the two of you to keep it quiet. Please."

"It’s not my fault," Gwyneth tried. "The idiot’s got an erection and we," and she stopped, trying to catch her breath. "And we don’t know where to put it."

We roared.

As we quieted down, trying to catch our breaths, I noticed the poor stewardess was still standing over us.

"Come on, you two. Please. I don’t want to have to report anything, you know."

Gwyneth started quieting down. I heard her take a deep breath. I looked over and saw her wiping her eyes. She saw me and smiled.

"Put it away, please," she whispered. "For me, okay?"

I nodded reluctantly and reached down to get my pants and pulled them up. I could almost hear the poor guy screaming, begging, threatening, kicking but it was useless. Fun was over.

"If I get an aneurism or something," I smiled up at the stewardess.

She smiled back. "Thank you," she said and walked away to her lair.

I turned and Gwyneth who was smiling broadly, shaking her head. "You under control?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Yes. Yes. I’m fine."

"Good," she grinned. She watched for a moment longer and looked down at her watch. "Probably only a couple of hours left."

I nodded.

"You better get some sleep," she said, patting my hand. "Your wife’s going to want you fresh."

"I’m going to want her, too, believe me."

She grinned again, and blushed.

"You’re not still . . ." she motioned down with her eyes.

"Afraid so," I smiled.

"No way."

"Yes way. Do you want to see?"

She recoiled, laughing. "No."

"It’s just that, um, well, she’s been gone almost a week now."

She smirked. "Don’t be silly. You’re sounding like some little, pimple-faced boy."

"I can’t help it. What do you want me to do?"

"You’re not kidding?"

I shook my head.

"Is it uncomfortable?"

"Quite. It’s pretty wet down there."

She bit her lip. "I’m sorry."

"No. No. No. Please."

"What are you going to do?"

"Let nature take its course."

"What do you mean?"

"Probably go back to the toilet and, well, release the tension."

Her eyes widened. "You’re playing with me now."

I laughed.

"What?" she demanded.

"Nothing."

"No. Come on, what?"

I stared directly into her and smiled. "Will you let me play with you?"

The smile left her face and I felt her leaning away. I continued smiling.

She swallowed. "You’re creeping me out, Robert."

"I’m simply being honest."

She tried to smile. "Well, I’m flattered. Thank you. But I can’t do that."

"Why not?"

"You’re married."

"You?"

"Noooo," she blushed.

"Why do you care if I’m married, then?"

She huffed, genuinely upset, and turned her body from me. "I would never do that to another woman."

I continued watching her and I could see her trying not to look at me. Finally, she turned to face me once more.

"What?" she demanded. "I told you `No’. Now please leave me alone."

I nodded and started getting up.

"Where are you going?" she asked anxiously.

I hooked my thumb to the back of the plane.

"You’re not really going to . . . you know, back there?" And then she saw the clear outline of my still erect cock against my clinging, wet pants. "This is ridiculous. Make it go away. We were having so much fun and I liked you and I don’t want to think of you like . . . it’s so gross."

I grinned at her. "That’s what I intend to do, make it go away. I offered what I thought were more pleasant alternatives, but. . . ." I faded.

"You’re crazy. Even, and this is a huge EVEN, even if I wanted to, what? We’re going to . . . you know, here, in the plane? Do you even know we’re on a plane? You certainly haven’t been acting like it."

I shook my head down at her.

She was upset, flushed. I was reading her perfectly, whoever the fuck she was. She was a good girl, who tried to be seductive, sophisticated. But, really, deep down, she was a prude, a little sweetheart. It was like trying to get into the prom queen’s dress in the back seat of your dad’s car, after the lovely, romantic dance in all those pretty clothes, right after the cheap plastic crowns came off. A dodge here, a grab there, a little kiss here, a grope there. I only regretted we weren’t flying around the world together. Time was my only enemy.

"Don’t look at me like that," she frowned. "You don’t even know me. You have no right."

"We would have to be quiet, but, goodness, a couple of hundred to our lovely stewardess and she’d make sure we weren’t interrupted."

She shook her head, in disbelief. "You’re not playing . . . you’re not kidding, are you?"

