The Secret Journey (7 page)

Yes honey, I have spent myself on you and in
you in the most absolute sense. And you are going to know that I am
now yours as much as you are mine. And your arousal is going to
fade to something warm and close and caring, something more tender
than you dare to say. So feel me there, so close and warm, male to
your female, yang to your yin. Feel that all is right with the
world, as we take another step down our road. And you are going to
watch me for a little while, and then you’ll be asleep
yourself.

The Traveller

Tokyo to Moscow,
Moscow to London,
London to Toronto. Sometimes I feel like I live in airports, my
world reduced to an ever-changing, never-changing vista of
departure lounges and baggage claims. My services are specialized,
and when they’re needed, they’re needed immediately. When I’m lucky
that means corporate air, more often it means I’m on the next
commercial flight. For this flight there was nothing left in the
forward cabin, so I’m in the back with the tourists.

It really doesn’t matter. The trivial
comforts of first class can’t offset the fundamental realities of
air travel, the unending line at customs, the inevitable delays,
the hour or five or twelve spent sitting there at thirty thousand
feet, while the plane flies and the passengers while the time away
with a book or the inflight movie. I bring my laptop when I fly,
and try to get done the work that must be done before I land. It’s
just part of the job for me, but still I love airports, I love the
potential they represent, all those distant destinations, a million
people mixing and moving. Anything could happen, and life still
holds surprises.

I know the drill at security, carry-on
baggage on the X-ray belt, laptop out of its case, phone and pager
and keys in the plastic bin, take off my belt and put it in there
too, so the buckle won’t set off the alarms. I stand in line, go
through the metal detector, get waved on and collect my belongings
as they come through the X-ray. My belt is what matters this time,
solid leather, thick and black, not really dressy enough to go with
my tailored suit but I don’t wear it for show. This time they don’t
make me take off my boots, gloss polished, another minor departure
from corporate image that has nothing to do with image. I go to the
gate, board the flight and then we’re flying, four hundred tons of
jet and five hundred souls, hurtling through the sky at six hundred
miles an hour. It’s basic physics, the transformation of potential
energy into kinetic, a modern day miracle, made mundane through
sheer familiarity.

Just imagine what DaVinci would have given
for the chance to see clouds from above. I ignore the view from my
window seat, and concentrate on my laptop. I’m to be met at the
airport, to finalize over dinner a transaction worth more money
than the average man earns in a lifetime. It’s imperative that I
get it right; my only stock in trade is my reputation.

And as we climb away from the airport I find
I can’t focus. Corporate deals are something else grown mundane
through sheer familiarity. I look at my archive of electronic mail,
bring up one in particular. All it says is -
I’ll be
waiting.
I hold up my glass for the stewardess, a pretty blonde
with a flirtatious smile. She fills it with red wine, and I admire
her ass as she goes back up to the galley. She wouldn’t mind if I
asked her what she was doing after the plane lands but I’m not
going to do that, I already have another plan.
I’ll be
waiting.
Such a simple phrase, but it sends a thrill through my
body.
I’ll be waiting.
It’s basic chemistry, the
transformation of potential energy into kinetic, an ancient
miracle, but this time it’s neither familiar nor mundane. I wonder
what she’ll look like, this woman I’ve never seen. I wonder what
she’ll
be
like. Unconsciously my hand moves to my belt.
She’ll be feeling it, in something under six hours, she’ll be
learning what I’m like, and she’ll be learning what she is. I close
the laptop and turn my eyes to the clouds, shaping them into
whatever I want them to be.
I’ll be waiting.
I don’t even
know her name.

Not soon enough the plane starts down, the
wheels come down and we’re on the ground, at the terminal and I’m
walking into arrivals, about to present my best guess rather than
my best work, an unforgivable sin brought on by my sexual
distraction. Dinner drags as we discuss the frantic details of a
deal gone sour. My clients smell of desperation as I lay out their
options. It’s an unfounded fear, they have nothing to lose here,
but they’re terrified of what they might not gain, the petty
insecurities of small men with large wealth.

