I Never Knew Her Name


I’m not really sure how to tell this story. It involves a woman whose name I never got and who I never saw again. It remains — to this day — the most erotic thing that has ever happened to me.

Let me reiterate: This is a true story — completely. The dialogue may differ a little, but it was ten years ago and I’m working from memory.

In the late spring of 2006, I went to Playa del Carmen to visit some friends who had been attending an immersive language school there. Their session was finishing, and I went to spend a week with them having fun and being tourists.

The flight left early — before sunrise — from San Francisco, to Houston, then on to Cancun. From there I would ride a bus the 45 minutes out to Playa.

Driving to SFO was no big deal as it was early and I arrived there long before any rush hour traffic began. After checking in, I waded through the international terminal and security and made my way to the newsstand for a bad airport novel, then on to an airport bar for a juice.

At the bar sat a woman. She was plain — glasses, olive skin, a light blouse covered by a dark, professional looking coat. I made her for early forties — she had the slight vertical lines above her upper lip that start coming right about then and a little grey in her dark hair. She was reading over papers from a folder, staples and pens and a highlighter were spread out on the bar, with a bagel set off to the side. She seemed very purposeful in her work.

When I sat, she glanced up at me and gave a quick, tight smile. I said something about it being way too early for that kind of work. She gave me a courtesy laugh and said she was heading to Cancun for work, and she wanted to be prepared when she arrived. We spoke a little about her work before I excused myself and left her to it.

Departure time approached I was seated in the boarding area with my terrible book, ignoring the world when the woman from the airport bar sat across from me and made a comment about how my terrible book looked about as interesting as her papers. We laughed and joked about how long flights can be so dull that even a dull book or work can seem like an exciting adventure. There was light flirting, but innocuous stuff.

I noticed her calves. She had great calves, covered by dark black tights, with a dark plaid wool skirt over them. She was nicely put together, with that plain, unthreatening professional look that many women pull off well.

The flight was called, and I was in the first boarding group. I excused myself and made my way in. I wedged myself into the window seat as I like to do, and turned my attention back to my book with the occasional glance up at the boarding passengers, secretly hoping that this one or that one wouldn’t be next to me, hoping there would be a free middle seat so I wouldn’t be wedged in next to a fat sweaty talker.

She came through the door as I was watching the boarders and did the customary glance down the length of the plane, and noticed me there about halfway down. Gave me a smile and a minute hand wave. I smiled back, and turned my attention to my book again. Moments later, as she made her way back, looking above everyone’s heads at the numbers on the overhead compartments, she reached my row and with a smile, said, “Well! How about that!” I laughed and said something like, “So you can’t get enough of me huh?” Smooth as hell. No, not really, but we had a laugh.

Placing her carryon on the seat, she removed her jacket, folded it, and placed it in the roller. Zipped it up, and started lifting it gaziantep escort reklamları into the overhead compartment. This is where things changed for me.

The light in the cabin showed me that her blouse was lightly sheered, and showed the outlines of her slim waist, her long frame, and her breasts. I looked maybe a little too long, and maybe a little too interestedly. When she’d finished I was still looking, lingering. I smiled, embarrassed; she blushed.

When she edged in and sat, her skirt, normally just above the knee, pulled up a bit, showing more thigh, and exposing a stocking seam — stockings, not tights. I gasped just a little.

She sat, proper, knees together, next to me, and we chatted for a few minutes quietly, with light flirting and a general relief that there was nobody else next to her in the aisle seat. After takeoff, we both covered up with the flimsy blankets provided by the airlines and went to sleep.


Somewhere over north Texas, the captain woke me up with some announcement about turbulence. As I opened my eyes and my brain slowly came online, I noticed that she was fully cuddling with me. Head on my shoulder, body turned toward me, one arm curled up into her chest, the other hand in my lap, sleeping soundly. Her legs had parted some, and my arm hung down my side and over her right leg, with my hand hanging loosely between her thighs. I didn’t move. She seemed so peaceful, so warm and comfortable covered in the thin blanket.

