by W. Arthur
Catherine O'Hanlon pressed her face against the little window of the Boeing 747 and looked down at the Grand Canyon passing some 35,000 feet below her. She had never seen it from the air before and was momentarily awed by its sheer immensity. Then she turned toward the man sleeping next to her, his legs stretched under the seat in front of him, his head centered on the little airplane pillow the flight attendant had given him earlier.
Catherine studied him for a few moments, taking in the color and texture of his hair, the contours of his face, the smoothness of his fingers. Was this all a huge mistake, she thought, turning toward the window again. Mentally, she began to recreate the same pro versus con list she had begun when he'd first asked her to marry him two months ago.
Pro: He was a ruggedly handsome man; con: he had been married once before.
Pro: he was a very talented writer; con: he was an unsuccessful writer who moved from job to job and rarely finished anything he started.
Pro: he was twelve years younger than she was; con: he was twelve years younger than she was.
Pro: he was a sensuous, considerate, and rather well-equipped lover; con: after years spent in unsatisfying lesbian relationships, followed by years of relative celibacy, she wasn't sure that she could sustain a long term heterosexual relationship, no matter how sexually gratifying it seemed now.
Pro: he said that he loved her and wanted more than anything in the world to marry her; con: well, there was simply no con to this, she thought. No man had ever said these words to her before, and at age 43, she was more than ready to hear them. The truth was she needed someone in her life - no, she needed a man in her life, she could no longer deny that. And if the man said he loved her and wanted to marry her, who was she to argue?
So here she was, on a jet to Las Vegas, set to marry a man who had first dazzled her with his words, then overwhelmed her with his body - not only could he satisfy her, bring her to a shattering orgasm every time he touched her, but he made her - Dr. Catherine O'Hanlon, frumpy, non-glamorous full professor of English - feel beautiful and desirable. He had awakened her every bit as much as the prince had awakened Snow White with a single kiss.
As she thought about this, she realized how much she wanted him, wanted him inside her, right here, right now. However, knowing this was not possible, she spread her little blanket over her lap, leaned back in her seat, and closed her eyes. Then she discreetly reached her hand under her dress, slowly inching her fingers up her thigh until they found the slightly moist crotch of her thin cotton panties. Carefully, she brushed aside the cloth and began gently stroking her clitoris with her index finger. Being mindful of her movements, within a few moments she started to lose herself in her pleasure and her fantasy.
As she approached climax, she thought about the first time he had made love to her. Derrick Bigelow had been a student in her advanced creative writing class, one of the most talented students she had ever had. However, he had trouble completing assignments. One day after class, she'd confronted him with this deficiency. He knew he had problems in that area, he'd told her; he simply lacked discipline. Then he'd suggested that maybe she could help him with that. She was taken aback by that statement and told him flatly that she was a teacher, not a disciplinarian. He looked disappointed, so she added that, if it helped, he could think of her as being very displeased with his performance.
Two weeks later he'd presented her with a dozen white roses, a bottle of white wine, and a white notebook filled with twenty-five of the best original poems she had ever read from a student. She was overwhelmed and intrigued as she graciously accepted his gift along with his thanks for her help. However, their relationship remained as it was until four months later when he was accepting an award for his poetry. As he mounted the dais to accept his award and read from his poetry, he smiled at her, then said as a prelude to her favorite poem about hands seeking each other in the darkness, "I would like to dedicate this poem to my teacher and mentor, Dr. Catherine O'Hanlon, a beautiful person who probably doesn't yet understand the extent of her own abilities."
She stopped stroking her clitoris and let her other fingers probe her labia and the inner walls of her vagina, trying to imagine his large penis slowly thrusting inside her. Then she thought once again about his words, the poem that had so captivated her: "...in the cold stark depths / of a long winter night / a warm hand seeks / another in the darkness. / As they touch, the / spark set off by their /union could /illuminate the world..." He'd found her after the ceremony and invited her to join him and some of the other writers as they went out for coffee. Recognizing some of the other writers as former students, she'd quickly accepted.
Although the group was stimulating and the conversation animated, during that evening his eyes never left her. Slowly, she realized he was attracted to her, he wanted her. This surprised her, but not as much as the realization that she wanted him, she lusted for him - all the years of self-discipline, self-denial, and sexual repression had a built a wall around her. He had begun to tear that wall down, perhaps unknowingly, brick by brick. Now she was going to finish the job with a stick of dynamite.
