tagFetishBaby Changing Station

Baby Changing Station

byWRJames©

We were at the airport early. Well, you couldn't blame my wife for pushing it. Just a couple of weeks ago, we'd been hearing horror stories from our cousins in Dallas who had barely made it through security in time to catch a flight to meet us in Florida. So, we had given it plenty of time. And of course, once we got there, there had been no line to check in our baggage, and no line at security, either. So we had a few hours to wait. It's not that there aren't things to kill an afternoon, at the airport. There are plenty of shops, plenty of restaurants, all just outside the security check-in. But, if we dawdled there, would a line develop in the meantime? It was not worth the risk. So here we were, at the gate, with nothing to distract us.

Now, Terminal C, which they spruced up a few years ago, is like a shopping mall. But Terminal B, the international departures terminal, is still a dump. Once you get past security, to the gate, there is nothing. Well, almost nothing. There's a duty free shop, a bar, a news stand with maybe one or two books to browse, just the same ones you would see in the supermarket. Oh, and the same magazines you see in a dentist's office, plus one or two skin magazines. The last thing I needed, at this point, was something to make me horny. We had an overnight flight ahead of us, and a few hours after that before we could get into our hotel. The prospects of convincing my wife to attempt to join the Mile High Club were not good. It was going to be well over twenty-four hours before the next opportunity for sex. And, of course, we had "stocked up" before heading to the airport. I looked at those scantily clad covers without a trace of interest.

Even though we were so early, there was a surprisingly large crowd in the terminal. It was still several hours before any of the European flights would board, but there was one to Montego Bay, supposedly taking off in less than an half an hour. But no one was boarding. There wasn't even an attendant at that podium. There were just a lot of passengers with that airport look to them. Not the bustling look that people have moving to the gate. Rather, the look of resignation that comes from waiting at the gate for a very long time. And, to make matters worse, there was no air in the place. It wasn't hot, but it was very humid, and it seemed as if there was no oxygen. Within a couple of minutes I had a dull headache.

Well, what do you do to kill three hours before you embark on an eight hour plane flight? Really, you are trying to put yourself into an altered state of consciousness, into trip mode. Lunch at the bar, that only killed half an hour, and the beer just made my headache worse. At least it gave me an excuse to wander to the restrooms. They were up by the security area, and there was a little breeze up there, but as you walked down closer to the gates you could smell how stale the air was. So I retreated, to use the water fountain. Not that I was particularly thirsty, after the beer, it just smelled better. It's pretty bad when the air is fresher around the baby changing station. There was a little one, right between the men's and ladies' room, and out of boredom I peeked inside. No babies, just a large, padded table, a sink, a toilet, and, strangely enough, a vending machine for condoms.

"Do you have a grandchild with you?"

A woman's voice startled me. It was a security guard, a large black lady who looked about as bored as I was.

"No, thank goodness." I didn't hear any babies crying in the waiting area. Hopefully, it would stay that way. It always seems like there is a screaming infant or toddler a couple of rows back on the plane, crying its lungs out because its ears hurt. "Just looking around. What's with the condom machine? Maybe it's a marketing gimmick? You have the baby with you, so it's a reminder not to have another one?"

"Maybe. But," the guard added, chuckling, "people make babies in there, too."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, I see people go in there all the time, with no baby in sight."

I gave her a long look. "There's not a camera in there, is there?"

That just provoked a shrug. "There are cameras everywhere, in this airport. Hey," she gave a hint of a smile, "if folks want to brighten up my day, that's their choice. Believe me, I've seen it all, over the years."

"Yeah, I suppose you have."

"I'm happy if they're not doing it right on the benches."

"Yeah, sure."

"Have a nice day."

"Yeah, you too."

So, what do you do to kill three hours at the airport? I look at people. I don't simply look at them, I try to look inside them. I look for clues, I try to figure out who they are, why they are at the airport (yes, I know, to catch a plane, but WHY are they trying to catch a plane?). Who are they traveling with? What's their mood? What do they do for a living? What do they like to read? Most important, if they are ladies, are they wearing underwear? It's not prying, is it? They're sitting right out in the open, waiting to be looked at. If they talk too loudly on their cell phones, what's the harm in listening to what they say? It's a habit I picked up years ago, during my road warrior days. But it's even more fun, with my wife along. It gives me someone to share my speculations with.

