She was the kind of woman that drew your eyes to her. She had a long, lithe body and shockingly straight golden hair. Looking for a place to sit in the airport "holding pen" I wanted any seat with a view of her. There was still time before Southwest's cattle-call to queue up that I could use to make small talk. If that failed, I would find a spot to drink her in with my eyes.
Stealing these small pleasures was about the only thing that made these business trips bearable. With luck, the small talk might turn to flirting and it never hurt to boost your ego before a big presentation. An extraordinary woman like this would be quite a boost.
No sooner had I chosen the seat across from her, when she stood up, stretched to her full height. Her ample, but not large breasts straining against a tight black sweater, and then she sashayed away. I was so caught up in the perfection of her body and the grace and assurance of how she moved that I couldn’t be sure if she had cast me a dismissive glance or if I had merely imagined it. This kind of deflating defeat was the risk of my little game. Now I had to decide whether to continue my pursuit, or be satisfied with whatever mental sketch I could build and hold in my fevered mind.
I chewed these thoughts in my head, not casually as might a good meal, but fast and hard like necessary food ‒ like airport food that you have to choke down for a purpose. I was entangled in these thoughts when an alluring scent tickled my consciousness. If I were any good at discerning flowers or such things I could name it for you. All I can do is describe its effect on my. It went through my nose and straight down to my cock, awakening it from restful slumber. My eyes soon connected the scent to its source, breaking me from my frustrated reverie. The goddess had returned to sit next to me.
She had pulled her long hair into a tight bun, adding a new severity to her raw sexuality. A wry smile framed the utter appreciation that flowed across my face. This time she acknowledged my attention. She met my eyes with a bold stare that traveled to the bulge in my pants and returned to meet my eyes with a soft flick of her eyebrows. As the opening dance goes, I have never been so quick out of the gate.
She spoke before I could find my clever icebreaker.
“I need to fix my hair before flight. I have no time when I land.” Her English was good, but the Russian accent was the icing on this most erotic cake.
“What could you possibly do that requires you to hide your hair?” It is always best to counter within whatever common ground you’ve established, or complete the hanging thread of her comment.
“You must guess, but I give little hint,” and on that word she flexed one leg to show the length of it and the smooth firmness of her muscles.
“A dancer,” I answered and she responded with her eyes that I needed to say more, “…ballet, of course.”
“You are not stupid, good. I go to audition in Chicago. I need to be ready to dance. My hair is ready. Now I sit with you; not slob or baby to bother me. OK?” Until that last word she had been commanding rather than asking. I don’t know if she was aware that she had just saved me from begging. Never was I so glad for Southwest’s open seating policy.
We passed the flight in conversation about music and culture. I had no meeting until tomorrow, so I offered the services of my driver to take her to the audition. In return, she would let me watch her performance. She would only be in town for twelve hours, but I figured there might be time for dinner and maybe more. During the limo ride I made some calls to give her some peace, but I also hoped that it made me seem a little less desperate. She was stretching and preening, making it hard not to stare even while I was on the phone.
She noticed my half-hearted disinterest. “Dancers must be comfort their bodies on display. Look all you want.”
And so I did.
Her performance was captivating. She moved gracefully and in command of her body. You could feel the energy flowing through her. When she finished, the judges, who had to be made of stone, merely thanked her and indicated that she would have their decision within the week.
“How did it go?” I asked.
“They never show their thinking. I have to wait.”
“You must be starved.”
“Yes, but I stink like whore on payday too,” she teased and brushed by me.
“If you say so,” I offered, “you can use my shower at the hotel.” The offer hung there like an axe above my head until she answered, “But how can I repay the generosity.”
“By letting me take you to dinner,” I said.
“Agreed, but I hope you make better deals in business.”
“Never,” I deadpanned.
Back in my room, she started the shower and before she closed the bathroom door she burned into my eyes with a hungry stare, “Be ready when I come out.”
Damn. What did that mean? She knew she trapped me with those words. My cock was instantly hard, but I couldn’t overplay my hand and strip down for her return. She was too classy for a frat-boy move like that. What was I thinking? I have a gorgeous dancer, naked, in my shower, how could misread that? But still, getting naked seemed to be a below the belt stunt for a woman of this caliber.
When she came out, her clothes were in one hand, which she casually tossed on the bed. She was wrapped tightly in a too small hotel towel that barely concealed the essentials. Adding insult to injury, I could only imagine how that cheap, rough cloth must have chafed her creamy skin.
She smiled at my obvious erection. “You are ready.”
“But you must be hungry,” I announced playfully.”
“Yes, but for nothing in any restaurant.”
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<a href="https://www.lushstories.com/stories/straight-sex/the-ballet-dancer-part-1.aspx">The Ballet Dancer, Part 1</a>