Once the gathering began to break up, she'd taken his hand in hers and suggested they go back to her house. He'd squeezed her hand knowingly and left with her. Once they were in her living room, she'd realized that she really didn't know what to do; she had never tried to seduce a man before. However, always the gentleman, he'd sensed the awkwardness and simply led her to her large, comfortable sofa, the one she stretched out on to read and grade papers and to occasionally write, looked into her eyes, and kissed her fully on the mouth, probing for her tongue with his own. When their lips finally parted, he pulled away. "Perhaps I have no right to say this," he said, "but I love you... I love you, damn it, I don't care if you are older than I am and my professor. Tonight you are a beautiful woman, and I am a pitiful man who has become intoxicated by that beauty."
That was enough for her. In one quick move that surprised her, she'd thrown off her long, formless Laura Ashley jumper, letting it drop next to her like an old rag she was simply discarding. Then she'd hesitated for a few seconds catching her breath, standing before him in her white cotton blouse and tan pantyhose covering white cotton panties. The next move had been his; he drew her to him, carefully unbuttoned the blouse and lifted it off her shoulders and arms before tossing it onto the sofa.
The nipples on her small breasts had stiffened, pressing against the thin cotton of her white bra. As he'd encircled her with his arms, he deftly unhooked the bra and let it drop on the floor, freeing her breasts to nuzzle against his smooth chest. His lips found hers again, and they'd locked in a kiss. Then he'd broken free and bent his head down to her chest to first kiss, then carefully and slowly suck each hard nipple for what seemed like a glorious eternity. She'd began to breathe heavily and had nearly lost consciousness as the pleasure and the tension of the moment started to wash over her.
As he was relentlessly caressing her breasts with his mouth, he'd slowly pulled down her pantyhose and panties, finally using his feet to finish removing them from her. At last she stood naked before him, her vagina lubricating freely. She had her first orgasm before he'd even touched that part of her body. It had been a small one, but it was enough to catch her attention and unleash an assertiveness that she hadn't realized she had.
Once the spasms of pleasure had subsided, she'd looked into his eyes, then proceeded to tear off his clothes. After he was naked, she'd dropped to the sofa, pulling him down on top of her. "Fuck me," she'd yelled in a voice thick with lust, "fuck me hard and deep."
However, just as he was about to enter her, he'd pulled back and sat up. "What about protection?" he'd asked.
She'd raised herself up a little from the sofa and looked at him, slight anger flashing in her brown eyes. "Christ, Derrick, I haven't slept with anyone in years - I don't have a disease... and if you do, I don't want to know about it," she said, "Now, are you going to fuck me or what?" She began to reach for him, but still he'd hesitated. Then, in a move that had surprised both of them, she'd slapped him hard across his exposed rear, the sound echoing in every corner of the room. "Either fuck me or get the hell out of here... Do you think I do this every day? Finish what you started," she'd yelled between deep gasps.
Quickly he'd covered her body with his. In an instant his fully erect penis had found her vagina and penetrated easily and deeply. Then he'd began to thrust, slowly at first, then hard and fast as she lay beneath him moaning loudly. At last, he'd stiffened and groaned, then shot his semen into her in great spurts. When he was finished, he'd collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily.
For several minutes, they'd remained joined, trying to recover their senses along with their breath. Finally, his limp penis had slipped out of her along with several sticky strands of semen. He'd raised himself up, kissing her profusely on her sweating face, then sat up on the sofa.
With the memory still playing itself out in her head, Catherine opened one eye and quickly scanned her surroundings. Derrick still appeared to be asleep, and everyone else seemed to be engaged in their own amusements. Without further hesitation, she began to stroke her clitoris again, this time more vigorously. Within a few minutes she could feel herself approaching orgasm. She bit down hard on her lower lip to stifle a scream as she came violently, her hips and bottom rising an inch or two off the seat.
Once she was in control of her senses, she looked around her again. Derrick was stirring but had not yet opened his eyes. She carefully withdrew her hand from under her dress, being careful to dry her fingers on the back of her panties. Then she smoothed her hair and wiped the sweat from her face with a napkin. As if on cue, immediately after she was composed, the pilot's voice came on the intercom, "We are beginning our descent into McCarran Airport; we should be at the gate in 20 minutes. The local time is 12:10, and the local temperature is 84 degrees under clear skies."
This announcement created a flurry of activity, and instantly everyone, including Derrick, was awake. He looked at her and smiled, "Are you okay?" he asked.
In spite of herself, Catherine blushed a little. "Yes," she answered, "Just a bit nervous, I guess."
Derrick gently took her hand and kissed it. "That's understandable," he said, "I'll help you relax when we get to the hotel."
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