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Bad Girl

“Flight 555 now leaving for Albuquerque,” the loud speaker announced.

Bag and briefcase in hand, I joined the throng at the gate. The woman I’d been watching was a few passengers behind me.

She was an attractive woman but not unusually so. In fact, nothing was unusual about her except her body language. That spoke volumes. Eyes glued to the laptop in front of her, she’d squirmed in her seat. Her mouth would slowly open. Her eyes would widen and she’d blush furtively before glancing up to see if she were being watched. Then, she’d focus on the laptop again to repeat the cycle.

She could be doing only one thing – reading an erotic story. And she was aroused.

If her secret was reading erotica, mine was writing it. As I watched her in the terminal, a story bubbled in my mind.

I knew she was married from the rings on her fingers. Did she have children? A lover? What did she and her husband do behind the locked door of their bedroom? Did they do it alone?

The boarding queue slowly entered the plane and I worked my way to row 27, threw my suitcase in the overhead, and slipped into the window seat. To my pleasant surprise, she was hovering behind me.

“Excuse me,” she said. “You’re in my seat.”

“Oh?” I replied. “What seat number is on your boarding pass?”

“Twenty-seven C. And C is the window seat.”

“I’m sorry, but A is the window seat.”

“That can’t be. I specifically asked for a window,” she replied tersely.

“I’ll be happy to trade with you,” I said smiling at her.

She seemed relieved. I wondered if she was a white knuckle flyer and the window brought solace. As I slipped back into the aisle to let her enter, she brushed against me. I smelled a natural scent that made my cock twitch.

When the plane was safely in the air, she turned in her seat with her shoulder resting against the window and hurriedly opened her laptop computer.

Ah, that’s the reason she wanted that seat, I thought. She wants to finish her story.

In seconds, her body language began again. In the terminal, her legs had been primly together, feet on the floor. Now, angled in her seat with her legs extended, she was reading intensely. Her legs opened slightly. Her feet angled out as if a lover were between them.

After twenty minutes, I could stand it no longer. I turned to her and said, “Are you enjoying your reading?”

Her eyes were glazed when she looked at me.

“What did you say?” she mumbled as she struggled to focus.

“Are you enjoying your reading?”

“Oh, no. It’s just memos from the office. I have to catch up.”

I leaned closer to her.

“You’re not reading memos. You’re reading dirty stories and they’re turning you on,” I said as my eyes held hers.

The blood drained from her face as she slumped back against the seat. When her color returned, her frightened eyes locked onto mine.

“You’re wrong,” she gasped. “I’d never do anything like that.”

I whispered, “I’m not wrong, but don’t worry. I read them, too. In fact, I write them.”

We were inches apart and eye to eye. Hers, colored a marvelous light brown, were wide and uncomprehending. I leaned back, hoping my smile was nonthreatening and sexy. She closed the laptop abruptly and sat primly again, facing forward.

It seemed an hour, but was probably less than a minute when she said, “I don’t believe you.”

“How can I prove it?” I asked.

“If I read such things, and I’m not saying I do, mind you, but… would I have read anything by you?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I write under the name E.Z. Riter.”

“Now I know you’re lying,” she said, but her eyes said something else. “I was reading one of his stories.” She blushed at her admission and looked guilty as a thief with a hand in the poor box.

“I always enjoy talking to a reader,” I replied. I gave her my best grin. She gave me a dirty look, sat back, and then quickly lunged toward me.

“All right. Prove it! He wrote a story about a woman who wants her husband to impregnate her best friend on a special holiday.”

“That’s V Day,” I said.

“Oh. Okay. He wrote a long mind control story.”

“My Inheritance.”

She asked more questions about my stories. Somewhere during the grilling, I raised the seat arm and moved into the middle seat to be next to her.

“Move back to your own seat,” she said firmly.

We didn’t talk for about fifteen minutes. She was as still as a statue. Finally, she turned back to me.

“Are you married?” she asked.

“No,” I replied.

“I am.”

Silence again. When the plane started its descent, she resumed our conversation by saying, “You really are E.Z. Riter, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am,” I said.

