Coming to Atlanta

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Dearest Lysette,

Thank you so much for meeting me at the airport, and for being my hostess and companion during my week in Atlanta. As you recall, my plane arrived at ATL late that morning. Though it was a long flight, I wanted to look my best for you (remembering all they say about first impressions). I’d dressed in my best three-piece suit, a dark grey pin-stripe, with my favorite gold tie. I even had my beard trimmed more closely than usual, so that I wouldn’t scare you at first sight! It’s one thing to see a bearded man in photos or on the internet—another entirely to encounter one up close and personal.

Before I deplaned, I took out the single columbine that I’d carefully preserved in a small floral container and held it in my free hand, bundling up my bags and woolen coat in the other (though we planned so much of this trip in detail, I’d forgotten to ask you how Atlanta winters might differ from those of Colorado Springs). In spite of the fact that I was eager to get out to the waiting area, where I knew I’d find you, I waited until the plane was almost empty before leaving my seat, to make sure the flower didn’t get crushed in the usual press of passengers ready to rush to the exit as soon as the seat belt sign goes off. As I walked down the passenger walkway off the plane, I could feel my pulse beating excitedly—and my 53 year-old stomach quivered as if I was a young teen-ager going on my first date! “After all this time,” I said to myself, “I’m going to meet the woman I’ve fallen in love with—online, no less. I’m finally going to hold her and kiss her and feel her body against mine.”

I saw you immediately on stepping into the waiting area (which had thinned considerably, since most of the passengers anxious to get out of the plane were obviously as anxious to get out of the airport). Your bright smile beckoned me and you called out my name. I stood there, taking in the sight of you, never wanting to forget this moment. You were dressed in a full skirt with black-and-white polka dots, an exquisite white blouse, sporting one of those big, black flouncy hats. Your honey-blonde hair danced on your shoulders with each step. I’ve memorized the dozens of photographs you’ve sent my way, but none conveyed the picture of elegance running to me now. At 49, Lysette, you outshine women half your age.

Before I could say anything, before I remembered to give you the Colorado columbine, you were inches from me. Your face was alive with excitement. I tossed my luggage and coat onto a nearby seat, seized you around the waist and pulled you to me. You didn’t need to be pulled—you threw your arms around my neck and pressed your body into mine. I could feel your breasts against my chest. Leaning back, I cupped your face in my hands, and spoke in tones meant only for you.

“I’ve waited all this time to kiss these lips, but first, I want to look into your eyes.” They sparkled with joy. “My God, Lysette, you’re beautiful.”

“And I’m yours,” you whispered.

I lowered my lips to you, and we kissed. Your soft lips were yielding; they seemed to quiver—or was that me? I slid my fingers through your aksaray escort hair and lightly ran my tongue against your lips, from one side to the other, wanting to gently explore what I’d so long wanted to taste. Then, to my delight, your lips parted, ever so slightly, and the tip of your tongue touched mine. An electric thrill raced through us, from one to the other and back. Almost simultaneously, we tightened our holds on each other; the gentle kiss became insistent and demanding. The tongues, which had at first touched so tentatively, began an eager probe of the others’ mouth. Our whole bodies kissed. Hands clutched at shoulders, napes of necks, arms. Fingers kneaded clothing, flesh, anything they could press into of the other. At some point your hat dropped to the floor. We molded ourselves together, oblivious of our surroundings. The allure of your scent filled my nostrils and captivated my mind. When our lips parted, two thin strands of our saliva stretched tenuously from your tongue to your lower lip. It’s one of the entrancing images I’ve ever seen—I’ll carry it with me into eternity.

“What a woman you are,” I whispered, my lips still only inches from yours.

“Wait till I get you alone.”

Only then, when we looked around the waiting area, did we notice everyone: gate attendants, counter employees, and the scattered people in the area were all watching us. We both smiled as they broke out in a friendly applause. You curtseyed and won all their hearts.

“Let’s get your things together and go, my love,” you said.

“Easier said than done,” I answered. With my eyes, I directed your gaze to the front of my trousers, where my “excitement” had become obvious. “I may have a problem going anywhere without embarrassing us both.”

“Speak for yourself,” you answered. “I have plans for just this—um—contingency.” The corners of your mouth turned up in a playful smile as you touched the tip of your tongue to your upper lip.

I tangled the columbine through the hair over your left ear, then gathered up my luggage. We started down the concourse hand in hand. My jacket covered my “condition” quite well, but I did become aware that we were drawing the attention of people as we passed. I glanced at you, taking in the movements of your body as you walked, admiring the bounce of your hair, the flair of your hips under the flow of your skirt, and the fine sheen of the stockings you wore. They sure weren’t looking at me.

“Every man in this airport is jealous of me.”

“Hmm. I think every couple is jealous of us,” you replied. You then turned, flashed me another beautiful smile, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and said, “And you know what? They should be.”

We got my luggage into your car but as I passed to open your door for you, you said softly “Not yet. We have unfinished business.” Our eyes locked.

“Your ‘problem’ may be more obvious, but mine is no less real.” You leaned back against the front door of the car and, pulling my tie, drew me in close. After a kiss, your hand released the tie and my eyes widened in delight as it found its way anal yapan escort down to my tightening cock. “Everyone who looks can see your ‘problem,” you said with a wry grin, “but only you and I know about mine.” With that you took my hand and pressed it over your skirt, against your panty-covered mound. “You may not be able to feel it yet, but my pussy was dripping for you before your plane touched the ground.”