I shook my head and then an idea came to me. Jealousy. No woman likes another woman coming into the picture during the pre-fucking fencing match.

"You know, I think perhaps the best thing is to approach the stewardess with this problem."

She tried to follow me and then what I was saying hit her. "YOU!!!!" she started screaming and then stopped herself, flush. "You, Robert Graham. You, sir, are a pig," she spat out.

I smiled down at her.

"Is this something you do all the time?" she continued. "Cheat on your poor wife? Geez. She’s the only reason that company of yours is successful. She’s the brain. God, I feel sorry for her. You, what the hell’s your purpose?"

I laughed. She was wonderful. Stunning and a complete brat.

"Go ahead," she said seethed. "I don’t give a flying fuck. Go get that stewardess and do whatever the fuck you want with her."

I shook my head, trying hard to suppress the laughter building deep down inside, looking as pathetic as possible. "No, you’re right. I think I’ll stick to my original idea."

I was about to turn around and heard her call. "Robert."

I faced her and saw she was softening.

She sighed. "Wait." She reached down into her bag by her feet and brought a folder out. She looked at it for a moment and then handed it up to me. "Here," she said.

I was confused. What the hell is this? I was about to open it, but she stopped me.

"Not here," she said sadly. "Wait until you’re in the bathroom, but please, please, promise me you won’t show it to anyone else. It’s not public yet."

Anyone else? Who the fuck would I show this to, thirty thousand feet in the air? Good grief. Poor kid.

"What is it?" I asked.

"You’ll find out," she replied, not looking at me.

"Thank you . . . I think," I said confused.

She nodded and looked away, looking like she would cry. I felt awful.

"Heh," I called to her. She didn’t look at me. What the fuck? "Here," I said, handing the folder back to her. She turned and shook her head.

"No, this whole thing’s my fault and it’s the least I can do."

"Gwyneth, why are you so sad?"

"Because I like you a lot and . . . just go, please. Take care of it and . . . please go."

My erection had long faded. All I needed was to piss, but I was too intrigued to do anything about that now. What a little sweetheart. She was actually upset. Maybe it was the wine, but I couldn’t get over how sad she looked.

"I won’t need it," I said and handed it back to her. I sat down in my wet seat, not all together sure why I was feeling such tenderness toward her.

She held it in her hand and looked at me and I could see she was trying like hell to not look down at my crotch. "You won’t need it?"

I shook my head. "All better," I tried to smile.

She broke into a slight smile, herself. "Serious?"

I nodded. "Very. Do you want to see?" I leered at her.

She laughed. "No, for the last time. No."

"What’s in there?" I motioned to the folder.

She blushed. "Nothing."

"Nothing? You were about to–"

"Robert, it’s like top-secret," she whispered, looking around.

I nodded. And?

She sighed. "I’m going to be on the cover of a new magazine called `Talk’."

I shook my head.

"Yeah, yeah," she dismissed me, waiving her hand. "You know nothing about it. You’re like Sergeant Schultz. `I know nothing. I see nothing’," she said, in a perfect German accent.

I laughed.

She giggled. "Oh, we know `Hogan’s Heroes’, don’t we?"

I nodded.

"You can’t be that old."

"I’m thirty-three."

She gasped. "That’s all. My God. I thought you were like forty-five or something."

I shook my head. "Thirty-three."

"What other surprises do you have?"

I shrugged and grinned at her stupidly. "You didn’t let me show you, remember? My technique is patented in two dozen countries around the world."

She laughed. "I believe THAT, you pig." She continued laughing.

I let her finish. "Show me the pictures."

She bit her lip, again, and I could see her debating in her head whether she should. She was clearly embarrassed. She shook her head. "No." She started putting the folder away.

"Heh!" I almost yelled. "Are you nuts? You were going to let me play with myself in the bathroom with that and now . . . What? Are they dirty pictures or something?" I grinned.

She punched my arm with her free hand. "Noooo. They’re just a little risky. That’s all."

"Risky?" I leered, drawing her body in with my eyes.

"Stop it!" she laughed. "Nothing pornographic. Good God, I won an Oscar, remember? Just, you know, a little revealing."

"I must see them, then."

"No, you mustn’t. Besides, just buy the magazine next week and you’ll see some."