I leaned my head against the wall to my right and I fantasized about her. Vivid imaginings of kissing her neck, of standing behind her and holding her into me, gently reaching around her and caressing her small breasts while I drank in the scent of her hair.

I turned my head left and rested it on hers, smelling her shampoo, my lips being tickled by her hair as she slept soundly. My hand wandered. Slowly, I allowed myself to touch the inside of her thigh with my fingertips, fully and keenly aware that she could wake and cry assault. I did it anyway.

I held her thigh for a long moment, not moving, before adjusting my position slowly and bringing my hand higher, my wrist gently pushing her skirt toward her waist, and coming to rest again. The air between her legs was hot and damp, five inches from her underwear, above the seam of her stocking in the forbidden zone where nobody but a lover gets to touch her. I held.

Slowly, under the cover of mid-sleep adjustment, I very softly ran my pinky and ring finger over the skin of her inner thigh for a time. Her legs parted slightly. Her breathing changed from the low, slow and steady purr of sleep to something else. Something more ragged. I was scared as hell. But I was horny and sleepy and foolish.

She wiggled in her sleep, pushing her butt down in the seat. This had the effect of first hiking her skirt up a little, and second, it brought her panties within a finger’s distance of my hand. I didn’t move. I held. I waited for her breathing to return to a normal sleep pattern. It felt like eternity. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I resumed my gentle stroke with my pinky and ring finger. I spread my hand some, moving my fingers closer to her panties. It was so warm. I was so scared of getting caught that my hand was shaking. I moved it up again.

Where my hand was, where my fingers were, the skin was moist with sweat; sticky, sleepy sweat. I was at the crevice, at the pocket of flesh that is the difference between leg and sex. Mere centimeters from her panties and ultimately her labia. My heart pounded in my ears as I held there. Her breathing changed again to something fast. I noticed that her hand, laying limply across my lap, was trembling. I leaned my head back and looked at her face — no longer asleep. She didn’t lift her head at all as we locked eyes. No words were spoken. Her mouth was open as she breathed shallowly through it. There was a pleading in her eyes, a hunger; desperation. I moved my hand, minutely, until my pinky finger touched the seam of her panties. Staring into her eyes, I waited.

She nodded slowly at me and held my gaze. She slowly moved her arms, and wrapped them around mine, pulling me closer, and pulling my hand to her vulva.

My pinky moved to the center of her panties and over the top of the thin, soft fabric, I began to rub her clit. Gently. Her eyes closed again; she exhaled with a quiet, throaty groan. She kept her head on my shoulder. To anyone passing by, she looked asleep, leaning on me, with me cuddling back into her. But under the cheap, flimsy airline blankets, there was magic happening.

I rubbed her out. It only took moments. She shuddered with an orgasm that I could tell was a struggle to keep under control. I didn’t move my hand away; just holding there, both of us relaxing in a lovely, unspoken eros.

As the plane landed and taxied in, we gathered ourselves. Neither of us spoke as we exited the plane.


The next flight found me sitting next to an older man with nobody in the row behind me. I put my head against the wall (another window seat), and ignored him — opting instead to cover up with the blanket, close my eyes, and relive the last hour of the previous flight. It had been the most amazing thing I’d ever experienced. This stranger and I having this moment of forbidden, erotic silence. I only wished I wasn’t leaving cancun immediately. Maybe she would take me to her hotel. Maybe I could convince her not to go to work. Maybe. So many different scenarios played out in my mind. But none of them was going to happen. I went into a fitful and frustrated sleep.

When I awoke I was vaguely aware of movement on my left. I ignored it. Minutes later, or moments later, I felt something against my hand. Something was being pushed into my palm. I opened my eyes sleepily, and looked down at my palm. There was a pair of dark panties in my hand. Not understanding, I looked left and found myself surprised. There she was.

