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From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Banged in Bahrain (MF, strangers, cheat) ~ Another Ace Adventure
Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 07:10:13 -0400
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Banged in Bahrain (MF, strangers, cheat)
(Another Ace Adventure)
by DrSpin
May 2000
===========================================================
DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer:
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is
to it. I would be surprised to hear that any of my stories
gave offence. If so, the offended reader should not have
been here in the first place and only has himself/herself
to blame. If this story is relocated anywhere but on this
newsgroup, please leave my name intact as the author and
please include my email address.
===========================================================
# The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
drspin@newsguy.com
# 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."
ENDS
===========================================================
<*> My note said:
`Bored? Weary of walking and waiting for something to
happen? Ginger, I can fix it in a flash. Meet me at a
nearby location, apologise for kicking me, and I will
reward you by fucking your brains out.'
===========================================================
<**> For other Ace Dyson adventures, see Abducted By Aliens
and Dyson Does Dunedin ( http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/ ).
And soon to come, Ace and the Russian Interpreter.
===========================================================
# The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions from)
comments and opinions from readers and is invariably
motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com
# DrSpin's 25 posted stories are at
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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