Christmas in Boulder Ch. 01byBluepen451©
It was two days before Christmas, and we were trying our best to get home to San Francisco from New York. It just happened that we were both in New York on business and were able to schedule our return flight together. It's something that rarely happens, given the way our schedules work. It's not like we were trying to get to a big family celebration, because my family lives in Sweden and Gina's in Italy. We have a tradition of visiting both families at one big get-together in the Caribbean that is always scheduled for mid-February, when travel is cheaper and easier. But it's always nice to be back in our place in Mill Valley for Christmas, even if we weren't having a big family gathering.
I was waiting for Gina in the United Red Carpet Room at JFK. She was driving down from a meeting in Connecticut, and I had arrived from a court hearing in the City an hour ahead of her. I'd already sent her a good news/bad news message.
Good news and bad news.
Our non-stop to SFO is cancelled. Something about the plane or the crew being stuck in Chicago due to a blizzard. Apparently it's snowing most of the way across the country.
The sort of good news is that I have us booked on a flight to DIA, but it is going to get in there too late to catch the last flight to SFO, so United is going to put us up in a hotel in Denver. I figured getting to Denver was better than staying here, given that the storm is headed our way. It appears there is no way to get home tonight. Not clear about tomorrow either, but we will tackle that when we get to Denver. One step at a time in these situations.
The good news is we will be stuck in a hotel in Denver together instead of by ourselves. Could have been worse.
Her response was about what I expected:
But, okay, I am glad I'll be stranded in Denver with you. Better if it was Majorca. But better Denver with you than Majorca by myself.
As she walked into the Red Carpet Room, I was, as always, stunned. She is average height, 5'5", and has a voluptuous Italian figure—nice round bottom and tits, bigger than an apple, but smaller than a melon, and her legs, oh! her legs are to die for. If she had just been three or four inches taller, she could have been a model for a nylon manufacturer instead of a marketing executive. She has the sexiest legs in the world. And her eyes—dark brown with the longest lashes in the world. Her hair is raven and cut into a pageboy, easier to care for with her travel schedule, she always says.
Of course, I couldn't really see all of these features as she came into the Red Carpet Club towing her roller bag, because she was dressed in a dark conservative business suit that came down to just below the knees and included a jacket that pretty thoroughly hid those wonderful breasts of hers, plus she was wearing a dark wool overcoat, because, well because it was winter in New York, and everyone wears a coat like that if they can afford it.
We made a somewhat unusual couple because her smallish stature and smoldering looks are a strong contrast to mine. I am 6'5" and have blonde hair and blue eyes. My build is tall and lanky. When I was in college and still had hair down to my shoulders and a red beard, my friends called me "the Viking."
She greeted me with a peck on the cheek that required me to lean forward and her to stand on her toes, a technique we mastered years ago.
"How was your meeting?" I asked.
"Boring. Could have been done by video conference, especially given the little that we accomplished. How was your meeting?"
"Well, it was a court hearing, but otherwise the same. Boring and very little accomplished. The judge just kind of kicked the can down the road for another six months."
"So, we're stuck in Denver for the night?" she asked.
"Yep," I replied in my best Swedish accent.
"Did you use those Swedish charms of yours on the ticketing agent?"
"But they didn't work?"
"Why not? They always work on me. Was she gay?"
"Well, based on the big black guy I saw her walk out of here with when her shift ended, my guess is definitely not gay. I think the real problem is that there just isn't another plane to San Francisco tonight. I did get us upgraded to first, however," I said as I handed Gina her boarding pass, "So I wasn't a total failure. Let me get you a drink. We have an hour before we board."
"Sigh. . . okay. Scotch, straight up. McCallum, if they have it."
As I returned with the drinks, I noticed that another couple was settling into a pair of seats opposite us. He was short and swarthy with about three day's beard and black hair that would have hung to his shoulders were it not tied in a pony tail. Not fat though. Very trim. She was quite a bit taller than him and fair skinned with long blonde hair. She was what one would describe as lithe, perhaps even skinny, except for the better-than-average size boobs on her thin chest. Almost no hips, and you could tell that she was not carrying any flab by the way her tight, torn jeans fit her.
He was dressed like her—torn jeans, t-shirt, and a leather coat. Actually they were an amusing contrast to Gina and me, in our conservative dark blue business suits.
