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Night Flight

My first business trip to Paris.

How about this!

I have been invited to attend the International Women in Business Conference being held in Paris, France. My very first official overseas business trip and I am more than ready for it. Definitely time this twenty-eight-year-old middle management executive strutted her stuff on a larger stage.

Reading over the announcement, the core topics and activities sounded excellent. Advancing Women into Leadership Roles - Women on Corporate Boards - Opportunities for Women Leaders, and on the last day of the conference, a ‘Panoramic Tour of Paris’ followed by an evening ‘Meet and Mingle’.

Sounds good to me! I am thinking to arrive a couple of days early to play tourist, followed by the three-day seminar, and afterwards a couple more days to wander around Paris and shop. All of it paid by the firm and tax deductible – what’s not to love!

So here I am, taking an Air France night flight out of JFK International Airport, New York. I dress comfortably, but respectably. A black jacket, light blue blouse, and a knee-length charcoal grey concertina pleated skirt over matching white bra and undies. I complement that with sheer black thigh-high stockings and three-inch black ankle-strap shoes. I also take along a pair of soft comfortable slippers stuffed in the top of my handbag to wear on board the aircraft.

The Air France departure gate is quiet and a light passenger load makes for an easy boarding.

When I booked my ticket, I deliberately chose a window seat in the rear of the aircraft. You get a little more engine noise in the back but with only three seats across, you have less inconvenience with people moving around and less passing traffic in the aisles. I anticipated a quiet flight and fully intended to quickly grab a pillow and blanket and snooze my way to France.

I am standing in the aisle next to my seat doing the usual balancing act of trying to lift my carry-on bag into the overhead storage compartment without braining myself when a man appears at my side. In fact, he appears to be an extremely distinguished looking gentleman who I estimate to be somewhere in his mid-fifties, around five feet ten with silver grey hair and goatee.

Granting me a slight bow of his head and a smile, he graciously relieves me of my baggage and coat and places them in the overhead storage compartment, followed by his own. He has a rather polished manner about him and there is certainly no mistaking his Armani suit for something off the rack at Burlington Coat Factory.

With the baggage chore accomplished, I squeeze by him and sit down in the window seat. He then makes himself comfortable in the aisle seat with the empty seat between us.

He smiles across at me.

“Bonsoir, jeune fille.”

“Merci monsieur, bonsoir monsieur,” I reply.

“Ah, American?”

So much for my New York-accented college French.

“Oui monsieur, une Americane.”

“Ah, Je suis actuellement en pleine conversation avec une ravissante jeune femme,” he responds, and then in heavily accented English, “I make polite conversation with a charming young lady.”

I smile and hold out my hand.

“Helen, New York City.”

“Ah,” he replies. “I am Henri, from Paris.

Introductions complete, I reach into my handbag and take out my slippers. Lifting each knee in turn, I unbuckle the ankle strap on my high heels and slip them off, replacing them with my old comfortable slippers.

My newly introduced travel companion looks on approvingly.

“Ces chaussures sont très commodes! Si simples... les pieds doivent être à l'aise.”

Oh sure.

“My apologies, monsieur. My French isn’t as good as it should be.”

“Ah … forgive me, Miss Helen … er … Those shoes look very comfortable, so simple and yet... they must be comfortable.”

Slippers aside, I have the distinct impression that my suave travel companion is checking out my legs more than my footwear. I smile and remain friendly. It is that primal male thing - men cannot help looking you over. Well aware of his steady appraisal, I push my discarded heels underneath my seat, smooth my skirt down and turn to gaze out of the window.

There is little outside to see besides the flashing blue taxiway lights and the line of planes awaiting takeoff. I pull down the window shade, then stuff my pillow into the gap between the window and the side of my seat and put my head against it.

Thank goodness for a nice large blanket that effectively covers me from neck to ankles. Aircraft cabins can get very cool on long-distance flights. I pull the blanket up around my shoulders and snuggle down. A few hours sleep and I will be ready to greet Paris in the early morning.

