When the attendant at the gate announced a further delay to their connecting flight to New York, Amy silently murmured, “I hate her.” She was referring to her boss. She actually adored her boss and was grateful to her, since the PR agency she is working for does not normally send an employee at her level on a promotion tour with a writer as important as Brian Farmer, and she appreciated the risk that her boss had taken to convince the VP to send Amy. The knowledge that she is valued by her boss was somewhat compensating for the pain of having to spend a week with Brian.
For seven days in four Midwestern cities, Brian had not missed a single opportunity to make cheap advances at her. He commented on her breasts, described what he might do with them, invited her to join him in the Jacuzzi in his room (“it’s too boring to sit in it alone”), and to join him in his bed (“it’s wasteful for one person to sleep alone in a king size bed”). She finds it ironic that a person whose novels are celebrated for their subtle sophistication, hits on her with lines only slightly more elegant than honking the horn.
So now they’re finally on the plane at Kansas City’s airport, she’s sitting next to him in business class, and the airplane is stuck on the tarmac. Some technical problem with the navigation computer is yet again elongating the time she has to spend with Brian. The good news is that Brian is sitting there silently; probably tired from the two readings he gave this morning in Boulder. Amy is moving about in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position to rest in. If she can manage to fall asleep, she knows she won’t wake up till the wheels hit ground at home.
“Would you like to switch seats? You might have an easier time in the window seat, and I can’t ever sleep on planes anyway,” Brian says. That may have been the first kind thing he said this week.
Amy would gladly switch with him. She declines his offer, “I couldn’t possibly,” expecting that he would offer again, but he doesn’t.
Ten minutes and two glasses of airline wine later, Amy is still twisting and turning. She comments on how it’s difficult to sleep in the aisle seat without a wall to lean on, but Brian does not get the hint. Instead, he pulls up the armrest between them and suggests that she puts her head in his lap. Amy hesitates. This could be comfortable, but will he try something? She decides to go for it: she will just treat him the same way she treats any other sleazy guy. Famous novelist or not, if he tries something she’ll punch him in the nuts. She folds her legs up on her seat and carefully places her head midway between his knees and his crotch placing her hands as an improvised pillow between her cheek and his leg. 'This can work,' she thinks to herself, closing her eyes and trying to sleep. Brian puts his hand, the one closer to her, on her back. He needs to rest it somewhere, Amy thinks, and as long as he keeps it still that’s fine.
Finally, the plane is ready to take off. Amy seats back in her seat until the plane reaches cruising altitude. After that, she politely asks Brian if she can use his lap again. Everything seems calm and easy now. She’ll be home in a few hours and the situation with Brian is surprisingly pleasant. She gets back in her fetal position and gets closer to falling asleep. She lifts her head a bit and as she adjusts her hand to support her cheek better, pushing it a bit toward his thigh, she feels something there. Her pulse accelerates at once. Did she just touch his penis?
Two questions are going through her head at the same time: could that really be his dick reaching so far away down from his groin? Did he get hard just from me resting my head on his lap? The curiosity excites her and she completely forgets what an asshole Brian has been all week. She must investigate. Pretending to readjust her head again, she moves her hand further in. Her fingers are now fully on top of the object, and she now knows the answer to the first question: without doubt, it is his cock going all this way down his pant leg. She starts grabbing it, getting a better feel of it, when she realizes the answer to the second question: it’s actually not even hard. Amy is amazed.
Amy’s hand is now moving back and forth on Brian’s cock, trying to find where it starts and ends to figure out just what she’s dealing with here. Brian is getting erect as she’s doing that, and at this point, Amy is trying to pretend that she touched it by accident. Brian’s cock is fully hard now, but he’s not doing anything quite yet. He knows that Amy is his now and he doesn’t need to work hard any more.
Since her second boyfriend, Amy has had a thing for big cocks. Her first boyfriend had a pretty decent cock, but nothing special: maybe six and a half inches long and pretty average girth. Sex with him was good, partially due to the novelty of having a first boyfriend at the age of sixteen. She met her second boyfriend in college. Martin was sweet and smart, and everyone on campus liked him. His dick was on the smaller side: not more than five and a half inches long and really thin. She could almost completely hide his dick in her hand when he was hard. She always told herself that it didn’t matter because he really worked hard in bed, and she could always cum when he ate her pussy or fingered her. “Sex with him is great,” she told her friends, and never mentioned that she usually helped herself orgasm by fingering her clit while he fucked her.
When the summer came both of them went for a summer program in Europe: Martin went to London and Amy to Paris. Every other week one of them would take a train and they would spend the weekend together, but for the rest of the time, Amy was a single American girl in Paris. She was an American girl who was in love with her boyfriend in London, but still, a single American girl in Paris, who didn’t want to go back without having a few adventures. So when she met a Danish backpacker named Lars at a party, and he didn’t have a place to stay, and her roommate was out of town, she suggested that he crash with her for a few nights.