We had, more or less by accident, chosen a spot where there were some interesting people to look at. Well, it hadn't been entirely by accident. There was a blonde with a very short skirt seated near us, and I had spotted her from a distance and more or less steered us in that direction, hoping against all reason that she might have forgotten to wear panties to the airport. Fortunately, my wife had accepted my choice of seats without question, and now I had a nice view of tan, well muscled thighs, tantalizing hint of shadow above them.

"That's what we need," my wife whispered, and I thought, yes!, but she was pointing out, not the girl's lap, but the little device she was holding on it, squirming a little to show even more skin, not a trace of fabric yet to shatter my illusions. We usually brought at least one of our laptops along with us, but we had decided they were too bulky this time. I was already suffering from withdrawal.

"I think it's just a DVD player," I whispered back, but I wasn't looking at the technology, I was looking even harder at the girl. She was Sarah, the Goddess of my novels, in the flesh. Well, maybe a tad chunkier, but blonde, athletic, with that look of smoldering defiance. The look got a little hotter, as the departure time for the Jamaica flight got pushed back another hour. The couple next to her, who had been squirming in various erotic positions for a while, sighed and squirmed a little more.

"Look at her," I whispered, "she's can't wait to get out of that dress. She's not going to be wearing clothes for the next week, once she gets where she's headed."

"Okay, Sherlock Hemlock," my wife whispered, "tell me about those two."

"Those two are honeymooners. Look at the way they're all over each other. She's been rubbing her head on his lap, he's got his hand up her thigh. By now they expected to be in a hotel room with a nice big bed."

"Could be. Maybe they are married to other people and are off on a little fling?"

"Could be. Anyway, the last place they want to be in this airport. Of course, there's always the baby changing room."

"The what?"

"The baby changing room. That's what the guard said. People fuck in there all there all time." I might have been talking a bit too loudly, because my wife started to squirm. "Want to try it out?" I added, just to torment her.

"In your dreams," my wife answered. "I'm sure they have cameras in there. The last thing I want is to show up on the internet. Watch my things," she added, and she went off without further explanation. Well, there wasn't too far she could go. No need to worry.

I guess we might have been talking too loudly. The guy across from us whispered something in his lady's ear, and she giggled a little, then pushed him away. The two of them were sitting a little further apart now, and both of them were glaring at me. I couldn't move away too easily; my wife had left her bag on the seat beside me. And they showed no sign of moving, either. They were going to amuse themselves for a while by being mad at me. "Dirty old man," I heard the wife whisper. Well, fair enough, I suppose. But I felt myself blushing a little.

Nothing to read, nothing to do, except to continue my quest for the blonde's underwear, or lack thereof. Then I realized she had stopped looking at the screen of her DVD player, or whatever it was, and she was staring at me almost as hard as I had been looking at her.

"You're going to Jamaica?" I ventured. Now, understand, in my single days, long ago, I probably would never have had the nerve to strike up a conversation with someone like her. And, if I had, she would have given me that cold stare that beautiful young women use to protect themselves. But now, grey hair, that respectable, grandfatherly look, made me safe to talk to. Yes, now that it didn't matter, I had the Midas touch.

Sure enough, she smiled back. Apparently, she had not overheard anything about her wardrobe for the next week. "No," she sighed, "I'm not going to Jamaica, not at this rate. We were supposed to leave three hours ago. And my poor computer is almost out of juice. It was supposed to last me all the way down."

"Maybe you could recharge it?"

"I packed the fucking charger," she sighed. "It's in my luggage. At this rate, I'll never see it again. Or any of my fucking movies."

"At least," I sighed, "you have a computer. A nice little one. Can I see it?"

"Sure." She came over to sit down next to me. "You like to stare at people, don't you?"

"What?" That caught me off guard. It didn't even sound very friendly, although she was still smiling, a little.

"I'm sorry, was I staring at you? Really, I was looking at your little computer."

"Bullshit. You've been trying to figure us out ever since you sat down. You guessed the honeymooners. What about me?"

"What about you?" I took a deep breath. I was about to dive out into the unknown. No more nice safe grandpa. "You expected to be naked by now."