A rational analysis of their situation would
put them beyond such concerns, but they are paying me for corporate
guidance, not personal enlightenment, and so I keep my opinions to
myself. I want the meeting to end at eight and it drags to nine, to
ten, to eleven as I patiently unravel layer after layer of hidden
agenda.
Will she be waiting still?
I think she will, but I
won’t know for sure until I get there. At last we reach the end, my
best guess having proven correct, my best work proving unnecessary.
Their driver takes me to my hotel, I check in, and check to see if
the extra keycard has been taken. It has. I take the elevator up,
go to the room, and take a moment to steady myself.
Deep breath
in, deep breath out.
My erection strains against my zipper, in
anticipation of what I might find. I slide the card into the lock,
and open the door.

She’s there, and I smile with satisfaction,
and with desire. I don’t know what she’s told her friends and
family, to explain her absence this night, but that doesn’t matter.
What matters is, she’s there, waiting, just as she’s supposed to
be, black top, short black skirt, black stockings with the seams
running straight up to her garters. She’s waiting just as I told
her to wait, kneeling on the floor, lips parted, blindfolded, hair
in a ponytail, head down, hands held in the small of her back. Her
nipples are rigid against the thin fabric of her conservative white
blouse, and she’s trembling in her excitement, barely able to
breathe. Her knees are apart, exactly as expected, and as I come
closer I can tell that she’s been kneeling like this, and aroused
like this, for the entire duration of my over-extended business
dinner. I can tell because there’s a thin, glistening strand
dripping down from beneath her skirt, dripping down to join a slick
puddle on the floor between her knees. The scent of female desire
fills the room. She’s such a slut, kneeling three hours to present
her body to a stranger, with her anticipation, her excitement
growing with every beat of her heart.

I stand in front of her, take her by the
ponytail, move her head up, move it down, move it back and forth.
She doesn’t resist, in her current state of arousal I doubt she
could even articulate the concept of resistance. She’s here to do
whatever I want her to do. She’s here so I can shape her, into
whatever I want her to be.

The first shaping is to establish the proper
form of her relationship with my cock. I pull her head forward,
turn it to rub her cheek against the hard bulge behind my fly. She
moans in response. I let her feel it there for a moment, and then
turn her back so she’s facing it, her nose just half an inch away.
She can’t avoid its scent this close and her response is automatic,
unconscious. Her already parted lips widen into a lush, receptive
‘O’, her dainty red tongue comes to moisten them in anticipation of
what’s about to come. I feel her pull forward, ever so slightly.
She’s eager to touch it, experience it, explore it, and explore
herself at the same time, so the first lesson is in control. I
relax my grip slightly and allow her to come forward until her lips
just graze the fabric. She shudders when they do. Could it be that
she came, right there? It doesn’t matter. I pull her back, just a
fraction of an inch and she makes a small, inarticulate noise of
frustration, tugging forward against my restraint. She’s waited so
long, she doesn’t want to wait any longer.

But she’s going to have to. “Do you want it,
cunt?” I ask her. She tries to speak and finds she can’t, and I get
a barely perceptible nod.
Cunt.
She understands the
importance of the word.
Cunt.
That’s the only name I know
her by. She has another name of course, the one used by her
husband, her friends and family, for the entire rest of her life. I
have no desire to intrude there in the slightest bit. To know her
name would be to elevate her from the status of
cunt,
and
neither of us wants that.

I hold her head where I want it to be long
enough for her to relax, to stop pulling against me, to accept that
she’s going to get it when I’m ready to give it to her. She’s
learning that what she wants, or doesn’t want, has nothing to do
with it, and that’s an important lesson. I wait that long, and then
a little longer, watch as she licks her lips again, her breathing
quick, and as I watch she swallows nervously. I smile. She’s going
to learn to swallow too.

My cock is bursting, and what I need more
than anything is to see the swollen head sliding past those red
lips, see it glisten with her saliva, see her taking it, deeper and
deeper. I reach around with my other hand, unzip my fly. She jumps
at the sound, instinctively starting forward again, but I pull her
back, hold her in place with the swollen head of my cock half an
inch from her lips. Her nostrils dilate as its musk fills her
world.