As I set the drinks down, I could tell that Gina was ogling the new arrivals—both of them. Gina wasn't gay, but she always appreciated a sexy build, be it man or woman.
"Well the scenery has improved," I said to her in Swedish as I sat down.
"Shhhh! They may understand," she responded in Italian. We had both made a significant effort to learn the other's native tongue, mostly as a concession to our families at home. It came in handy in situations like this.
"Well, they are certainly going to understand your ogling," I continued in Swedish.
He went to get drinks, and she grabbed her carry-on and headed for the washroom, leaving the rest of their gear to tie down the seats. I guess we looked trustworthy. People in dark blue suits usually do look trustworthy. At least they won't steal your luggage--but your money in a financial deal, well, not so clear that the dark blue suit, white shirt, conservative tie, and short haircut is a guarantee of reliability. The investment banker I had been defending in court earlier in the day was a classic case of deceit in a dark blue suit.
We both ogled her ass as she walked away. "She has a cute ass," Gina said to me in Swedish.
"Bellissima," I responded.
Gina giggled in response.
"Ah, the Scotch is helping your attitude," I said in English.
She smiled at me. "No, its just you being here. This would really suck if I was going to be stuck by myself in Denver trying to get home to you for Christmas . . . and it helps that there are two intriguingly hot people who just sat down across from us. I know we'll never see them again, but it is better to fantasize about them than it is to sit here and feel sorry for ourselves about how screwed up this trip is." We had switched back to English, since the objects of our conversation were absent.
"Skål," I said as I held up my glass in a toast to her statement.
She laughed and responded with "Evviva," the Italian equivalent of skål or cheers in English.
"So, what makes him sexy?" I asked her.
"A lot of things, but especially his eyes. Blue eyes with that olive complexion are unusual, and his eyes are sexy. When he looks at me I can tell he is undressing me."
"What about her?" she asked. "Besides her boobs."
I laughed. "So you noticed."
"Duh! You know I always notice other women."
"Well, she has a cute ass, too," I said.
"Oh, what do you like about it? It's not round like mine."
I switched back to Swedish. "Yeah, but she has a bubble butt. I can't help but imagine her leaning over one of these couches while he strokes his cock in and out of her and those big tits of hers are hanging down and swinging back and forth."
In Italian, "My God, you have a dirty mind. We have only seen those people for five minutes and you are imagining them fucking. Are you sure it's him fucking her that you are imagining?"
In English, "Tut, Tut. Me thinks the pot is calling the kettle black," I said. Then in Swedish, "So how big do you think his dick is?"
Gina laughed and had to struggle not to splutter a gulp of Scotch she had just taken.
"Eight and a half inches and curved," she said in Italian. "Bellissimo!"
"Gotcha!" I said. "You're mind's just as dirty as mine. Your turn to get the next round of drinks. That's wishful thinking, by the way," I continued. "You have no way of knowing how big his dick is," switching back to Swedish.
As she hopped from her chair smiling, she said, "Oh no? He has big hands, and big hands mean a big dick."
"Really," I said, with all the skepticism I could muster in my voice. "I thought that was an old wives' tale."
"No, it's true," she said. "Just look at your hands, and we both know how big your dick is. You are living proof," she said in Italian.
As she walked to the bar, I was sure that I could see a little extra swing of her hips. Truth be told, I really like her broad round ass better than the blonde's narrow hipped ass . . . but they both had their attractions.
Just then, the blonde returned. She had changed from her torn jeans to a very short leather skirt. Great legs—almost as nice as Gina's. She still had on the t-shirt she had been wearing when she came in, but now she was wearing a blue blazer over it. When she sat down, she unbuttoned the blazer as she reached forward for a magazine on the table between us, and I concluded that the function of the blazer was to hide the fact she was no longer wearing a bra. As she sat back, she smiled at me, which I dutifully returned. Then, as she buried her attention in the magazine, she crossed her legs, knowing full well that I would be watching carefully. Her skirt was so short, that I was sure I would see her panties, but no sign of panties. "Was that because she wasn't wearing any?" I wondered.
"Enjoying the show?" I heard in Swedish over my shoulder.