"What?" That caught her completely off guard. Or did it? For one instant I thought she was actually going to slap me, but then she thought it over, and gave me a little smirk I had a sudden suspicion that she really was not wearing anything under that dress, or not much, maybe a tiny, tiny thong.

I turned so I could get a better look at her. Up close, she was shockingly beautiful, perfect skin and dark blue eyes that made me abandon all caution. "You're headed to some place like Hedonism. You aren't planning to be wearing clothes for the next week."

"Could be," she said. "What else?"

"You're a jock, or is it jockette? An athlete of some sort. A serious one, but you've been away from it for a year or so. Soccer, maybe. Or tennis?"

"How do you know that?"

I put my hand on her right knee, daring her to flinch, and traced the outlines of a scar. "Pretty major, pretty recent."

"Hmm," she said, staring at my legs. I had debated whether to wear shorts, but now I glad that I had my legs bare. "You too." She touched me about four inches above my knee, where my scar started, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. "You didn't get the sport right, though."

"What?"

"Rugby."

"Rugby?" I gave her a closer look. Her nose did seem a bit mashed up. "Wow. My college had a big time alumni rugby team. They were trying to get me to join it because I was a soccer player. But there was no way ... Do you still have all your teeth?"

"We wear mouth guards." She smiled at me, or a least grimaced. "See?"

"Very nice."

"What else?"

"What, what else?"

She gave me a defiant glare. "What else do you think that you know about me?"

"You're out of college. Maybe just out. You started a job, over the summer, and this is your first break since."

"How do you figure that?"

"School would have started already, or before you get back."

"Maybe. What else."

"You're going to some place like Hedonism."

"Could be. Maybe. What makes you think that?"

"You don't like tan lines."

That one made her blush a little. "I'm not even going to ask you how you got that idea."

"Am I right?"

"Maybe."

"You're going to some place that takes singles."

She gave me a stare. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, for one thing, you're sitting by yourself."

"So what? Maybe I'm meeting someone down there."

"Yes. A bunch of girls. You're all going down to cut loose."

"You think, we're going to, like, have a contest? Who can fuck the most?"

"It crossed my mind."

"You really are a dirty old man. What else?"

I leaned over to whisper in her ear. "You aren't wearing anything under that dress."

That made her sit up. She took a deep breath and tried to regain her composure. "That's silly," she said. "Why would I come to the airport like that?"

"On a dare," I said. "You and your girlfriends have a bet – who can show up with the least on."

"No," she said, "you're wrong."

"Am I? Prove it." I put my hand back on her knee.

"You're wrong," she whispered, "about the dare." She placed her hand on mine, then, not moving it away, and we sat there for a moment in suspension, not daring to think what might happen next. But then, abruptly, she got up and went back over to her seat. She had seen my wife returning.

"Are you okay?" My wife was staring at me with some concern. "You're shivering. God knows, it's not cold in here. You aren't getting sick, are you?"

"Hope not," I sighed. "I think I need the bathroom for a while."

"Oh, was it what you ate for lunch?" We had tried different things.

"Maybe," I said.

"Well, you've got a couple of hours before takeoff. Maybe your stomach will settle down by then."

"Yeah, maybe." I staggered up, and headed off towards the men's room. The only thing I could think of was that if I masturbated, maybe a couple of times, it might calm me down enough to endure the rest of the afternoon.

"Are you okay?" There was a voice behind me. It was the blonde! We were barely out of sight of the seating area.

"I'm fine," I assured her, even though I was not at all certain that was true.

"You're not going to have a heart attack or anything? I was just watching this show last night, there was this old guy screwing around, and in the middle of it he had a heart attack. It was a real bummer."

"My heart is just fine," I assured her. "I run every day."

"You don't need to take Viagra or anything?"

"No," I answered, trying to keep my voice calm.

"Good," she said. She opened the door to the baby changing station. "No one in there." And she dragged me inside, and locked the door.

"What are we doing in here?" I asked.

"You wanted to know if I was wearing anything under the dress." She perched up on the table, keeping her legs pressed together. "Take a guess. If you're right, I'll do anything you want. If you're wrong, you have to do anything I want." She paused. "Then we'll switch. Deal?"