"Some? I must see them all."

She hesitated. And then she started handing me the folder. I took it, but she didn’t let go. "Promise me–"

"Enough with that," I interrupted.

"No," she said, firmly and tugged the folder out of my hand. "You’ve got to promise me you won’t talk about these to anyone, not even your wife, until they come out."

"I doubt my wife knows who you are. Spends too much time experimenting with the fluid in mice’s eyes."

"Yuck," she groaned and hit me again. "Besides, like you would know. When have you been home to take her to a movie or even talk to her?"

She had me there.

"Promise." she said, again, her grip on the folder unrelenting.

"Wait," I laughed. "You want me to keep this secret from my wife, but just a few minutes ago you were ready to crucify me for joking around a little, all on her account, if I recall correctly."

"Joking around?" she said flabbergasted. "Joking around? Oh my God! Is almost tearing a girl’s clothes off and raping her what you call joking around?"

"Rape you? What are you talking about?"

"I haven’t felt that much pressure since . . . well, never."

"Casting couches?"

She sneered. "My dad’s a producer and my mom’s an actress. I didn’t have to spend a lot of time on casting couches, bud. No. I can’t remember ever getting that much pressure to. . . . You’re evil is what you are."

I laughed. "Was I close?"

She blushed.

I laughed some more. "I was, wasn’t I?"

"I’ll never tell," she smiled. We stared at each other and I thought about reaching forward to kiss her, she looked so inviting, those beautiful red lips . . . but I knew that would be suicidal. I looked down at her hand, still clutching that folder.

"Let me see the pictures, Gwyneth."

"You haven’t promised yet."

"I promise."

"Crossing anything?" she grinned looking at my hands.

"My eyes staring at you."

She couldn’t help laugh and handed the folder to me. "Flattery will get you no where."

"Will the truth?"

"Oh shut up. You’re going to make me puke. Here," she said, handing the folder to me.

She turned away as I took the folder from her and stared out the window trying to be uninterested.

I opened it up and almost dropped it. It was full of prints. Jesus. Risky? The first picture showed the blond in white panties and bra in a shower, the water streaking down her face, all over her body. I swallowed. Christ. Her nipples, her bush all of it was there, transparent, crystal clear. I looked over at her and she was staring ahead, blushing wildly. I turned to the next one. It showed her getting out of the shower, soaked, reaching for a towel. The next one had her sitting on the toilet with her bottoms off, reaching for toilet paper. I swallowed.

They were in three series. One of the shower/bathroom motif. Another with her in a silky red garter get up in a luscious dark bedroom almost disappearing into the background, with just her tits and ass featured prominently and the final was of her in a black leather bikini, dominatrix look, slinking and grinding this way and that.

I’d been looking at them, I’m sure, for long, long minutes, but it seemed to be the next moment, when I felt her leaning forward. I turned to her and shook my head. She smiled.

"Well?" she asked softly.

"How do you say, `Oh my God’, is that it?"

She laughed.

"Jesus, Gwyneth," I grinned, giving her the once over with my eyes. "Jesus."

"Well, what do you think?"

"These aren’t for thinking."

"I’m serious," she smiled. "Do you like them?"

I nodded. "May I keep them?"

She shook her head, laughing. "You may not."

I looked down at the prints. "What kind of magazine is this anyway, Miss Oscar winner?"

"It’s a hip, you know, very New York, insider, political, social, you know, a literature type thing."

Gee, wonderful focus I wanted to tell her, but . . . God. The pictures.

"Harvey Weinstein from Miramax, do you know him?" she was continuing.

I shook my head, not giving a shit, focusing on a particularly nice one of her naked, covering herself on a bed with a big black teddy bear tightly clenched between her thighs.

"Of course not. Anyway, he asked me to do these as a favor for Tina Brown. She’s the editor for `Talk’."

Like I was listening. Who gave a shit about all these idiots. I was looking at the black leather things now.

"Let me guess," I said, turning to a picture with her standing, legs astride a crawling baby, upside down, trying to get her top off in my head. She laughed. I looked at her.

"You’re like this really highbrow type, right?" I asked. "And now you want to show the world a different look."

"Precisely," she smiled.