"Busted," I thought. Gina had been walking up behind me with the drinks. "Sì," I responded. When you are in a hole, don't keep digging.
"Well, she does have nice legs," Gina said in Swedish, more or less forgiving me for my sin, or at least acknowledging it was inevitable.
"Yes, but does she have panties on?" I asked in Italian.
"Hmmm. Good question. I hadn't thought of that, but I should have expected you to think of it," Gina responded in Swedish. "I think it will help my outlook on life to believe she doesn't. It certainly would have helped that meeting I went to today, if I had convinced myself that everyone was going commando," still in Swedish.
"Well, for what it's worth, I think she lost her brassiere in the washroom," I said in Italian.
"My how nice for you," she said, in English, as she put a drink in my hand and used her other hand to sensually, and somewhat possessively, massage the back of my neck.
About this time the blonde's companion arrived with the long-delayed drinks. They began to chat in what I eventually concluded was Russian—totally unintelligible to me, and I knew, to Gina.
"What do you think they are saying," I asked in Italian.
"Haven't a clue. I hope he isn't telling her that he wants to fuck me. She looks like the jealous type to me," Gina said in Swedish.
"Really, I thought she just looked like the randy type," I responded in Italian.
"You wish!" Gina said in English. "Better finish that drink soon. We have to board in about ten minutes."
"Besides," I said in Italian. "You wouldn't really fuck him, would you?"
"Depends," Gina responded coyly.
I looked at her with my eyebrows raised, "On what?"
"Whether you've been naughty or nice," Gina responded with a laugh.
"You know I am always nice and never naughty."
"That is not true and not necessarily the answer I was looking for. I like you when you are nice and naughty . . . with me, that is," she said in Swedish, continuing to smile at me.
"Uff da!" I exclaimed. "Life is so complicated. I have to be nice and then I have to be naughty, and if I get confused about which girl I am naughty with and which girl I am nice with, I'm in trouble." I took a long drink of Scotch and looked woebegone.
"Oh, you poor baby," Gina laughed at me in English.
For the next ten minutes we sipped our drinks and pretended not to watch the couple across from us, while they did the same. Gina was molesting the back of my neck, which she knew would give me about half an erection in just a few minutes, while the fellow across from me fondled the blonde's knee. I was really hoping he would let his hand slide higher on her thigh, but presumably because there were a couple of hundred additional people sitting around us, he restrained himself.
Finally he said something in Russian or Croatian, or whatever the hell language it was that they were speaking, and they began to gather up their belongings. As she uncrossed her legs in preparation to stand up, I was sure she had no panties on.
We stayed seated as they walked away.
"You're right, I think she lost her brassiere, poor girl," said Gina in Italian.
"I think she lost her panties, too," I said in Swedish.
"Maybe she never had any," Gina said in English.
"Intriguing thought." I said as we rose to leave. "I think it will occupy me as far as Omaha. Fortunately, I brought a magazine for the rest of the flight."
"Hah!" responded Gina. "I brought a Kindle, loaded with the last three stories that you posted to the Literotica site."
"Oh, you naughty girl," I said.
"I'm naughty? No, I don't think so. You're the perv who writes these stories."
"Yes, but you are my best customer."
"Besides a lot of teenage boys masturbating as they read them on the family computer in the basement," she said, continuing the conversation in Swedish.
"I prefer to think of my readers as sexually sophisticated middle-aged divorcees. I like to believe I am writing for the MILFs of the world."
"Dreamer!" Gina laughed at me, as we walked to the gate.
It turned out that the plane was delayed for another hour, but we eventually boarded it about 9:30 p.m. We were just getting settled in our seats when who should board, but the couple who had been sitting across from us in the Red Carpet Club. She smiled at me again, and I dutifully returned the smile again. This time, it was noticed by our partners. He said something to her in Russian, clearly indicating me with a nod of her head, and she responded in Russian.
Gina said, in her best sarcastic Swedish, "I see you have a new friend."
"I doubt it," I responded in Italian, "especially if her companion has anything to say about it."
"How do you know what he said?" Gina responded in Swedish.
"It was the way he looked at me as he spoke," I said in Italian. "I hope he's not a Russian mobster."
"Not a chance. Remember, I grew up around mobsters in Italy. I know one when I see one. My uncle was in Cosa Nostra."