- - -

I was not sure for how long I dozed, but we were at altitude and well out over the Atlantic. The aircraft is quiet, cabin lights dimmed and I can hear that steady hissing sound of circulating air. I can also feel a hand on my thigh.

I look over to see that while I was asleep my French fellow traveler has exchanged his aisle seat for the seat next to me. Underneath my blanket, the palm of his hand is resting on the front of my skirt, fingertips gently stroking the material.

I look directly into his grey eyes.

What do I expect to see? A shamefaced smile, a sheepish penitent acknowledgment and a ‘sorry Ma’am, boys will be boys’ rueful shrug?

I get none of that

Surprisingly there is nothing challenging or reproachful in his demeanor. He appears strangely respectful. Nothing salacious or aggressive, rather there is a silent unspoken questioning in his face. A seeking … seeking what? … acquiescence?

This is the moment I am supposed to indignantly jump up, scream blue murder and slap his impudent face. The moment I expose this perverted outrage and demand the Flight Attendants move me to another seat.

I am supposed to do all that.

But I don’t.

Instead, I turn my head away. I look towards the closed window blind and rest my face against my pillow. I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep and both my Parisian travel companion and myself know that I am not.

His touch is extremely gentle and rather playful. I can feel his hand and fingers lightly tracing the pleats in my skirt, a tactile examination of the material and the contours of my body underneath. His hand moves slowly and tenderly over the front of my skirt, softly feeling its way up over my hip to my waistband and back down across my stomach. When his hand reaches my lap, he gently lets it rest there.

A pause in his explorations. A gesture, perhaps to give me time to evaluate and signal my approval or objections. My chest feels tight, and I think I must be holding my breath. I am frozen in place. I say nothing and after several minutes, he slowly presses his hand against my lap, his fingers pushing the pleats of my skirt down between my thighs and into my crotch.

I stifle a gasp and force myself to keep my eyes closed. I keep my face turned away from him, bite into my pillow and keep my thighs tightly clenched together.

The exploring fingers pause and he slowly withdraws his hand from my lap. An opening gambit? A tentative first grope to check out the lady’s accessibility? A soft knock on the door to ascertain the lady’s reservations and inclinations?

Perhaps a point of reappraisal. ‘She almost did but she didn’t’, or ‘she wouldn’t but she might?’

Our flight continues eastward and it seems Monsieur Henri has chosen to behave himself. I snuggle down under my blanket and doze off.

I awake to feel his hand upon my knees, fingers tracing the front hem of my skirt. I do believe he is teasing me now. He has me wondering, ‘will he or won’t he?’ Now his hand slips under the front of my skirt and onto my legs, his palm caressing and fingers feeling my stockings.

His hand moves excruciatingly slowly. There is no haste in his delicate explorations, no bull in a china shop rush for the goodies, however, his hand is inexorably heading upwards. The front hem of my skirt is across his wrist and being pushed farther up my legs with every feel of his hand and fingers. I continue to hold my legs tightly together.

The wayward hand pauses at the top of my stockings and explores its way around the lacy thigh band. After some minutes of his fingertips tracing the lace tops, it slides above my stocking tops and onto that area of bare skin between my stocking and panty leg. He pauses again on that area of bare skin. A decision point, for him and me? He gently squeezes and taps his fingers against my thigh. A subtle signal. Monsieur’s finger tap inquiries upon my inner thighs designed to encourage a response.

I am not sure what my response should be. A kaleidoscope of impressions fills my head. Wake up, girl … you are supposed to be a semi-sophisticated businesswoman here, not some silly schoolgirl. Either from weakness or stupidity, I finally respond and most likely, it is from simple curiosity. His finger taps seek a response and I reply to his tactile inquiries. I open my legs enough to allow his hand full access.