“Tongue out, cunt,” I tell her. She obeys,
shuddering as it touches my waiting cockhead. Her tongue feels so
good, so very good that it’s all I can do to not shove the whole
hard shaft down her waiting throat. With an effort I hold back, and
slowly bring her mouth forward. She explores the head with her
tongue, and finds the silver drop of precum at the tip. She licks
it, savours it, swallows it, and I groan involuntarily. Yeah, she’s
getting to me, and she’s going to get it in return.

“Go on, ask for it.”

“Please…” Her voice is a trembling whisper,
her lips grazing my cock as she speaks, every touch swelling it
stiffer.

“Please what?”

“Please… please I want it… please…”

“What do you want?”

“Your cock… Please, fuck me with it, fuck my
mouth with it, anything, only please…”

I thrust forward, forcing her mouth wider to
accept the head, cutting off her words in favour of a more direct
demonstration of her desire. Her lips close around the shaft and
then she’s sucking it, my hands gripped tight on her ponytail to
pump her head up and down, enforcing her cock-submission, probing
for the back of her throat.

She knows just what to do, my eager little
cocksucker, using her tongue, using her lips, doing everything she
can to get me off. She can’t beg with her voice now, but she’s
begging me every other way, showing me just how much she needs
this, needs to be on her knees like this, blindfolded, controlled,
forced to accept my cock wherever I want to put it. She needs to be
put in her place, in a way that absolutely no-one in her life has
ever done. She needs it, and I need her to need it.

I pull her off, pull out, once more letting
just the head graze her lips, and she begins begging again,
immediately, instinctively.

“Please sir, come in my mouth.” She licks the
head, teasingly, almost playfully. “Please sir, come on my face.”
Her voice is insinuating, pleading.

I put my free hand on my cock, still holding
her head right where I want it to be. Her words are quieter now, as
if she’s praying directly to the cock that’s dominating her.

“Use me, please use me, humiliate me,
anything you want, just please, please come on me, I need it so
bad.”

I pump my rigid shaft, feeling the tightness
build up in my balls as she begs for it, as her lips and her words
coax me to her own degradation, as my muscles stiffen and my cock
swells harder, harder, harder still until finally I can’t help it
and I give her exactly what she wants. I grunt, forcing my cock
forward, and torrent sticky strands of sperm to coat her cheeks,
her chin, her lips, her tongue. The world goes dark and my knees
buckle with the force of my orgasm, it’s all I can do to stay
standing as my hips pump my cock back into her mouth, finishing the
last spurts there.

She swallows, of course she does, and then
I’m standing there, breathing hard, looking down at her still
parted lips, sperm dripping down her face to fall and mingle with
her own juices on the carpet. I breath deep to recover, and then,
still holding her ponytail, I guide her down, down, down, until her
nose is right in the puddle. She gasps, her face flushed, more
humiliated than ever, forced to confront the evidence of her own
arousal like this.

“Lick it,” I tell her, and she does,
tentatively at first, her delicate tongue darting out to the
scented juices soaked into the carpet. “Go on, show me what a cunt
you really are.”

She gets more enthusiastic, lapping eagerly
at the fabric, sucking at it, smearing her face on it. My cock
instantly hardens again, just watching her. She’s going to be
taking it again, and soon, but there’s a second shaping to be done
right now, now that she understands her role with respect to my
cock. There’s a chair behind me, and I let go of her ponytail and
sit in it, watching her dirty herself. I put my boot down in the
puddle, smear the toe into the stickiness and wait for her to find
it with her cheek. She hesitates.

“Go on,” I tell her. “Don’t stop.” A quick
motion unbuckles my belt, and I slide it out through the loops, an
unmistakable sound. She knows what will happen if she stops, but
she doesn’t want to stop, she just needs to know that she has to
keep going. She hesitates another moment, and then groans, in
arousal, in humiliation, and she continues licking, up and over the
juice coated toe, her tongue working the polished leather. She’s
learning her place now, learning where she belongs, abased at the
feet of a man strong enough to put her there. I still don’t know
her name, but I don’t need her name. She’s been reduced to
cunt
.