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Layover by Sharon Mesmer      

‘m in a bar at Newark Airport with a businessman named Roy, in layover mode for three hours. Roy looks like William Shatner — not intergalactic stud, but bloated Internet shill — and he’s regaling me with tales of his Palm Beach business. I’ve decided to do something I’ve never done before: pick up a guy at the airport. Sex with this idiot will be a rare horror, but I’m on my way to an annual employees’ retreat in Florida — another rare horror — and didn’t somebody say, “To escape from horror, bury yourself in it?”

“We got three hours,” I whisper. “Why don’t we . . . you know?”

“You remind me of that lady doctor on ER,” Roy says, and then directs the cabbie to the Elizabeth exit ramp. “Anybody ever tell you you look like her?”

“No. Where we going?”

“Peacock Motel. Vibrating beds, little hot tubs,” Roy whispers, his fat hand going up my shirt, giving my nipple a pinch, and then down the front of my pants. “I like the name — like Peek-Cock, you know? Like you’re gonna get a peek at my cock? Shit, you’re gonna get more’n that!” He pulls his hand out and slides it under his nose. “Mmmm, you’re ready, aren’t you? Well, that hot little twat’s gonna be soakin’ wet . . . you just wait.”

He’s got no clue. I’m totally dry, which makes me think that there’s no way I’m gonna be able to do this. But I have a surprise for him . . .

“Let’s do it outside, behind the Ikea.”

“Huh? You got a thing for Norwegian furniture?”

“It’s Swedish, actually.”

We’re doing it doggie-style between piles of palettes by an old delivery entrance. He’s pumping hard, squeezing and slapping my ass, hissing, “Shit! Shit!” I had to get a good fantasy going to be wet enough, but he had lubricated condoms and K-Y with him — it figured, didn’t it? He bellows when he comes, then sits back on his heels panting, pulling me down, his dick still in me. Once he’s recovered he spins me around, pulls my shirt off, pushes my bra up and my breasts together, bites each nipple hard, whips the condom off, then yanks my head toward his crotch — all in one masterful movement.

“Now lick me off, slut,” he says. “Lemme see that tongue.”

He’s manipulating my head in his chubby, cigarette-stinking hands.

“Get in there between the balls. C’mon, lick hard. Just stick your fuckin’ tongue out, bitch.”

He yanks my head up his prickly thigh and into the slimy crevice between his balls and dick. Then he pushes back me onto the cement and pulls my bra off over my head. He’s clothed, I’m naked . . . and totally horrified at how excited I am. I’ve never felt like this, and I don’t want this asshole to know. But if he does what I think he’ll do . . .

“Now spread your legs real wide and show me that juicy pussy . . . Holy fuck, you’re soakin’ wet! You little freak! I told ya, didn’t I? You wanted it bad, didn’t ya? Didn’t ya? Shit, I never fucked a twat this wet. I’m gonna come all over those big tits.”

He’s jerking off and playing with my pussy — flicking, pinching, sliding his finger into my cunt and I’m throbbing toward a kind of orgasm even my ex-husband was never able to bring me to. Then he leans over and shoots all over my breasts, and I’m coming too, ready to beg him to lick me, fuck me, anything. Then I realize he doesn’t realize I’m coming, and I’m not going to tell him.

“Hope you don’t mind ya ain’t gonna come,” he says, standing up. “Flight’s in an hour. Shame, too, ’cause man, that little snatch was soakin’ wet! Just soakin’ wet. But I warned ya, didn’t I? ‘Cause I know — you’re a little slut. You know that about yourself, doncha? And you want it again, doncha? But you ain’t gonna get it. Yeah . . . you know. And you know that I know.

Sharon Mesmer and