Boy overseas

There’s a scribbled reminder to myself on my notepad at work. It says ‘Print boarding pass.’

In my 4pm meeting I draw a border round it, then another, then another. I’m running rings around it the way the boy runs rings around me.

In twelve hours time, there’ll be no more sleeps. Already, I’m no longer thinking about deadlines. I’m thinking about sucking his cock.

The evening flies. I shave my legs, paint my toenails mint green. I try to watch TV while i’m doing all this, but I can’t concentrate. I’m skittish with pent up desire.

I pack my bag: 4 pairs of knickers (the good ones, even though he won’t care), 3 dresses, 2 bras, a box of Durex Fetherlite.

By midnight, I’m in bed, but sleep is slow to come: I lie awake, remembering the last time we did this.

I love city breaks anyway: the thrill of exploring somewhere new, of discovering new shops, new restaurants, new bars. I love it when foreign coins jangle in the bottom of my handbag, when the map in the back of my travel guide is scrawled with details of places I want to go.

The sex is a bonus.

Even Ryanair can’t ruin it for me. I sip scalding hot tea and pull apart a doughy croissant, pretend to read my book. Ideally I’d sleep, but I’m as restless as the toddler sitting opposite, so instead I think about how I want it first: him on top, his cock deep inside me, all that solid weight holding me down, making me beg for it. And the kissing. God, I’d fly here for the kissing alone.

The bus journey is a blur of early 90s pop and free WIFI, and before I know it I’m checked in, throwing myself on a kingsize bed in a beige room with a great view and kicking my legs in the air with glee.

My phone beeps. Yessss.

As I ride down to reception, the nerves kick in, just a little. What if there’s nothing left to talk about? What if we don’t fancy each other anymore?

The lift doors slide open. He’s lingering by the desk, all casual cockiness and smug smile. Yeah, the fancying thing won’t be a problem.

‘Hey,’ he says, following me back into the lift, which suddenly seems much smaller than it did before. He pins me against its mirrored wall, and kisses me hard, his hand in my knickers long before we reach floor 36.

‘You’re pretty wet,’ he says.

Oh, you have *no idea*.

 

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9 thoughts on “Boy overseas

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