EROTIC STORIES :

MIDNIGHT AT SHEREMETYEVO
© remittance girl, 2005

Okay. I knew it was wrong, wrong, wrong and stupid, stupid, stupid; it's not as if I make a habit of doing this sort of thing! In all honesty, I don't know what came over me. Perhaps it was the morgue-like stillness of the place, or that it was midnight local time, or maybe it was the fact that my body clock was so very confused from traveling. I admit it; I was vulnerable.

He looked so innocent, so scrumptious – like a little lost piece of patisserie – standing there alert and slightly out of place in that huge, cold mausoleum of an airport at Sheremetyevo.

There was almost no one around in the transit lounge - lounge being something of a misnomer. The marble-lined hall with its floor to ceiling windows looking out onto a dark and frost-carpeted runway was hardly conducive to lounging. Neither were the hard, mean plastic molded seats in groovy, 1970's burnt orange.

At one end, a trio of corpulent Russian matrons in uniform gossiped percussively amongst themselves. I had met them earlier, trying to ask for directions to the gate; they'd bristled at me physically and clucked indecipherably, making broad shooing gestures with their meaty red hands. Now they were obviously discussing something scandalous and bristling again. Their enormous bosoms heaved and strained in communal indignation beneath their dull blue uniforms.

However, back to the subject at hand: the boy. I guessed him to be no more than 25. Finally, resigning himself to the fate of an uncomfortable and ill-spent night, he took a seat almost opposite me in the huge empty concourse.

He was dark ash-blond; his hair was cut so short it looked like a mousy velvet cap over his beautifully sculpted head. The dull lights in the ceiling picked up the tips of individual strands, making them shimmer a little. What an angel he was.

And his lips... Oh, you couldn't have said no to those lips; full and sensuous and cherubic, he wetted them nervously with an agile pink tongue as he glanced around. They were so plump it looked like it was hard to keep them shut. People who disdain the flesh have never seen that boy's lips.

Broken, unintelligible announcements occasionally reverberated around the hollow room from the dilapidated public address system recessed in the high ceiling. When they did, the boy looked up at the speakers, as if he could somehow decipher what was being said if he could just source the precise origin of the sound. His long, sinuous neck stretched upward, ending in a jaw line sharp enough to cut ice. The movement displayed a delicately carved Adam's apple. Biblical analogies ran through my head; Genesis be damned, I wanted a bite of that delicate, early-summer fruit.

He gnawed at his lower lip nervously and sucked it petulantly into his mouth. Mine watered, and I must have swallowed rather loudly, because he looked at me and offered a shy smile. I returned it. Oh, foolish, foolish woman!

No playing away from home base; no damage to civilians; no indulging in risky behaviour; and, most of all, no corrupting youth - all the good, sensible rules that kept me safe - that kept us all safe.

The smile I returned him must have convinced him that I was the only friendly face he was likely to see for the next few hours - not that my face was particularly friendly. Tall and gaunt, alabaster pale and raven-haired, I'm not particularly approachable. Most people look from a distance, admiring the rather chilly elegance, and give me a wide berth.

But this boy - this silly, silly boy - decided that, at midnight and far from home, I was companionship. He pushed himself lithely out of his seat, leaving his knapsack where it lay, and walked over to me.

"Do you speak English?" he asked hesitantly.

I looked up at him. Oh, he was lovely! His coltish frame stood at a polite distance, skittish and fine-boned. Delicious.

"Yes, I do."

He beamed in triumph and gestured at the seat beside me. "Do you mind if I sit?"

I glanced from the boy to the seat adjoining mine and back up at him. Right at that moment, I could have done the right thing. I could have cold-shouldered him but I didn't.

"No. Please do," I answered, shifting a little in my chair and crossing my legs.

As he sat down, I caught scent of him; god, it was enough to make the angels drool. Sweet, clean, young skin with a tickle of salt and mint, it was almost unbearable as his shoulder brushed mine. He turned in the seat to face me.

"Where are you going, if I might ask?"

To hell, you foolish boy, I almost replied.

"I'm going to Mumbai. And you?"

He grinned broadly, nodded his head, and pointed to his backpack forlorn and abandoned back at his old seat.

"Me too! I go traveling, to see India." He looked perplexed for a moment and then continued, "But why do you choose to go by Aeroflot? Not such a nice airline but cheap. You do not look like you need to fly cheap, though."

No... I was stinking rich and looked old enough to be his mother; time catches us strangely and marks us down in its book. I smirked.

"It's a night flight," I replied, staring directly into his eyes. His lashes were dense, dark fringes. The overheads struck them and cast them in shadow beneath his lower lids.

For a moment he did nothing. Perhaps my eyes had stunned him; they do that sometimes. Black rings surrounding indigo and ultramarine irises, shot through with topaz. I blinked to release him. He blinked back a couple of times and continued his beautifully accented traveler's banter.

"I am from Denmark... and you?"

Oh yes, I could have still been good and decent and kind, but hunger was gnawing at my muscles and the scent of him was eating tiny holes in my skin. I'm weak and he was so exquisite. I reached over, placed my hand upon his knee and laughed softly.