"Go with," I began and shuffled through and found the picture that was riveted in my mind from the start. "Go with this one."

She took it from me and I leaned over to look at it with her. It was incredible. She had on dark mascara, pouting blood lips, looking directly at the camera, on her stomach, her arms in front of her and her tits bulging obvious out of a leather black bra.

"You like it?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Your ass," I said and she shook her head, moaning. As I mentioned, the picture had her on her stomach, and tits beautifully displayed, but she was contorted in such a fashion that her rump was sticking up behind her, very three dimensional–you want to reach out and squeeze it–encased in skin tight barely there leather. The thing was on the verge of creeping right up into her. It was so tawdry. I loved it.

"What about . . ." she began and reached down to pick out another picture.

"No, no," I stopped her. "Stick with this one."

"Why do you like it so much?" she giggled.

"Because it’s a classic `Fuck me’ look."

"Robert," she hit me.

"What?"

"Geeez. Why do you reduce everything to that?"

"Wait a minute. The whole point of these pictures is to show the world a different look, right?"

"Right, but–"

"But what? This thing is exactly what you want. It’s direct, you look in control and, Christ, you’re telling the world, `Come on. Fuck me, all you little pencil dicks out there. Get up behind me and stick it in there. I dare you.’"

"God," she moaned. "It’s like four in the morning and this is not a conversation we should be having at this hour . . . or ever."

I ignored her, continuing to stare at the picture. God. That ass.

"I don’t know," she sighed, tired. "I like it, too, but I don’t know."

"This is the picture I’m taking to the back with me right now."

"What?"

Of course, all the staring of the barely clad Gwyneth had gotten to me. Sitting was becoming uncomfortable, my swelling cock was starting to dig into my thigh, suffocating the poor thing, and I couldn’t sit still any longer.

"Oh, Robert," she sighed.

"Oh, my ass. What did you think would happen if I looked at these pictures?"

"You insisted, you jerk."

"You piqued my interest, you minx."

"Oh, Robert," she groaned.

I was about to tell her I liked the way she was saying `Oh, Robert’, to continue in that vein with a little more rasp thrown in, with a few throaty moans and groans interspersed, but we heard the stewardess returning. Gwyneth quickly put away the pictures and smiled up, holding the folder as she stood next to us.

"We’ll be landing in an hour or so and I wanted to know if you two wanted anything else."

Gwyneth shook her head, looking tired. It was obvious we were unwinding the fun.

"I’m fine," I smiled up, fresh and happy.

The stewardess nodded. "Well, I’ll see you in an hour or so when we land." She was about to step away, but stopped and seemed nervous. "I want to thank both of you for a really memorable flight." She took out a note-book and a pen and held them up. "Do you mind, Miss Paltrow?"

Gwyneth startled a bit, sort of waking from a trance. "I’m sorry."

The poor woman showed her the notebook.

"Of course, please," Gwyneth said quickly. She looked up at her name tag. "Anything special, Linda, you want written?"

The stewardess smiled. "No, I’m sure whatever you write will be great."

She took the notebook and the pen, scribbled a bit and handed it back.

The stewardess looked down at the writing, suppressed a giggle and then turned to her. "Thank you, Miss Paltrow."

Gwyneth nodded pleasantly.

The stewardess went away smiling.

Gwyneth turned to me. "I wrote: `Convince the airline to put in a dry-cleaning service. It may save you from some of your more eccentric passengers. You are a great sport. Thank you for everything."

I wasn’t listening. Maybe it was the mix of alcohol and the flow of blood to my now pulsing cock, I don’t know. She was angelic in her beauty and behind her over the horizon I could see the sun just rising over a never-ending horizon and the lovely brilliant colors were streaking in the sky. God.

"You were wrong, Gwyneth," I whispered.

"What?"

"Look out. It’s a bit after six or so where we are now." I reached up and shut off my over-head lights, reached over and did the same to her’s, the only light now a silvery reddish gleam from the sky.

She looked at me somewhat confused.

"Look out the window."

She turned. "Oh Robert," she sighed. "It’s beautiful." She continued looking out.

