Thans for the Quicie

Your hand appears by the folding door of the airplane lavatory just as I'm closing it. You pry it slightly open and slip in quickly through the gap. In a split second, you're in the tiny space with me, bolting the lock behind you. Before I have a chance to react you lunge at me, your hand clamping over my mouth, muffling my cry of surprise.

You press in close, the unmistakable hard bulge of your erection pressing against me. I try to back away, but you have me pinned to the wall.

"You've been avoiding me this entire trip, Alison," you say, breath hot against my cheek. The too-familiar smell of sugarfree nicotine gum on your breath uncoils something white-hot in the depths of my belly. I struggle, but your free hand catches my flailing left hand by the wrist and slams it against the wall. "And I am

fucking

sick of it."

Engulfed by your powerful frame, I am paralyzed by fear and sheer claustrophobia as you reach down to caress the inside of my thigh. An involuntary shiver runs through my body as your hand trails up to fondle my pantyhose-covered crotch, causing the hem of my pencil skirt to hike up.

"We had a deal," I manage to croak out. "I did what you wanted." I let out a shuddery breath and squirm as you massage my clit through the nylon. I manage to partially extricate my right arm from the corner it had been hemmed in, and paw awkwardly at the hand buried between my legs. "No more, Jason."

"Have you forgotten, slut?" Your hand had snaked up the top of the pantyhose. "

Sir

."

I turn away from your possessive gaze. "No, Jason. We're done. You promised." Despite my best attempt at firmness, I could hear a pleading note creeping into my voice.

You smile when your fingers glide across my shaven crotch. "You're still keeping it smooth down there. I'm touched." My cheeks burn with shame. I didn't make a habit of shaving my pubic hair until you made me. I don't know why I kept doing it, after.

Fresh panic washes over me as your fingers caress my slit. I can't go through this again. "I'll scream," I whisper, tears in my eyes.

In reply you give the collar of my white blouse a sharp tug, and the first two buttons pop open, exposing the valley of my breasts. I swallow and bite my lip, but do not cry out. A cruel smirk breaks out on your face. We both know it's an empty threat. You're toying with me. I am powerless to stop you, and you know it.

"I hate you," I whisper into the deep thrum of the plane.

You throw me against the lavatory sink top, and bend me over so that my face is pressed against the mirror. I prop my hands on the sink top for support. I tremble as I hear you undo your belt and unzip your pants. The condensation from my ragged breath flares on the cold mirror.

I almost jump when I feel your hands on my hips again. You bunch up my skirt around my waist, and, hooking your thumb under the waistband of my pantyhose, you yank, tearing the flimsy fabric easily.

You don't keep me in suspense for long, driving your cock right into my pussy from behind with a grunt. I am, to my chagrin, wet enough that the friction in my vaginal canal is pleasurable rather than painful. As you begin fucking me in earnest, you grip my bra strap in your fist through the blouse, pulling both down and baring my shoulders and chest. When you notice that I had closed my eyes in humiliation, you clutch a handful of my dark hair and pull my head back forcefully off the mirror. The sudden pain in my scalp forces my eyes open.

"Look at yourself in the mirror, whore.

Look!

" you snarl. Reluctantly, I obey. The scene reflected in the mirror is all too familiar, and the memories come, unbidden, to my mind. Of late nights, fingering myself to a video recording my own defilement.

You will do what I say, unless you want to become a star.

Of collapsing, afterwards, into a sobbing bundle of pleasure and self-loathing.

I try to avert my gaze, but with your hand firmly enmeshed in my hair I only earn myself searing pain in my scalp. I shoot a pleading glance at you through the mirror, and find that you are drinking in my torment, enjoying every moment. Your strokes into me are slower now, deliberate. You bottom out with every stroke, your crotch bumping rhythmically against the back of my thighs, making obscene slapping sounds so loud that I fear the entire plane might hear. The thought, I realize with dismay, excites me, the humiliation licking at my arousal like a lash.

My pussy clenches with hot shame, milking your swollen cock involuntarily. You draw me in closer, your arms wrapping over my neck and flat belly. I feel the scrape of your stubble you nuzzle the back of my neck and bury your face in my hair, now disheveled and almost entirely free from its neat bun. The almost tender gesture takes me off-guard, and my body melts into yours. Forgetting the situation for a moment, I relish the way the back of my shoulder slides, sweaty, against your expansive chest.

"You're mine, Ali," you growl in my ear.

Forever,

the implication hangs thick in the recycled air, unsaid. I close my eyes, and tears spill over my eyelids, as I fully realize, then, that, I would never be free of you, and indeed, had never really been. I had been incredibly naïve to think otherwise.

A couple of sharp raps on the lavatory door startles us both. "Sir, you need to return to your seat now," the stewardess' muffled voice says through the door.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," you say, annoyed. "Give me a sec."

Without missing a beat, you begin to speed up. The increased franticness of our fucking pushes me forward, and I gasp as my sensitive nipples are mashed into the mirror, now slippery and misted over with the condensed moisture of our fucking.

You bite into my ear and groan as you tense up, releasing a warm torrent of cum deep in my pussy. You jerk a few more times, then pull out, wiping your wet cock on the remains of my pantyhose. I barely suppress a mewl of frustrated need as the pain of my ear subsides to a dull throb. I had been thirty seconds, at most, away from my own climax.

"Clean yourself up, Ali," you say dispassionately now, zipping up your pants, "and thanks for the quickie." With that you fold the door partially open and slip out as unceremoniously as you had slipped in.