"I'm from... many places. But now I live in India."

At a distance, neat quick steps squeaked across the dusty marble floor. The boy was caught up now, jabbering away about India and all the mystery it held. He was speaking excitedly; his eyes gazed out over the dark runway one moment and then deep into mine the next. All that energy flowed through me like clear crisp water. What would it be like to feel so young again? My jaw ached, beneath my tongue the saliva surged, and I swallowed once more trying to pull down with it the guilt that rose in my gorge.

His voice was growing softer and more fluid as he spoke. My long, black-stockinged legs caught his attention once, and then again. I re-crossed them, the fabric whispering as they brushed against each other. A faint ring of unspecified longing crept into his voice; what a tender little adventurer he was. His gaze inched up my body, lingering for a while on the gap between the lapels of my black suit jacket; I wore no blouse beneath it. Very subtly he shifted his shoulders. It was so endearing to watch him try, unobtrusively, to find a more revealing vantage point. Precious – his desire.

That was when I decided to be good. I had an hour until my flight began to board and, if I could stay away from him until then, I could follow my better nature. We would both be safe on the plane, surrounded by passengers.

I stood up, sighed and smoothed my skirt, shouldering a black leather purse.

“Well, I think I will find the ladies and freshen up before the flight. It was nice to meet you.” I looked down at him with my most benevolent smile, quietly bidding farewell to this delicate morsel of youth.

His face turned sullen, he blushed and then spoke, “You think I am too young, yes?”

I smiled warmly and sighed. “I know you are,” I whispered, turned quickly on the balls of my feet and walked down the row towards the facilities, tucked discretely behind a massive black marble pillar at the end of the hall. My heels clicked and echoed percussively off the hard surfaces.

In the sterile light of the empty ladies' room, I saw the tiny beads of sweat glistening along the line of my upper lip in the mirror. I could hardly breathe, so close had been my escape and his. Speaking aloud to my reflection, I praised myself for my forbearance and self-denial; all the while feeling chilled as the heat of my skin slowly dissipated, like my voice, into the silence of the room. The cold water I splashed liberally on my face and neck forced me to catch my breath in shock. It felt good and real, a blessed distraction from the hunger. Blotting away the droplets with a wad of paper towels, I jumped as I heard the door squeal open, and looked up into the mirror.

For a split second, I was overcome with rage; I would not play the Judas goat! This idiot boy - this piece of sweetmeat - I had spared him; yet, here he was, following me, like a lamb to the slaughter.

“I’m not too young,” he said, his voice quavering slightly.

Obviously, it had taken him no small amount of courage to follow me in there and the adrenaline still tainted his muscles, making him shaky. I turned slowly, leaving his image forever static in the mirror, and facing him across the tiled room.

“You have no idea what you’re doing, little boy. Go away,” I whispered harshly, counting the pulses of blood as they pushed against my ear drums.

Turn around and walk out, little dove.

Go now. Go!

Too late and far beyond my control, I was on him in a second pushing his back against the cold tile wall. The speed frightened him and now the scent of his young flesh mingled with something sharper, sweeter: fear.

I kissed him, falling into those plump, angelic lips; so eager they were to be kissed, they parted underneath mine like wet, ripe fruit. I ate and I ate, sucking each of them in turn into my mouth, stroking their length with my tongue. Beneath my hips, he came brilliantly alive, his cock a desperate hunter-seeker, blind and straining for a target. If I was going to take what I needed, the least I could do was give him what he had come looking for.

I snaked a hand between us - unbuttoning, unzipping and releasing him. Red blossoms of chaos throbbed and died behind my eyelids as I held him in my hand; there was so much life there, pushing forward, driving against me mindlessly, helplessly...

Beneath my mouth he made the most delicious noises, like a baby mammal desperate to find a spare, milked-filled teat. However, his hands weren’t nearly as blameless: after undoing the button on my jacket, they had stroked and squeezed feverishly at the small breasts beneath, but only long enough to stroke my nipples to erection.

Hot little hands, greedy and impatient, they were off again in search of new territory, traveling downwards, along my sides and onto my hips. He pulled them to him and ground himself savagely against them; my hand lay trapped and immobile between us.

Desire flooded out his pores so thick, so pungent that the essence of it almost choked me. I pulled my lips away to see his eyes, almost closed and his head tilting back against the wall. He was panting frantically as he grappled for handfuls of my skirt and rucked it up between us.

“God!” he cried out, turning me sideways, pinning me in turn against the wall. “I must have it, now! I must...”

“Of course you must,” I murmured soothingly, raising one leg to wrap it around his hips. “Take it then...” My fingers, still full of his burning desire, guided his cockhead to my entrance – impatient, hungry, and wet.

He thrust up and in, fluidly. The look on his face was heartbreakingly beautiful as he entered; so much ecstasy in a fraction of a moment held him immobile. I smiled and watched, knowing that pleasure had blinded his open eyes.

"Go on, then... Take it," I encouraged.

He whimpered once and then began to fuck slowly and with intensity – surprising behaviour in one so young. His cock felt unbearably sweet, filling me with each thrust and, with each thrust, he grew thicker and pushed deeper.