"Are you sure about him?" I said, with a subtle nod toward the couple across the aisle.
"You have a ridiculous imagination. Keep applying it to sex. It works better there," she responded in Swedish. "Just enjoy those luscious tits of hers that are barely concealed by that thin t-shirt, now that she has put her blazer in the overhead."
"Okay," but as I spoke, the blonde settled into the window seat opposite us and spread a blanket out, pulling it up to her chin.
"Too bad," Gina said in Swedish. Funny thing about sarcasm, it works in any language.
Within half an hour we were all organized, and the flight had commenced. Once the flight crew had served drinks, they dimmed the cabin lights, and Gina also snuggled under a blanket and began to read the Kindle with my erotic stories on it. There were only two couples in first class, but the back was full, so the flight attendants were spending their time back there, tending to the needs of the masses. "Fine with me," I thought.
I tried to do some work, but I really couldn't focus on it. I was busy wondering whether my stories were turning Gina on. They usually did. "Okay," I thought, "if I can't focus on work, I'll spend some time working on another sex story. I got out my laptop and opened it. I didn't really have a new story to write, but I knew one would come, if I just spun out a bunch of ideas. After a while one would click and a story would emerge. Funny thing about writing sex stories—it was infinitely more satisfying than practicing law. It was just that law paid so much better.
After an hour or so, Gina surfaced from her reading.
"Hmm. That was a good story," she whispered in my ear. "You write such great porn."
"Good. That is the whole point—to write something that will make you so horny you just have to fuck me," I said in Swedish.
She giggled. "Well, I can't fuck you here, so the story is wasted," she replied in Swedish.
"Not necessarily," I said, as I slid my hand under the blanket. I ran my hand along her thigh until it reached her crotch, and I rubbed her pussy through her panties.
"No, not here!" she said. "Someone will see us!"
"Who?" I asked. "The flight attendants are all busy in the back, and it looks to me like our Russian friends are way ahead of us. They are doing the same thing." Each of them was under a blanket and you couldn't really tell where one of them stopped and the other started. Just a blue lump stretched across two seats that moved and wiggled occasionally.
"Really?" Gina said as she leaned forward. She watched the couple for a moment and then said, "Oh, those naughty people!" I love it when she pretends to be shocked.
"Are you disapproving or jealous of them?" I asked.
She giggled again. "Hmmm. I guess sometimes I would be outraged, but given it's almost midnight, our cabin is mostly empty, and I just read two of your nasty stories, . . . ummm, yes I think it is mostly jealousy."
"What do you think they are doing?" I asked.
When she didn't respond, I said, "Use your imagination. Why do think she changed into that short skirt back at JFK?"
"Oooh, really? You think she is masturbating? How nasty."
"Nastier than that," I said.
"I think he is fucking her with his fingers, and she is jerking his cock."
"Here, on the airplane. This is like one of your stories." She thought for a minute and said, "You are right, I'm jealous of them."
All that time I had been stroking her thigh and her mound through her panties. Now I reached over and tipped her head up so she was looking right at me. "Gina, here is what I want you to do. I want you to get up and take your purse to the lav . . ."
"But I don't need to pee," she interrupted.
"Shhh, let me finish," I said. "While you are in there, I want you to take off your bra and panties and stuff them in your purse so that when you come back, you are naked under that conservative blue suit you are wearing."
"Oh, Leif. I couldn't!"
"Yes, you can. If you can't do that, my stories aren't good enough."
Another giggle. "Oh your stories are plenty good enough. My panties are soaked from reading them."
"Good, then you should go get naked under that blue suit and we can play under the blanket, just like our Russian friends."
Her eyes glittered as she thought about my indecent proposal.
"Okay, I'll do it, but we better not get caught. If we do, I'll say you made me do it."
"That's what the girls always say," I responded as she slid past me to the aisle. I made a point of fondling her ass as she went by.
She was only gone for a couple of minutes. I could see her tits bouncing under her conservative white blouse as she came walking back, so I knew she hadn't talked herself out of my scheme. As she slid past me, I noticed that the zipper on the side of her skirt was down. The only thing that was keeping the skirt from sliding off her ass was a single button at the top. I also could see a narrow slice of her olive toned skin where the zipper should have been. No panties!