I turned away, shaking, from that long, smooth neck and blond hair, like I’d found her when I first got on the plane. I wanted to fuck her. Desperately. Until now, it seemed truly ridiculous to even think about it, and my half-hearted efforts earlier were more to make her and me smile than anything else, but in the past five hours she and I had developed a real camaraderie, and yet almost all of it was underlined by this playful sexual tension. I didn’t feel playful anymore. I was hungry.

Christ. She’d already seen my cock. Did I want to fuck her because she was some famous actress or whatever? Yeah right. Nonsense like that was about as far away from my world as could be. No. I liked her. A lot. She was wonderful, impossibly gorgeous, and fucking her seemed like the most natural thing to want at that quiet moment.

"What do you think?" I whispered, staring ahead. I could see out of the corner of my eye she had turned from the window, was looking at me.

"What?" she asked, her voice breaking. My voice had surprised her. She was probably watching me, thinking I was looking forward to meeting with Dana. Poor brilliant Dana. She didn’t exist for me now.

"Linda’s going to be taking a little nap," I motioned in front of us. "We’ll be undisturbed for about an hour."

I turned to her and she was about to turn away, too tired to respond.

"Don’t," I stopped her, reaching out to her cheek with a trembling hand.

She let me touch her and sadly shook her head.

"We can’t," she whispered.

"Why not?"

"It’s wrong."

"Do you want to?"

She was silent. I leaned forward. She saw me coming.

"Don’t," she breathed, but I was kissing her lightly, those lovely red lips felt dry and then moistened ever so slightly. It was delightful, like the first kiss with the girl next door.

I drew back and she looked at me, trying to catch her breath.

I took her face in my hands and kissed her again, a little harder. I could feel her lips trying to resist, for a long painful moment, and then open slowly, open deliciously, as I nudged my tongue lightly against her teeth and then her mouth was fully awake, her warm, supple tongue entwined with mine and we breathed into each other’s noses, deeply, heavily. She tasted of light, fresh grapes, spicy with almonds. I pressed more deeply into her, deeper into her throat.

She pushed me away, gasping, trying to catch her breath and we stared at each other. She was about to say something, but I wrapped my arms around her and held her tight, her round luscious tits mashed against me.

"Robert," she moaned, as I lowered my mouth to her throat, that long, marvelous throat. I wanted to bite her, leave a mark, something, but I knew that would be insane. Instead, I licked and massaged with my tongue, feeling her goose-bumps rise and fall. I went lower and lower until I started pushing her bra-strap off from underneath her baggy sweatshirt. Her skin was smooth and she smelled wonderfully feminine.

"Robert," she breathed and tried to pull me off. I looked up and she smiled for a moment at my wet face. "We can’t, please," she whispered tenderly and held my face. "Please, don’t do this." I thought I would cum on the spot.

I smiled up at her and cupped her left unattended breast. She closed her eyes. I massaged her. She was wonderfully full and soft. Her nipple was rising and I quickly mouthed her free tit through the soft old sweatshirt and I heard her moan. My hand fell to her lap. She felt it and grabbed at it, trembling.

"Please," she gasped as I pressed between her warm denim-covered thighs. I needed to touch her. I reached lower and palmed her, her heat radiating, with a hint of lovely soft moisture, as she tightly pressed her legs together. I could hear her heart racing as I continued to suckle on her.

Her hand tried to pull me away, but I couldn’t. I wouldn’t let her. Who could? Who in their right mind would give up the struggle when it was so close? I started unbuckling her pants with my free hand and I felt her thighs open up, finally, the heat and wetness there becoming more and more pronounced against my fingers. She was unbuckled and I pressed my hand against her burning stomach, just beneath her belly button and touched the delicate hem of her soft underwear.

I looked up. Her head was tilted back. She was gasping deeply as I massaged and fondled her wonderful body. She was gone, any vestige of resistance gone and, for just a moment, I felt sad for her. We were in a plane for God’s sake, and she was, after all, some famous person who I, of all people, had no business slobbering all over. I was going to stop, but she looked down at me.

And I saw it. Who the fuck cared who she was? As my fingers traced down lower, under the soft cotton panties and then touching the downy, softness of her bush, I saw the very human look of lust. Simple, pure lust. Of course, if I stopped, in retrospect, I’m sure she would have been grateful. Myself? Fuck. My fingers were at the very beginning of that slight wet crevice of the opening of her fleshy cunt-lips. She was burning. Wet, sticky and burning.