She said, “I told that man you were my colleague and he agreed to trade seats.” And with that, she gestured with her eyes down at the panties in my hand. It took me longer than it should have, but slowly the penny dropped. I understood. She’d removed her panties and given them to me. She was inviting me for a second round.

I could not believe what was happening.

She covered herself with a blanked, and slowly pulled my hand across, under the thin material.

This time, there was no pretense, and no slow unsure movement. She slouched down, pushing her crotch forward and our flesh met. I explored her dense hair, and her soft skin, and her folds. I rubbed her clit gently. I pinned it between two fingers. I masturbated it. Eventually, my middle finger sliding down to her secrets.

When my middle finger slid in, she stopped breathing and shuddered for a moment. I waited for her. After maybe thirty seconds, she slowly but forcefully ground her hips down on my finger. That was all the encouragement I needed and as I fingered her, she unzipped my pants and removed my penis. What was happening? I was beside myself.

She whispered that I should tell her when I was going to finish. I didn’t know what she was going to do, but I nodded agreement.

I fingered her to another orgasm and I felt mine building. I told her so with a gesture. She sat up tall, glanced around us to confirm nobody was watching, and with her left hand, she pinned the outside of the blanket around my dick, allowing me to cum into the blanket and not all over myself. She kept the blanket tight around my dick for a second, then tightly, slid it up my shaft and off the top, trapping my sperm inside. I quickly covered and zipped up as she shoved the blanket under the seat.

Nervous, guilty laughing and sighing for a moment. Then we cuddled together and we both fell asleep.


We landed in Cancun. I followed her out of the plane, watching her hips and ass as she walked, knowing there were no panties underneath. They were in my pocket. I watched her walk into one of the airport convenience stores and I walked past.

I didn’t see her again as I walked down to baggage claim, or on my way out through customs. I thought I’d lost her forever. I felt this strange mourning at the loss of something that was never mine to begin with.

Just as I was about to exit the airport and try to find my bus to Playa, she surprised me by approaching me from the side and asked if I could give her a hand with something. I think she used that phrasing on purpose. I followed her.

She led me to a family restroom. With a locking door. I followed her in, not caring who saw us enter together.

I shut the door behind us and she pounced. She was on me. I greedily palmed and groped everything I possibly could — roughly kneading her small breasts, undoing her buttons. She pulled open the changing table and turned around facing it with her ass pressed into my crotch. I strained against my jeans, and with one hand I pulled my pants down and her skirt up. The other hand, just as in my fantasy, around her shoulders, hand down in her bra, me kissing her neck, biting hungrily.

Before I could enter her, she reached clumsily into her purse and came out with a small bag from the airport gift shop. A small packet of condoms. I put one on.

She leaned forward over the changing table and I entered her from behind. Not slowly. Roughly. This was hungry, greedy sex with a stranger in an airport bathroom. There was urgency and finality in it. There was hours and hours of sexual tension and frustration and fantasizing built up and being spent all at once. Fast, deep, hard fucking. Ear biting. It seemed like she hadn’t been fucked in a hundred years. She was ravenous and dirty. She watched us in the mirror. And I fucked her hard — at times lifting her off the ground.

She orgasmed on me and as her walls tightened down, I came too. This was the one time in my life that I was glad I wore a condom — without the slight desensitizing that the condom gives, it would have been over too quickly and she wouldn’t have been satisfied.

As we stood there, winded, panting, gasping for breath with my dick still in her from behind, I laughed and then she laughed. I asked if she was ready to go to work and that sent her over the edge with endorphin-laced giggles.

We straightened up; she buttoned her blouse; I removed the condom and wiped my dick with a paper towel. I asked if she wanted her panties back and she told me to keep them.

We exited the airport bathroom and held hands as we left the building. At the curb, she started left toward the taxis, and I started right toward the buses. As our hands finally parted, she looked me in the eyes, and simply said, “Thank you.”

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