He reaches up and caresses my panties. His palm quickly cups my mound while his fingers extend downwards to feel and tease the cleft in my panties. I take a firm grip on the edge of my blanket, hold it tightly around my neck and bury my face into my pillow trying to stifle my erratic breathing. I smother my gasps and silently sob as he fingers me through my panties.

I bite down into my pillow and silently chant a mental mantra. ‘Do not react, do not utter a sound. Do not scissor your legs, twitch a thigh muscle or wriggle your ass.’ At all costs, maintain a respectable decorum.

I cannot believe I am actually telling myself this nonsense. Oh sure. I am going to sit here quietly aloof and unresponsive while he fondles me through my panties. Nevertheless, I decide that I am going to try because I recognize that Henri is no fool. His controlled body language is indicative that he is also well aware of our possible public exposure and has no wish to embarrass either of us.

Under my blanket, my own body is already betraying me with a hot dampness trickling between my legs.

His hand slides up underneath the leg of my panty pushing my panty gusset aside. I draw in a deep expectant breath. It is an experienced hand that firmly engulfs my naked pussy. His thumb has little difficulty in locating my tingling clit, partnered by a finger that is simultaneously inserted into my vagina. To my chagrin, my pussy pulses and grips his finger.

Is it my imagination, or can I smell myself?

He fucks me with his hand, tickling and teasing, entering and withdrawing. My clit swells under his circling thumb, while his finger slides in and out of my wet pussy.

Almost swallowing my pillow I am silently screaming, “Yes, finger me! finger me! finger me!”

Monsieur Henri dutifully does just that. Underneath my panties, he steadily finger-fucks my bare wet slit.


~ ~ ~


Somewhere during the night, I make my excuses and leave my seat heading for the nearest bathroom. Locking myself in, I quickly pull my skirt up, push my panties down to my knees and sit on the toilet. I pee up a storm. God knows how I managed that! I put it down to a bad case of nerves caused by my digitally amorous seatmate. I would have sworn on a stack of Brooklyn bagels that I did not have a single solitary ounce of fluid remaining in my body.

I am a mess and thinking, had I have known … geez, what a ridiculous thing to be thinking. At home, I would simply place a bath towel under myself, but since I am happily winging my way to the Continent, I had not foreseen this particular eventuality. I was not prepared for Henri, who had been fingering me on and off for most of the flight.

My inner thighs and ladyparts are sore and chafed. Self-examination of the areas of my damp discomfort provides a simple answer. Symptoms – excessive chafing. Causation - intensive rubbing of the outside parts of the vagina during masturbation. Wow, what a surprise.

I look at the sanitary pad dispenser and seriously consider using one in my panties. I do not have my period but it might help absorb the flow of wetness from my vagina. I suppose that I should be grateful Henri can afford a decent pedicure. At least his fingernails are well trimmed.

I repair myself as well as possible using handfuls of tissues to dry my inner thighs and delicate regions. What wouldn’t this girl give for a tube of vaginal ointment at this very second!

Aquaphor, Aquaphor … My kingdom for a tube of …

Straightening my clothing, I gingerly return to my seat and pull the blanket over me. Henri appears to be asleep so I attempt likewise assuming Monsieur Fingers has had enough of playing under my skirt for one night.


~ ~ ~


I am disturbed from my sleep by a hand fiddling with my clothing under my blanket. Henri is leaning closer to me with his hand on the hem of my skirt and is pulling it toward him. I am wondering just what in hell he is trying to do. I reach under my blanket and attempt to hold onto the hem of my skirt as he is tugging it.

In doing so my hand touches him and I discover that his pants are open and he is trying to wrap the hem of my skirt around his bare cock. He already has a handful of my skirt pressed over his lap and he begins thrusting his cock into the bunched material.

Oh no. not that! He is masturbating with the hem of my skirt. No, no, no. I am not walking around in public with semen on my skirt!

I release my hand from my skirt, withdraw it from underneath the blanket and grab the collar of his shirt.

“Not on my skirt,” I whisper harshly. “Don’t do it on my skirt, don’t you dare wet my skirt!

