I was horny when I got off the plane. Actually, I was horny when I got on the plane, but two hours of reading through an erotica anthology and thinking about the weekend from which I was flying home had left me seriously on edge by the time we landed. I leapt up from my front-row seat as soon as the engines died, and stood by the cabin door. My dick was visibly hard, which earned me an appreciative grin from the air steward who’d been sneaking glances at it throughout the flight. I studied him for a moment: bleached-blonde hair, long fingers, tight arse…but a bit too well-groomed for my tastes. Sure, he probably sucked cock like a pro, but he wasn’t really the kind of dish I fancied tucking into.

When the door opened, I clattered down the stairs and jumped into the waiting shuttle bus. I had time to wedge myself into a corner behind the driver’s seat before the next passenger made it onto the tarmac: perfect! I once sat at the counter in a sushi restaurant and watched the diner opposite me just stare at the conveyor belt for the best part of ten minutes, almost hypnotized by the variety of dishes moving slowly past him. Well sometimes I get that way with people. I just want to look at them, even if I have no intention of putting my chopsticks to good use when I see one I like.

The first ones to board the bus were the two businessmen who’d been sitting across the aisle from me. They wore dark suits and both looked a few years north of 40. One tapped away distractedly at his phone as he walked, but the other moved with energy and purpose. I thought about how it would feel to unzip his trousers and pump his cock with my hand; imagined him loosening his tie and gripping onto the hand rail behind him as I lowered my mouth over the swollen head.

Next was a young family: angry parents dragging tired, uncooperative children behind them and steadfastly refusing to make eye contact with each other. They were followed by an old man with deep lines on his face and a flat cloth cap on his head – unmistakably Polish – then a couple of teenage girls, lithe and coltish, but still unformed.

The trickle became a flood, and as the noise level rose it grew harder to pick out the details. A woman my age, speaking into her mobile in rapid-fire Polish. She was tall, and her blouse stretched across her chest in a way that exposed a flash of her bra between the buttons, but there was something cold about her facial expression. It matched her shirt: tight and uncomfortable, with no hint of mischief around her eyes. Behind her a woman carrying a small black valise. At least 50, I decided, though she wore it well. Her skirt ended just above the knee, and I found myself wanting to run a hand under the hem and up her inner thigh, till I reached the top of her stocking. I imagined her flying in to meet her younger lover – surely she was already wet with anticipation, wet at the thought of his hard stomach under her fingers as she lowers herself onto him.

I still wanted something more though. My dick pressed along the zip of my suit trousers and nudged up against the waistband. It felt restless and impatient, and I ached for someone to press their hand onto it through the soft wool; to cup my balls and run a finger up the shaft from base to tip.

Just as I was beginning to give up hope, I saw her. She squeezed between the two businessmen and stood opposite me with her suitcase, no more than a metre away. Her hair was black and fell down around her shoulders. She was dressed in black too, but that couldn’t disguise the fullness of her figure: big, round tits, and a happy roll around her stomach that she probably passed off as puppy fat until a couple of years ago. Rubenesque – wasn’t that the word? Yes, and she looked like she’d get off on being painted nude, maybe on a wooden chair that she’d leave smeared with her juices at the end of it, when she stood up to leave, shaky with lust.

Her boyfriend was a couple of seconds behind her. He stood next to me, a lanky, kind-faced young man who fiddled with his iPod while I studied his girl. I realized that although she was short, everything else about her was big – maybe a bit too big for anyone to peg her as a classic beauty, but her eyes, her lips, her tits, her arse, her soft belly…they all stirred something deep inside me. I wanted her to kneel on the floor of the bus and look up at me under her long lashes. I wanted her mouth on my cock – soft sucking at first, but then something rougher and deeper, that would leave her lips feeling bruised after I’d finished thrusting between them.

I wanted to take her into the toilets inside the terminal, while her boyfriend waited patiently for the rest of their luggage. She’d brace herself against the cubicle door and I’d fuck her from behind, two fingers shoved inside her mouth and my other hand curled around her waist. I’d come with my cock pressed against her arse-crack, so my spunk would shoot all over her lower back. She’d thank me afterwards, with just the hint of a catch in her voice, and I’d know that when her boyfriend made love to her later in the evening, her mind would be back here, craving the weight of my body against hers.

It took the bus less than five minutes to reach the terminal. As it bumped and swung its way between the stationary aircraft, I tried to capture the details that would allow me to see her again later, at home, when I closed my eyes and jerked off on the sofa. She only looked at me once, just as the bus came to a halt. I held her gaze for a couple of seconds, then the doors slid open and I waved her out in front of me.

I’ll never know what that guy in the restaurant was thinking or feeling as he watched the sushi plates roll by. Maybe he didn’t see anything he wanted, or maybe, like me, it pleased him simply to study each one in turn, waiting for the perfect dish to appear. Sometimes it’s enough to watch, and to imagine how a thing – or a person – might taste. Sometimes that’s all the body needs to make it hum with pleasure.

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1 Response to Sushi

  1. JillianBoyd says:

    *nods in full agreement of that last statement*

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