“Do you live what you write or is it all fantasy?” she asked. Her voice had an urgent undertone.

“When I write violence or harm to someone, it’s fantasy.”

“Like ‘Slaves’?”

“Yes, but the others are all real or reality based.”

“Oh, sure. Like ‘Karen’, where the woman has an affair with her daughter’s fianc‚. You’re not going to pretend that was real.”

“Close enough. I know a man who’s having an affair with his mother-in-law.”

“People don’t do those things! Do they?” she asked incredulously.

“You’d be amazed at what real life brings.”

“Not in my corner of the world. Do you… ” She stopped, turned beet red, and shivered.

“Go on. You can ask me.”

“What about the people in ‘Heat’?”

“That was a completely true story about me and a wonderful woman I was seeing.”

“You? I thought it was about a married couple.”

“Well, she was married,” I replied. It was my turn to blush and she grinned. It was the first warm, sexy grin I’d gotten from her.

“So you do live what you write.”

“Not exactly, but I do enjoy sex and pleasing women,” I replied.

“Was that you in ‘Anniversary’?”

“No. They’re good friends of mine. They’ve been happily married many years now.”

“Good heavens! I always thought you writers made it all up.”

“Most of it’s real, but I never let a few facts stand in the way of a good story.”

As we listened to the flight attendant’s pre-landing announcements, our eyes never parted. Her confusion was palatable.

“Do you live in Albuquerque?” she asked.

“No. I live in Houston. I’m going to be here for a week on business. Do you live here?”

“I live someplace else,” she said secretively. “Where are you staying?”

“The Airport Hilton.”

“Me, too.”

Our mundane conversation ended as the plane bumped to the ground. In the van to the hotel, we sat apart. We carefully avoided each other when checking in as to not reveal our true identities.

I hesitated to say anything because she’d rebuffed me on the plane, but when I exited the elevator on the second floor she asked, “What’s your room number?”

“Two twenty-nine,” I answered.

She nodded in solemn acknowledgment as the elevator doors closed.

When she knocked fifteen minutes later, I opened the door so quickly it startled her. She took a deep breath and held it as she stared at me. I thought I could hear her heart thumping, or maybe it was mine. Finally, she exhaled and a tiny smile curled the corners of her lips.

“May I come in?” she said.

She was wearing the business suit she’d worn on the plane. Camel colored, it was a coat over a white blouse and a skirt.

“E.Z., I’m a good wife. My husband’s the only man I’ve had.” I didn’t say anything. She walked to the window to stare out at the street below. She turned back toward me. “I want to be someone else for a few days.”

“Who do you want to be?” I asked.

She grinned sexily. “I’ll pick a name from one of your stories.” She thought for a second. “Just call me Becky. I want to do things I’ve never done before and probably will never do again, but E.Z., I want to do it my way.”

“Which is?”

“Tonight, just you and me.”

“I’d like that,” I replied.

“So would I,” she said with in a throaty growl. She slipped off the suit coat and threw it on the chair.

We watched each other undress. I took her in my arms and kissed her.

Taking my hands in hers, she murmured, “Come on” as she pulled me toward the bed. “Hurry,” she said as she scooted on the bed to rest her head on the pillows.

“No foreplay. I want you in me, E.Z.,” she insisted.

Quickly, she thrashed in her first orgasm.

“So good. Don’t stop. Please. More.”

The light green of the bedspread turned dark from her sweat before she lay replete under me. I slipped out and rolled over.

“You didn’t cum,” she said after she floated down from her afterglow.

“A little trick I learned. Now I want you to suck my cock.”

She smiled as she slipped down the bed to wrap her mouth around me.

Two hours and much fun later, she slipped out of bed and began dressing.

“Tomorrow night I want to be tied up and… ” She exhaled loudly. Her eyes were devilish and bright. “…taken roughly.”

“How roughly?”

“This really is for my pleasure, isn’t it?” she questioned.


“I probably need a good spanking,” she replied coyly.

“I can do that,” I said.

“I thought you could,” she countered.