He immediately releases his hold on my skirt and I smooth it back down to my knees.

He looks at me in pain and desperation.

“Helen... donne-moi ta petite culotte,” and then in English. “Helen... give me your panties.”

“What?” Oh my god, you must be joking. He wants my underwear.

He takes my hand and places it on his swollen penis. This is more than I am comfortable with.

Easy girl… easy, I tell myself. It is a little late for me to be going into shock. I cannot possibly be this stupid and naïve as events have already gone too far between us for him to be satisfied using a Kleenex tissue for release

“Je vous rends la culotte et c'est bon,” I whisper. “I'll give you the panties and that's that.”

I pull my hand away feeling this irrational flash of disgust that he was actually counting upon my availability to masturbate him. My ‘availability’? Good grief, did I really think that? When did I become such a prude?

After all, I had used a panty on several guys at college, and some girls as well. How hypocritical of me, considering that Monsieur ‘Fingers’ has been fondling and masturbating me for hours.

The proof of his tactile ministrations is the steady stream of warm wetness trickling between my thighs and running down underneath the cheeks of my ass. I was probably sitting in a puddle and knew without a doubt that I have wet through to the back of my skirt.

Monsieur Fingers is growing more anxious.

“Helen… please, please… your panties.”

Ridiculously late in this game, I find myself wondering if anyone onboard has noticed anything untoward happening in the back row, but the seats around me are empty and the aircraft remains dark and quiet. All of the Flight Attendants appear to be dozing up by the center galley and the remaining passengers appear to be sleeping.

I reach under my skirt and grip the waistband of my panties. I ease my backside up enough to slip them over my thighs and down my legs. Smoothing my skirt to my knees, I hand him my panties and he begins the business of fiddling around underneath his blanket to wrap them around his penis.

Henri commences to pleasure himself next to me. The blankets cover his activities but I can feel his movements beside me. The side of his leg brushing against mine, his hips, moving as he masturbates.

“Helen, cette culotte est sublime,” he whispers. “Helen, these panties are beautiful.”

I am thinking, ‘Oh... The French Monsieur is a panty connoisseur?'

Henri looks at me and sighs. “J'adore votre culotte,” then, “I love your panties.”

I look straight ahead across the aircraft cabin ceiling and then look towards my window with the blind drawn down. I stare at the magazine jammed in the back of the seat in front of me. I look everywhere, except at him. I feel ashamed and unable to look at him.

He quietly masturbates for several minutes and then asks, “S'il te plaît donnez-moi ta main?” and, “Please just give me your hand?” he whispers.

“Henri. I told you, just my panties.”

“S'il te plait Miss Helen… S'il te plait… Please, please…”

I relent and reach my hand under his blanket, and across his lap to where his stiff cock is tightly wrapped in my panties. I place my palm against the top of his shaft, close my fingers around his panty wrapped cock and begin masturbating him.

Still not looking at him; I gaze over the back of the seat in front of me while my hand ministers to his wrapped cock. I worry that the panty will slip off but he seems to have done a good job of installing them. They cover him completely and the waistband is tied around the base of his cock.

“C'est que vos mains sont très belles,” then, “You have beautiful hands, Helen.”

I wanted to be facetious and snap a harsh response, but I could not. While my sensible brain is trying to remind me that I am a poised middle management executive and must present myself accordingly, the visceral part of me wants to embrace my sensuality and misbehave.

My god, how in hell, do I get off acting the cold aloof bitch?

I sit here striving to appear prim and proper while scraping my upturned nose on the cabin ceiling acting as if I am sitting in the front pew at Sunday church services. I was not so damn prissy those hours ago when I spread my legs for his hand.

All of this mental introspection mind you, is taking place while I am masturbating him with my panties. Miss Prim and Proper is suffering an internal crisis. A confrontation between me and myself. In short, my Ying suddenly does not agree with my Yang.