Your used your free hand (the one not exploring the contours of my cock) to pull up your skirt—almost frantically—and bundled it around my hand. “I want you to feel how wet I am,” you said urgently, “and then I want you to do something about it.”

I glanced around the parking garage; it was almost full to capacity, but no one was in sight. You read my thoughts. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in ‘Long-term’ parking. Less people walk through here than in ‘Short-term.’ I figured you would make the extra fee worth my while,” you said, flashing a mischievous grin. “Now, Anderson Warren, feel my panties. I’m a dripping Georgia spring.”

I brushed the intruding cloth of your skirt aside and my searching middle fingers fell on their prey. You whimpered almost imperceptibly, and pressed your mound onto them, encouraging further exploration.

“Hurry,” you whispered urgently. “I want to feel you inside me.” Then, ever so slightly, you spread your legs. “There’s a little more room for you.”

I laughed lightly. “I don’t know that there’s a man alive that can handle you, Lysette Montaigne.”

You squeezed my taut erection and in that lilting voice replied, “Oh, I think I’ve got a pledge right here that you’ll do nicely.”

I covered your lips with mine, my tongue urgent to find yours. No need—with the same urgency your tongue sought mine. They danced fiercely, insistently. We feasted on each other—tasting lips, tongues, even teeth. Our heated breaths mixed; in the chilly November air we were generating heat and steam of our own. You moaned into my mouth; I groaned into yours: neither of us was willing to break our kiss. Your hand, still trapped between our bodies, found and worked down the zipper of my slacks, snaked into the opening, and with an agile grasp of your thumb, pulled down the elastic bank of my briefs. As part of the same movement, your hand first cupped my exposed cock and balls, then, wrapped itself fully around my shaft. You again took up your slow, firm motion, stroking up and down its length. I placed my left hand under the nape of your neck, holding you tight as I kissed your neck, the soft skin under your jaw, the curve behind your ear, all while the fingers of my right hand worked their way past the sodden silk panel of your panties. Your pussy was awash in its own fine, warm oil. I didn’t have to press my two fingers home—your anxious canal drew them smoothly in. “Christ, Lysette” I gasped. “You’re like liquid fire inside!”

You began humping yourself on my intruding fingers. “Tell me about it, Anderson. I’m like this every time you and I finish one of our internet sessions. This time I can let you do something about it, atakent escort for a change.” The tempo of your strokes increased on my cock. I lost myself in your honeyed hair. Your hat fell off again.

“Lysette,” I moaned.

Your mouth was at my right ear, whispering fast, eager words. “I feel you, darling. I’m with you, darling, holding you. I’m not going to let you go.” Your strokes came even faster.

I plunged my fingers up, reaching into you as far as they could go; withdrew them, plunged them in again, then again and again and again.

“O-Oh-Oh, Yes, yes, baby. Harder, harder! Fill me.”

I frantically drove my fingers into your grasping pussy while you furiously pumped your clasped fingers around my straining cock. We were moving and breathing as one. Driving, pushing, forcing each other towards our common goal.

“C’mon baby, push into me. Push and don’t stop, not now, don’t stop.”

“No, Lysy, no—” I gasped and clutched you tight. My body tensed and stiffened, frozen, suspended between worlds. “Lysette,” I groaned as I burst like a thousand exploding suns. At the same time your thighs clamped around my hand, holding it immovable in their fleshy vise, the velvet circle of your pussy tightened around my invading fingers. Your body shook, once, twice then, finally, a surrendering shudder.

We clung to each other, motionless in the parking garage for uncounted seconds. We were sweating in the November cold.

Then, you breathed. Slowly, with the bliss of rebirth, we turned our faces one to the other. For a long moment we caressed each other with our eyes. Reluctantly my fingers retreated, gently restoring the crumpled silk to its protective place. You lightened your grasp but continued to hold my erstwhile erection. With a smile slightly askew and a tantalizing flash of your eyes, you said, “Anderson Warren, I want you to understand, this isn’t how I usually greet people at the airport.”

You gave my cock another light squeeze, tracing its underside from root to crown with a single finger, coaxing out a last blob of semen. Capturing it on your forefinger, you brought it to your lips and drew it into your mouth with a quick sweep of your tongue.

Then, with a wry smile you turned your palm up between us, displaying a delicate hand coated with cum. “What am I going to do with this?” you teased.

In response, I held out my own hand, still gleaming with your oils. “I don’t know what you’re going to do, but all I’ve had today is a bag of airline peanuts. Now,” I said as I cupped my hand and fingers to my mouth, “you’ve given me my first taste of Atlanta.”

Your laughter echoed around us and you, cat-like, lapped up the contents of your palm.

I reached around to open your door; you stepped back and gave me the hint of a curtsey. “Thank you for the aperitif, Mister Warren. Now, are you hungry? This has given me an appetite, and I want to eat.”

But our lunch that afternoon, and the evening that followed, my dearest, require a thank you note all its own.

I’ve flown into scores of airports during my life, Lysette, from Nairobi to Beijing; I’ve been welcomed by politicians, sheiks and even a geisha in Tokyo. Nothing rivals that morning two months ago in Atlanta. My visit was all too short, but be warned: I’ve booked another flight into ATL on March 18 and my plane arrives at 11.15 AM. Please wear the same skirt.



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