Oh please shut up, I’m thinking. Please please please shut the fuck up… for God’s sake, I’m going to get up right now and bang my head against the wall if you don’t!
I’m nearly on the verge of tears, sitting with Grace in the hotel bar. For almost an hour, the noise of the Parisian traffic has been the only background to her uninterrupted, exhausting monologue about herself.
Grace is the youngest in the crew, a freshly trained English girl of 22. British upper class family, excellent education, a blonde-haired blue-eyed beauty who’d caught my attention since we first met. Today’s flight had been sheer torture indeed: just imagine what it was like to deal with the tempting proximity of her body, in the confined spaces of a plane… the accidental touch, the traces of her scent, the exchanging of glances across the aisle… no need to say that I’ve been looking forward to finally being alone with her.
My plan? To drink the Princess under the table and fuck her mercilessly all night long. Instead, turns out I’m still sitting here, listening to the ramblings of this pampered child who — to make matters worse! — has just chugged an entire bottle of Chablis without even flinching. Definitely there were some flaws in my plan.
“So I won this ballet contest and I was admitted as a junior associate in the Royal… and I was the most talented of all, by the way. Not to mention that I’ve always been an A student and…”
Oh, shit, I can’t stand this. I’m mentally tearing her expensive clothes off… licking her high-class English clit… biting her divine ass… making her scream in that posh accent of hers. This time, the odds seem to be against me, though. This fucking chatterbox is a desperate case.
I order another bottle from a waiter passing by. Keep filling up her glass, out of sheer stubbornness. Come on, Angie. It’s now or never. I clear my throat, touch her hand across the table, a smile sweeter than honey on my face.
“What about the guys, Gracey darling?” I ask. “How many hearts have those lovely eyes already broken?”
“Well,” she giggles, “before joining the crew, I had this gorgeous boyfriend in Oxford who had my name tattooed on his bicep, you know. He drove me around in his Bentley, bought me a Cartier wristwatch and…”
Oh fuck… there’s no way out. I raise my hands to interrupt her.
“Okay, okay, I got it: your life has been terrific and your bloke was fantastic. What I mean is, I hope you had some fun between a ballet class and exams. Keeping that sexy body all for yourself… it would be a shame.” I give her hand a light squeeze. Under the table, my leg tentatively brushes against hers. “Take me, for instance. Never been afraid of experimenting. Why, I was only fourteen when I first made out with a girl.”
“Whaaat? Good Lord, I could never do THAT!” she cries, downing a gulp of Chablis. Is she finally starting to look a bit dizzy? “I’ve never even thought about that. I mean, it’s…”
“…just wonderful, honey. No man could ever lick you better than a woman. Think about it. We have no bristly beards, for starters!”
She laughs, almost choking on her drink; the wine is definitely working. I’m licking my lips in anticipation…
“Oh Angie, you’re so naughty. What makes you think that I would do anything so… so kinky and disgusting and…”
She blushes, struggles for the right word, growing more lightheaded by the instant.
“Uhh, hey!” she abruptly gasps. “What are you doing??”
I’m caressing her knee under the table.
“Maybe you would like it… who knows?” I say, running my hand up her bare thigh, too aroused now to stop. “Aren’t you curious? Don’t you feel like trying something new for once, Gracey darling?”
“Angie, let go,” she slurs, leaving my hand exactly where it is. We’re keeping eye contact across the table; she looks like an animal caught in the headlights.
“This is… inappropriate. Sooo-o-o TOTALLY inappropriate…”
The way she says it is such a turn-on… And I just can’t wait anymore.
“Nobody would ever know, Gracey. It would be our secret, our diiirty little secret… You want to know what it is like, don’t you? Here’s your chance; don’t waste it!”
She reaches under the table and entagles her fingers with mine.
“I’m feeling quite strange, Angie. I’m afraid I’m not quite myself…”
“Enjoy that feeling, baby… and I’ll take you places you’ve never been before, trust me.”
Moments later, the elevator doors are closing behind us. Destination: 4th floor, my room. I glance at myself in the mirrored wall, thinking:
Easy now, Angie. One wrong move and…
It happens so quickly that I don’t even have time to react.
Grace throws me against the wall with all her might, pressing her body against mine and yanking back my hair. She fumbles for the emergency button behind her, stopping the lift between floors.
“You filthy little slut,” she hisses in my ear, “you’ve made me so wet… And now you’d better get ready, ‘cos I AM GONNA EAT YOU ALIVE!!! GOT IT???”
I’m speechless. Breathless. Utterly paralyzed. She tears my blouse asunder, and for once in my life I hear myself saying:
“Wait, wait… m-maybe we shouldn’t do this… I-I mean…”
“Shut up,” she snarls, “you filthy fucking BITCH.”
Groping my tits and biting my neck, she lets one hand slide down to my ass, leaving the other clamped firmly to my breast. She gives my nipple a vicious pinch, prompting me to cry out in pain as she attacks my neck like a savage beast. When I finally turn to kiss her, she pushes her tongue so far down my throat, my moans are muffled by her own voracious lust.
I cry out once more as she shoves her hand down the back of my skirt, yanking my thong to the side. Still relentlessly devouring my mouth, she wastes no time in jamming her finger up my ass. Pain and pleasure begin to mount simultaneously as her free fingers sink into my pussy from behind. Thrusting hard into both holes, banging my body up against the wall, she’s almost on the verge of fisting me now, fucking me up to her knuckles.
I glance over at her deranged reflection, barely recognizing the cunt-crazed monster she’s become. If we hadn’t been together this whole entire time, I’d suspect she was coked out of her head. Christ, it couldn’t just be the wine… she’s transformed into a fucking fury. Even her posh accent has somehow completely vanished.
I’m vaguely conscious that I’m being raped…
…and that I am her most willing victim.
“You wanted me to be naughty, didn’t you?” she whispers in my ear. “Is THIS what you had in mind?””
NO!!! I scream internally. In fact this is infinitely BETTER, you nutty fucking bitch!
“You like it, huh? You’re ENJOYING this, you dirty French whore, AREN’T you?”
I can’t reply, can’t even breath, really. Shuddering in waves of pre-climax convulsions, I finally explode in a devastating orgasm that floods down my thighs, breaking like a dam of warm juices into the palm of her hand. She keeps on fucking me regardless, propping me up as I collapse fully onto her, exhausted.
As I try to pull myself together, I catch another glimpse of her in the mirror. The haughty smirk on her face says it all:
“You got what you asked for, slut… And now you know what high-class girls are made of.”
Needless to say, the first thing I do when I’m back in my room is call down to the desk for an ice pack.
Shit, I guess those posh cunts can be deceiving…
Like being fucked by a goddamn infantry battalion…