And then I heard her gasp and clench up into my hand. I pressed against her, slowly massaged and circled her hard, inspired little clit. She was murmuring, "Robert," over and over and I felt her hands, those long fingers pulling my face up and we clashed our mouths together, wildly, almost spitting into each other’s throats with our tongues. I pushed lower, and found, compressed, awkwardly, her opening, swollen and dripping liquid heat. I managed a feeble finger-tip inside her and in desperation began tugging down at her pants, her underwear. She tried to help, raising herself. We were doing no good and she pulled away from me, breathing heavy.

"Wait," she gasped and I pulled my shaking hands away from her. I watched as she turned away and wiggled quickly out of her jeans, out of her underwear and they were off. I heard them being kicked away on the ground and in the light from the sun-rise I saw her, her baggy sweatshirt just covering her flat stomach, but everything else, the lean long legs, and the glistening dark blondness in between them, naked flesh. We looked at each other, trying to catch our breaths.

She looked so vulnerable, so light, the rising, glaring sun hidden behind her, highlighting her rosy, blond face. She was an angel. Do you dare? How do you fuck a real-life angel?

Eagerly.

I roughly pulled down my pants, almost doing violence to myself, my poor cock twisted, caught in the wild push down, but then, after everything, free, springing free. I heard her giggle as my gorged cock jumped out and slapped hard with a dull thud against my shirt tail. Not an auspicious entrance, but impressing her was the last thing on my mind.

I jumped out of my seat and before she could say a word I was opening up her long thighs.

"Robert," she gasped, terrified, as I pressed my weight down on her. "Robert," she tried, but I was there, flesh against burning flesh. My aim couldn’t have been better, as my drooling cock-head found her delicious opening and I pressed in.

"Oh God," she groaned into my chest as I pushed down as hard as I could. I had to feel her, open her, with her natural wetness mixed with mine. Nothing else would do. And she opened, almost painfully, with this burning tightness I’d thought I’d long ago left in high school. I pulled out, feeling her thick cunt-lips, her delicious inner folds grasping out with me, wet myself and shoved in again and I heard her muffle a scream, felt her claw at my back and kick open her thighs wider. Buried in, swollen in and clasped to the balls, now resting against her soft ass. I held myself, frozen, wanting to die where I was forever and ever.

Her squeaking voice woke me from my trance. "Put a rubber on," she gasped. "Please. Put a rubber on." A rubber? Who the fuck had a rubber? My mind spun. Did the bathroom in the plane have rubbers for over-eager adventuresome passengers? Good God. But the poor girl didn’t understand the end I wanted accomplished by shoving in like that unannounced. To be sure, it was mostly selfish, the gratification of a tight first penetration, but in the back of my mind I also had her in mind.

Groaning deeply, I pulled out, with a loud slurp, and pushed away from her and got on my knees, our pants all over the place at my ankles. I roughly grabbed her thighs and opened her up.

"Lean back the seat," I called up to her, without taking my eyes off the glorious sight of dear Gwyneth’s open, wet cunt.

She understood and the seat moved and I saw her leaning back, raising her cunt so that it rested now directly level with my face. The penetration had done its job. Her entire vulva was raised, visibly, her thick outer labia clenching tightly together, almost in protest, trying to protect her. I pressed my thumb against her and heard her groan. She was like a sponge, a thick burning sponge, resilient to the touch.

My tongue eagerly followed and her warm thighs quivered, uncontrollably against my ears as I tasted her. The sponge was filled with honey, delicious thick honey mixed with a tart delicate spiciness. The aroma was pure sex, getting stronger and stronger. I pressed against her more tightly, opening the tightly clenched cunt-lips and found her fleshy little nub. I circled and circled it with my tongue and, almost immediately, with an ungodly moan, I felt her hands dropping to my head and felt her pressing me in more deeply.

I did not need her urging. I knelt between those twisting, writhing soft thighs for long, long minutes. My fingers joined in the exploration and joy. First one, and then two, gently pushing in and pulling out of her. She would clamp hard and in wonder I could hear and see nothing, only feel and taste. But what feeling and what tasting. Other times, she would push wildly against me, trying to swallow my head. My tongue rarely left her burning, hard clit.