Some prudish barrier in my brain collapses and I think, ‘fuck prim and proper.’ Although somewhat appalled at my behavior I suddenly feel more ashamed of my shabby treatment of Henri than his actions toward me. Albeit for his own stimulation, Henri has lovingly caressed, felt and fingered me for most of the night and I don’t have the politeness to even look at him?

It is time I embraced some home truths. The simple fact is that I am enjoying the hell out of having my hand in Henri’s lap, grasping his stiff cock and stroking him off using my panties. I adored the way he touched me and gave me multiple orgasms throughout the night. I feel rather risqué and find myself strangely amused that I am sitting on a wet skirt.

Free from some earlier inhibitions, I tighten my grip around his swollen cock and energetically masturbate him with my panties. I finally find the courage to turn my face towards Henri and ask.

“Elle te plaît, ma main? You like my hand, don't you?”

At the soft tone of my voice, his face softens. He looks at me and whispers, “Oui, Miss Helen… I love your hand.”

Henri closes his eyes and I stroke his panty wrapped cock. I stroke until he taps my hand and I let him rest for a while, and when he thrusts into my hand again I stroke more. He is incredibly hard now and it throbs and twitches in my hand.

I tease him with soft whispers, “Do you like my hand, Henri? Does it feel nice?”

He bites his lip as if to minimize his rapid breathing. His chest heaves as beads of sweat run down his face. It looks as if he is crying. He struggles to control his breathing and finally gasps, “Oui, oh oui, oui Mademoiselle. Your hand is… magnifique… magnifique.”

He utters a soft muted cry and his grey eyes open wide, then close tightly. He becomes more agitated, hips moving rapidly and rigid cock thrusting into my hand.

I lean toward him, place my mouth close to his ear and whisper a quiet mantra, “My panties, Henri… use my panties… my silky panties… my panties… use my panties…”

He groans and I feel the first hot spurts of semen surging up from his swollen testicles. It surges through his hard cock and squirts out into my panties. He continues to thrust and fuck my hand as my panty fills and is soaked with his cum. I pull on his cock until the spurts diminish and then gently remove my hand.

Henri grabs my receding hand, places it back onto his lap and encourages me to keep stroking.

I grip the soaking wet panty around his cock and perform long slow pulls, my long fingernails tickling his testicles. I tease, cajole and coax his softening cock in an effort to milk the very last drop of his cum into my panties.


~ ~ ~


I lift the window blind and watch the dawn lighting up the eastern sky. I hear the aircraft’s engines losing pitch, winding down as the aircraft descends over the east coast of England toward the coast of France.

Henri’s handsome face looks gentle and relaxed and I attempt to return my head to a work-a-day mode. I close my eyes for a while and refuse to engage my brain again until we are pulling up to the arrival gate at Charles De Gaul International Airport in Paris.

I stand and fold up my blanket and begin to gather my belongings in preparation to exit the aircraft. I swap out my comfortable slippers for my high heels and Henri hands me down my overcoat, which I quickly put it on fearing that the back of my skirt may be displaying a sizable damp spot.

Henri tapped my shoulder. “Et voici le vôtre,” and, “this is yours, Miss Helen.”

He hands me an Air France motion sickness bag. What the ?… It is sealed and it takes me a moment to realize what is in it. My underwear!

I had assumed that he would keep my panties for a souvenir or discard that particular item, but now he is handing them to me … Jesus H! I look up and see that Henri is already making tracks down the aisle with his bag thrown over his shoulder. Oh well, so much for romance. I have been fondled, fingered and already forgotten.

I want to shove the shameful item under the seat and forget about it. However, out of some irrational concern that some flight attendant might discover it and connect it to the woman in that seat, I hurriedly stuff the sick bag into the top of my purse. Silly thinking really, who on earth would open a sealed air motion sickness bag! I see that I am the last passenger left on board and I grab my overcoat and carry-on bag and exit the aircraft.

Walking through the airport concourse, I am heading for the taxi stands while also looking for a trash can in which to discard the sick bag. I cannot believe the times I have stopped and dangled that sick bag over the top of a trash can, only to hurriedly return it to my purse and walk on.