We didn’t speak as she finished dressing. At the door, she quickly turned to kiss me on the lips.

“See you tomorrow night, E.Z.,” she promised.

I was in Albuquerque to work with a small, but dynamic, high-tech firm. Three men and a woman made up their management team. The woman, Sylvia, was the president. She wasn’t a figurehead. She ran the place with an iron hand. She was also the wife of Jeremy, the chief high-tech maven. I’d been to bed with Sylvia. In their open marriage, she slept with anyone she wanted and she wanted a lot.

Over coffee that morning, I told Sylvia and Jeremy about the woman from the plane who called herself Becky. They lent me the bondage equipment from their collection and that night I was ready when Becky appeared at my door.

Becky stripped hurriedly. Her eyes gleamed, her skin was a faint pink as the blood coursed through her in anticipation of our evening together. She trembled a little when I locked the wrist restraints on her and groaned when I bound her arms behind her, wrist to elbow.

I tantalized her breasts and caressed her body as she shifted eagerly from foot to foot. Her pussy was soaking wet. With hands and mouth, I took her to the edge of orgasm and stopped.

Taking her head in both hands, I said, “You’re a wild little slut, Becky. You need a good, hard spanking.”

“Yes, I do,” she answered eagerly. “Then I need a big, hard cock in me.”

“I’d hate for the neighbors to hear,” I said. Her eyes gleamed as she opened her mouth widely for the ball gag.

She resisted a little, probably for show, when I sat in the straight chair and pulled her, face down, over my lap. She squealed on the first swat. Her legs were widely spread. Rapid fire, stinging slaps of her behind, interspersed with strokes of her pussy, quickly carried her to the top. Back arched, legs rigid, she screamed through the gag when she came.

I slipped a small vibrator into her pussy before beginning her spanking anew. Multiple orgasms wracked her before she collapsed inert from exhaustion.

I removed the gag, unbound her arms and helped her to bed. I crawled in beside her and covered us over. She snuggled against me and whispered, “Magnificent.”

It certainly was, I thought, as I drifted to sleep.

“Wake up, E.Z.” She was gently shaking me. I glanced at the clock. We’d been asleep about an hour.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m horny,” she said with a grin. She flopped on her back. “Come on, stud. Tie me to the bed and make me beg for it.”

Using the ropes dangling from her wrist restraints, I secured her arms to the bed corners. Then I went to the bathroom. When I returned, she was squirming with her legs tightly together, trying to get off by herself. I sat down and pulled her foot into my lap to slowly massage it.

“Don’t! I’m ready now. Fuck me,” she demanded.

“We’ll do it my way,” I said resolutely.

“Bastard,” she said, but she was grinning at me.

Her skin was prickly from her dried sweat, but soon it was slick and wet again. The room smelled of sex on sex, that sweet, pungent odor when fucking follows fucking. Becky was moaning, whimpering. Her nipples were hard and dark rosy from blood. Her lips were hot when I kissed her. She relished being tied to the bed, and pulled and strained against the ropes as she twisted in her need.

“Come on, E.Z. Fuck me,” she pleaded.

I knee-walked between her legs. She thrust her hips toward me frantically. With a hand behind each knee, I opened her wide and pushed her knees back to the bed. She grunted at the strain. When my cock nestled at her opening, she tried to get me in her, but she couldn’t.

“Oh, no. Don’t do this. Put it in me. Please.”

I rocked up and down, letting only the cock head slide between her hot, slick lips.

“Please,” she whimpered. “Please. Let me have all of him. I need him. I want him.”

I teased her until tears of desire ran down her face and I thought I’d go nuts if I didn’t fuck her. When I slammed into her, she screamed. I let go of her legs to cover her mouth. Those legs wrapped around me like steel cables, squeezing me until I couldn’t breathe, before she came with an unmatched intensity. This time I couldn’t hold back and I exploded in her.

In the morning, she was beside me. I made coffee and awakened her. She was dressed when I came out of the shower.

“E.Z., tonight I want to do something even wilder. I want to be gang banged. You know. Like the Becky in your story. Maybe we could go to a pickup joint.”