"Oh, god..." He cried helplessly at the fifth or sixth thrust. I cupped the back of his neck with my fingers and pulled his head onto my shoulder. It was almost time.

Velvet smooth and pale the skin of his neck and, beneath it, a sinuous thread of life, pulsing under the surface. It spoke to me like the snake in the tree – as it always does: "Taste this and know me," it hisses.

Under my arms, the boy's frame began to shudder and he drove faster, pumping himself into my heat and towards his final release.

My turn.

As he began to come, I bit down into that beautiful valley of flesh at the side of his throat and he jerked. I punctured through to the vein as he thrust one last time and then shot himself into me, hot and thick. I could taste it in my mouth, just before the blood.

Engulfed in both his floods, I almost fainted with the pleasure of it; sweet youth distilled and vibrant concentrated energy spewed into me in warm twin fountains. I hardly noticed he was crying out then, his muscles convulsing as he came and came and began to die.

* * * * *

The room was darkened against the afternoon sun. The air inside smelled dry and dusty and faintly sweet. Daniel was lying stretched out on the blue and black stripped divan, fanning himself lazily, looking at me through the gloom. I hated him like this; he was in self-satisfied grand poobah mode.

But, I was also feeling acutely defensive, shifting my weigh from foot to foot as I gave him a run-down of how the trip had gone. There was no escaping it; I had to tell him what happened at the airport.

"Marta, you know better than this!" Daniel raged, raising himself up in indignation. His anger was palpable; the servants scurried and fled in fear of it. My confession had at first rendered him speechless, but he'd certainly found his voice now.

"I know, I know..." I said softly, attempting to appease him. Of course, he had every right to be infuriated. I knew the rules. I knew they were good rules. I understood their purpose.

"This sort of shit brings trouble down on all of us, Marta," he said, getting to his feet. He stopped about five paces from where I stood and peered at me suspiciously. "I thought you'd looked awfully good for having spent 18 hours in transit."

I gave him a crooked grin and back-stepped a little. Daniel was not particularly violent but he didn't take kindly to his brood breaking the house rules. You don't live for 300 years and let people trample all over you. He just stood there, trying to control his temper.

I did, in fact, look wonderful. The boy's mixture had been so rich and heady that when I had glanced at the lavatory mirror on the plane, I had hardly recognized myself. I appeared at least 15 years younger. Thank god for bad passport photos.

Drawing his hands over his lean, handsome face and threading them through his silky black hair, he inhaled deeply. There were tiny lines at the corners of his eyes and small creases in his cheeks. He had fed, but not properly in some time, I surmised. But here in this country of a billion restless, disposable people, feeding well was easy and safe. He was too vain not to indulge himself soon and set the clock back a decade or two.

Finally he settled his hands on his hips and spoke: "Why couldn't you have just waited the eight hours to Mumbai, Marta? It's not as if you're a newborn. You're not without stamina or self-control."

This was much worse. He wasn't raging at me anymore; he was trying to be reasonable and understanding. Daniel's disappointment was far more painful than a good hard slap across the face. Damn it! It made me feel twice as guilty and three times as small. I didn't really have a good answer; I was weak willed, that was all. I balled my hands into fists and instantly felt infantile.

"I tried to avoid it, Daniel. I really, really did! But he came begging for it... He followed me, for god's sake! I'm not that strong – no one is. And if you could have seen him, you'd be a little more understanding! He was irresistible, Daniel..."

"Tell me you cleaned up properly, Marta. Just tell me that," he demanded in quiet exasperation, leveling his gaze at me.

"Well, in a sense, yes," I offered tentatively.

Suddenly he was right in front of me. His hand flew out and grabbed my throat. "What the hell does THAT mean?" he yelled, pulling me towards him, an inch from his face.

"Well... actually... he's outside in the hall," I wheezed. "Daniel, you're choking me."

"You irresponsible bitch!" he spat, the final consonant spraying my face with his saliva. "You turned him?"

I was shaking and trying to breathe shallowly through my compressed windpipe. "Just wait till you meet him, before you murder me, okay?"

I could feel his temper; his breath was quick and hot against my face. Then, as if too disgusted to stand so close to me, he pushed me away from him hard, and sent me stumbling backwards. I fought to keep my balance on the slick marble floor; my heels wobbled and turned, taking me down.

He stalked away from me, still fuming. But from where I sat on the floor, I could tell it was over. And I was lucky to get off so easily. I pulled myself back onto my feet, dusted my skirt down and walked to the door.

"I'm sorry, Daniel. I really am," I said quietly, "But just wait till you see him."

Opening the double doors, I poked my head into the hall. "Come in, Stephan. Come in and meet Daniel."

The boy sauntered in, more graceful now than he had ever been in life. My heart still twitched when I thought of how I might have simply drained him and left him on the cold tile floor at the Moscow airport. No. He was too precious, too beautiful; he was an angel.

I felt the boy's arm slip around my waist and settle possessively on my hip as I drew him further into the twilit room. He leant into me and kissed my cheek softly before turning to Daniel and beaming a huge grin.