"Maybe I just want to walk out of here."

"Maybe you do." As she slid down off the table, her dress lingered up around her thighs, and I knew the answer. "Maybe you want to leave right now." She kissed me, just on the lips, she leaned against me so that I could feel her nipples pressing into my chest. "Well go on, leave. Oh, there's one more thing." She went over to the vending machine. "Got a five?"

"Why?"

"You're going to wear one of these." That made me wince. "What size?" she added.

"Size? They come in sizes?"

"You need a mega?" I shook my head. "Too bad. Well, come on." She had taken one of the condoms out of its packet.

"Come on what?"

"Take your shorts off, so I can put this thing on you." It's really happening, I thought dizzily. I was just standing there, and she impatiently tugged them down to my ankles. She didn't even bother to unbuckle my belt. I was half hoping my prick had more sense than I did, but no, it was eager enough.

"Oh! My! God!" She was laughing. Now, I have spent a lot of time in locker rooms, and nude beaches. I have seen a lot of naked guys, and I know full well that there is nothing particularly exceptional about my genitalia.

"What?" I growled. I was ready to just pick the shorts back up and walk back out.

"It never occurred to me that you were going to be gray there, too. Actually, it's nice, almost like a little fluffy cloud." She patted my curls, then my erection. "Wow. I guess it's been a long time since you had any sex."

"It's been a while," I said. At least five hours now, since that preflight blow job.

"Take off you shirt, too," she added.

I pulled my tee shirt up over my head, and, reflexively, preened a little in the mirror on the other wall. I looked pretty good, I thought, big arms, big shoulders, belly still hard, although a bit thicker than it once had been. No ass to speak of, which is why the shorts had slid down so readily.

"Not bad, for an old man." She ran a hand over that belly, as I tensed it. "Really, really hairy though. You can't even see all the hair, it's so white. Stand up straight." Her dress had a little built-in holster in the back for a phone. She took the phone out and snapped a picture of me.

"What are you doing?"

"I need proof."

"Proof? What kind of proof?" You're wrong about the dare, she had said. Now I had a suspicion what the dare had been.

" Ever see a picture of yourself nude?" she teased me. I reached over for the phone, but she snatched it away from me. "Later." She retrieved the condom she had removed from its package. "Let's get started, before a real baby comes along."

"I really need to pee," I muttered.

"Sure, go ahead." She motioned at the toilet. I went over, and tried to urinate, but nothing was happening.

"What's the matter?" she taunted.

"You're watching me."

"I like to watch guys pee." That was enough encouragement to get a trickle out. "Wait." I was starting to shake off a couple lingering drops, but she stopped me, and knelt down and licked them away.

I stared at her, hardly believing what I had seen. She was still kneeling down in front of me, looking up with a mixture of defiance and expectation. What did she want? I moved forward a little so that I was pressing against her lips. They parted, and her mouth was open for me. Trembling, I managed to squeeze out a few more drops, and she let them roll her tongue, she seemed to savor them. Then, she stood up and kissed me. It was if her tongue was coated with fire.

"You ever do that before?" she asked, a little later.

"Not with pee." I started to pull her dress away.

"No." She broke off. "You have to guess first, remember." I reached down for her groin, but she slapped my hand away, hard enough to make me wrist sting. "No cheating."

"You're wearing a thong."

"Wrong!" She lifted up her skirt to prove her point. No telling if she was a natural blonde. She had shaved away every trace of pubic hair. I knelt down to worship, but she didn't want that. "Lie on the table, on your back."

"Maybe it's not strong enough? It's meant to hold little babies."

"Look, we had a deal. You're going to do what I want, right?"

"Okay."

"Okay, hold still while I put this thing on you ..."

"You're tickling me."

"Tickle this." She jabbed a finger up my asshole, then frowned at the way it had just gone in without resistance. "You're not gay, are you?"

"No."

"You like that?" She wiggled the finger around a little, found the prostate. "Shit, I wish I had my toys with me. It would be so much fun to fuck that cute little asshole of yours."

She pushed me back onto the table and straddled me. Oh my God, I thought to myself, as she eased down, and I felt her smooth warmth engulf me. She was still wearing the dress, but she had pulled her breasts out. She still had her shoes on, for that matter.

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