It went on and on until finally in the middle of an extremely long thrashing groan and clamp-down I felt her hands grab at my hair and pull me up. I went up, in pain, from the tugging and saw her face. She let go, the effort almost too much for her and panted up at me. How different she looked. Her lovely was streaked, soaked, marked with strain and unbelievably red, nothing like that paleness of before. We said nothing–we were too tired–and I raised myself to kiss her swollen red lips and then felt her hands slowly stroking my stomach and then reach lower and she was roughly grabbing at my drooling cock.

I kissed her, deeply, and she sucked me greedily when I felt her rub me against her swollen wetness. She pushed lower and I slowly was enveloped by her thick lips. We continued kissing, holding each other as I pressed into her opening and gently sank into her. We moaned, cried into each other, until I finally hit bottom, swollen throbbing flesh against swollen liquid flesh. She held me in place as we kissed and sucked whatever our tongues found. Her eyes. My nose. Her forehead. My lips. Her chin. My neck. Her throat. We licked and sucked and bit, holding each other tightly.

I couldn’t stand still. I began pushing into her, grinding against her, our curly soaked hair mashed and threading, becoming indistinguishable in a wet pulsing mass. My strokes became longer, harder, jerking her thighs open and shut with each clinging push and pull. It went on and on, deeper and harder until we’d established a wonderful rhythm, with my balls swinging and slapping in a steady cadence against her soaked soft ass.

When I felt myself reaching the plateau of climax, I released her almost raw lips and looked down at her. I took a deep breath.

"Tell me when to cum, Gwyneth. Please, tell me."

She opened her red, sweat streaked eyes and nodded. "Not yet, not yet, Robert."

I nodded and began grinding into her harder, holding myself in place between thrusts with greater urgency. She felt and matched the new pace. It went on and I thought I couldn’t do anything more except to simply empty into her, but I wanted to wait for just a moment longer. Her eyes were closed, She was finding herself, opening herself up and was trying to hold out until it became unbearable to continue. Her hands were clawing and grabbing at my sweat-drenched ass. She was taking my tongue deep in her throat and . . . .

And then she opened her eyes wide. "Nowwwww," she screamed between gritted teeth. "Nowwww, Robert, nowwww. Please God–"

But I was there already and pulled back one last time, leaving only my swollen cock wrapped inside her and then pushed down with what little I had left. I held myself viciously tight into her. She bit her hand so that her yells wouldn’t be heard.

Each of my long, painful, burning spurts was met my a dozen quivers and contractions from deep within her. Forceful spurt followed deep spurt, surrounded in a wildly throbbing flesh. And then weaker spurts and then dribbles and then drops, all without discrimination milked in by her over-heated, long and beautiful body.

As I lay top of her, breathing deeply in her chest, as her thighs slowly fell to my side to rest her feet on the ground, feeling little murmurs and massages trying to keep me hard, I raised my head and kissed her softly. She opened her tired eyes and returned my kiss and we held each other, our bodies slowly chilling by the cool air around us.

After perhaps five minutes of silence, only soft breathing and nibbles and silly whispers in her ear, I gently pulled out of her, a flood of hot stickiness following me. She watched me as I slowly stood up. My cock was soaked, my pubic hair matted. She smiled, almost blushing. Her face was looking a little more normal, a little more relaxed. I looked lower and down between her still open thighs. It was a sight that will never leave me. Her cunt, that incredible, incredible cunt of her’s, was beautiful, open, the opening wide and deep red and oozing out liquid. Even as exhausted as I was and eve though I’d never done it before, I needed desperately to touch her, suck on her, take something of us from her.. I knelt and was about to suck on her, but she gently nudged me away with her knee.

I looked up.

She shook her soaked head and whispered down in a tired voice. "Too sensitive. I’m so sore, Robert. Please don’t."

I nodded and searched on the floor, her beautiful smell and the heavy odor of sex everywhere and handed her the simple white panties and faded old blue jeans. She smiled, took them, slowly sat up and started getting dressed. I did the same in silence.