Emerging from the terminal I approach the first driver at the taxi rank and hand him a hotel business card reading, Hotel Le Relais Saint Germain, 9 Carrefour de l'Odéon, 75006 Paris, France.

“Oui, Mademoiselle,” he responds. “Hotel Le Relais”

Hôtel Le Relais Saint Germain is in a seventeenth-century house and located just a five-minute walk from Saint-Germain-des-Près Metro Station. I had stayed there previously on a university study trip. Not cheap but the hotel boasts elegant eclectic rooms lushly decorated around renowned writers with Paris connections.

The drive into the city center is pleasant and stirs memories of my earlier visit to France. For a history lover such as me, Paris is a cultural smorgasbord. Wherever you turn, you just dip in and help yourself to a bowlful of whatever is available. The Medieval Museum is a quarter mile from the hotel and perhaps, more importantly, it is a short walk to the Les Halles shopping center. For the location, staff, rooms, and bistro, the Hotel Le Relais is my favorite Paris hotel.

After checking in at the front desk, I drag myself upstairs to my room. I dump my luggage in the middle of the floor, kick my high heel shoes across the room and throw my purse onto the middle of the bed. For several minutes, I stand in the center of the room as if I am a shell-shocked soldier.

The unexpected night’s activities cause me to rethink my original intentions for the morning. I had expected to sleep on the flight and so be reasonably fit to shower, quick change and be out exploring the shops and bistros along the Left Bank. One look in the bathroom mirror quickly dispels that idea. I look a fright with my hair frizzed up, my eyes watery and mascara smudged to where it looks as if I am sporting two black eyes. I am overly tired and sweating and just want to rest. No morning sightseeing for this girl without some sleep.

I remove my jacket, blouse, and bra and use a washcloth to quickly wash my face and neck at the basin in the toilet. A swift cat-lick before stumbling my way across the room to the bed. I sit on the side of the bed and remove my stockings, leaving only my skirt on and collapse on the bed.

Paris streets are awakening. I can hear them coming alive with vehicles and occasional voices but I am lying flat on my back, semi-comatose, staring up at the ceiling. I suppose my condition is not unreasonable considering a lengthy cross-Atlantic flight. I am a victim of the normal inconveniences associated with international travel, let alone the unscheduled extracurricular activities associated with my onboard sexual shenanigans.

I feel uncomfortable and sticky so I reach down and ease up the front of my skirt, tenderly feeling myself between my legs. The skin on my inner thighs appears red and chafed while my vagina is extremely sore to the touch. I should have taken time to bathe and thoroughly dry myself but I do not have the energy to swat a fly, let alone stand.

I suddenly notice my purse next to me on the bed with an Air France sickness bag sticking out of the top.

I am tired, sleepy, sore and curious. Curiosity wins out.

I reach into my purse and pull out the plastic bag.

One can tell a lot about an airline's image from their Air Sickness Bags. Some barf bags are no more than a baggie with a twist tie, while other sick bags could win international design competitions. Air France boasted a blue and white, zip-top plastic motion-sickness bag. I open it and there, in all their unwashed glory, were my bunched up Olga lace-trim, hi-cut white satin panties.

I would have expected, that several hours after the night’s events, my panties would have dried out, but balled up inside Air France’s zip-locked sick bag, they had retained their wetness. My panties were still damp from my wearing and Henri using them. I can smell him and I can smell myself.

Holding them up gingerly by the waistband, I let them fall open. Why am I so curious? Because I want to look. It is that simple. I want to see.

The crotch of my panties is still soaking wet from the intense fondling Henri had provided me. One way and another he had caressed and felt my legs and pussy from New York to Paris. Above the crotch was a thicker creamier wet substance thoroughly saturating my panty front to back. Proof positive my adventure aboard the night flight was no silly wet dream while dozing. Here they are in all their glory. My pussy-wet, semen soaked satin panties.