“Let me arrange it,” I interrupted.

She cocked her head quizzically and grinned.

I talked to Sylvia as soon as I got to work. She made all the arrangements. That night, Becky arrived at six sharp as we’d arranged. She was dressed in a pullover sweater and skirt with low heel shoes.

“No bra and no panties,” she said with a grin.

Sylvia welcomed us to their home and introduced the other participants. Jeremy was there, of course, and Phil, a young man who worked for their company. The other man was named Dan. He was average in size and black.

When Becky saw him, she murmured, “Another fantasy realized.”

“Would you like a drink?” Jeremy asked.

“No. I want to get started,” Becky replied.

“Any rules?” Sylvia asked.

Becky looked puzzled for a minute, then answered, “No anal sex until I ask for it.”

“Anything else?” Sylvia asked.

I couldn’t see Sylvia’s face, but I could see Becky’s. Slowly, her questioning eyes morphed to a sexy grin. Becky took two steps, slipped her arms around Sylvia’s waist, and raised her head to be kissed. Sylvia kissed her tenderly, then led her to the bedroom. We men, suddenly not needed, followed behind.

Standing by the big king-sized bed, they undressed each other leisurely, touching and kissing as they cooed little words of appreciation to each other.

“I want to taste you,” Becky whispered to Sylvia as she pushed her back on the bed. Becky slipped to the floor between Sylvia’s splayed legs and buried her head in Sylvia’s crotch.

Jeremy undressed quickly. He dropped to his knees behind Becky and put his hands on her legs. She turned quickly and pushed him away. Her face was covered in Sylvia’s juice.

“We’ll tell you boys when we want you,” Becky said.

Sylvia grabbed Becky’s hair to pull her face back between her legs. We finished undressing as Sylvia orgasmed against Becky’s willing mouth.

Four hard cocks were hoping the ladies were ready for us, but they weren’t. Sylvia dined on Becky, then called for her two-headed dildo, which Jeremy retrieved from their bedside table. Their faces were ecstasy as they penetrated each other. Orgasms wracked both of them before they parted, sweaty and panting.

“Dan,” Becky called when she’d recovered. “I want you next, but I want you to pull out when you’re ready to cum and let me take you in my mouth. That goes for all of you.”

No doubt it was Becky’s show and we were only the players. We took her how and when she wished. She let Phil be the first to penetrate her virgin ass, which he did gently and with great success judging from her reaction. When she took three of us at once, I was on my back with my cock buried in her pussy. Jeremy and Phil were in the appropriate places. I watched her face as she experienced indescribable joys before collapsing on me.

Becky refused to clean up when it was time to leave. At the Hilton, she strutted through the lobby looking and smelling well fucked as the few people there stared open mouthed. She spent the night in my room. In the morning, we showered together before making love gently and sweetly.

“I’m leaving at noon,” she said as she dressed.

“I’d like to see you again,” I said sincerely.

“No. My three days of wild fun are behind me. I’ll never do this again, but E.Z… thanks. Thanks for making my fantasies realities.”

That was June, 1999.

In April, 2000, I was checking my e-mail account in Hotmail. Despite the fan letters, it’s usually ninety per cent spam, but this time there was something special. The address said it was from Becky. The subject was “Remember Albuquerque.”

It read: “Hello, E.Z.,

Thank you again for letting me be a bad girl, a slut from one of your stories. I wouldn’t trade those three nights for all the world. We bad girls do something else, too. We get pregnant by men who aren’t our husbands. I had a healthy, happy baby boy on March 27. I know you’re his father because I use a diaphragm. I didn’t use it those two nights when it was only you and me. I don’t know your real name, but I wanted my baby to be named after his father so I named him Edward. I’ll think of Albuquerque and you every time I see him. Think of us sometimes. Becky.”

I tried to respond to your e-mail, Becky, but mailer-daemon said I was blocked. Telling our story is the only way I have of contacting you. I know you’re out there somewhere reading this.

Becky, I know you’ll take good care of our child. And, if you want to be a bad girl again, you know how to reach me.