I can feel my face flush with embarrassment as I look at them. I am both disgusted at myself, and amused. Little use in denying the obvious. Yes, I had allowed myself to be used, but was I really used? In truth, I had invited his interest the moment I first opened my legs to his exploring hand. I could not ignore the simple fact that a total stranger had sat next to me on an airline flight and masturbated himself with my panties.

I stack all the pillows underneath my head, lie flat on my back and look down at my body.

My breasts are bare, nipples perky and I am naked down to the waist of my skirt. In spite of my soreness, I am horny. I pull my knees up towards me, open my legs and watch the hem of my skirt slide up my thighs towards my hips. Alone in my hotel room, I have no modesty. I spread my legs apart and display myself to the ceiling. I feel a warm flush between my legs.

I take my severely used panties and rub them over the front of my body. From the gold necklace at my throat, down between my breasts to my stomach and back up. I drape the wet panty over my breasts and caress myself through them, pulling on my nipples, teasing them, caressing and tweaking as they swell. My nipples harden as I rub the cum soaked panties over and around my naked breasts.

Sliding them further down over my stomach, I place my panty over my mound and hold them against my pussy. My hips automatically buck against the pressure as my fingers press my panty into my cleft. I squirm and wriggle my hips and ass, lift my hips and thrust against my panty.

I find myself wondering what Monsieur Henri would make of his quiet American 'fille' now, as she lies with her legs spread to the world fingering herself silly with the panty he used.

Everywhere between my thighs seems chafed and irritated. My labia are inflamed from being felt and fingered for most of the night, yet I continue pressing my panty against them. However painful, I am intent on achieving the maximum orgasm I had denied myself all night.

My pleated skirt is bunched up around my waist in a crumpled mess. No modesty now. No lady-like constraint. I plant my feet flat against the mattress, arch my back and lift my ass and hips into the air. My legs are open and I press my scrunched up, sopping wet panties between my labia and rub them up and down my glistening slit from my clitoris to my anus.

Sweat is rolling off me in rivulets, my calf muscles are reacting to the strain of keeping my hips in the air and my breasts jiggle and bounce on my chest. I ignore the pain from my inflamed labia, my clitoris tingles and I press the panty tighter to my pussy, and I fuck.

I fuck the white satin, lace-trim, hi-cut panties I wore last night. I fuck the panties I removed from underneath my skirt and gave to Henri to masturbate with. I fuck the soft panties that he fucked, ejaculated into and that are still wet with his cum. I press the soaking wet ball of silky satin hard against my sore pussy lips and fuck, and fuck.

It hits… a climax that explodes in my pussy and rockets up to my brain and back. My legs jack-knife, and it feels as if all of my bodily fluids are trying to exit through my pussy at the same moment. The last remnants of my strength evaporate and I collapse back onto the bed.

In a last effort at modesty, I pull my skirt back down over my knees and curl myself up into a protective fetal ball. I can hear myself whimpering as my pussy twitches and spasms and again releasing a hot wetness that floods my inner thighs, my ass, and stomach.

I am helpless - it is total submission - it is cleansing - it is rebirth.


~ ~ ~


I awaken at a little after 3 o’clock in the afternoon and drag my sorry self into the shower. The scalding water helps bring me back into the land of the living. I towel myself dry, brush my hair, powder, perfume and primp the necessary areas. I put on fresh undies, a sweater, jeans, and flats, finishing with a quick swipe of pale pink lipstick. There… I might just be presentable enough to step out and explore the evening streets and bistros.

I also pick up an extremely used pair of Olga, panties from where they lay discarded on the bed and place them back into an Air France motion sickness bag. As I do I notice a business card in the bottom of the bag.

The card reads, ‘L'Académie de Henri Robichaux pour les jeunes filles exceptionnelles.’

Henri Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies.

What that alludes to – I have no idea.

I would have bet my best brassiere that Monsieur Le Fingers was a concert pianist.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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