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He starts fucking me hard, barely pulling out with each stroke, and hitting that spot deep inside of me. Every whimper I make spurs him to tighten his grip around my throat, preventing any sound from escaping me.
I cum finally, violently, my body shuddering with wave after wave of pleasure. I can feel my walls tightening and loosening around his dick as my pussy pulsates against him. He quickly pulls out of me, his semen spilling onto the bathroom floor.
His breath is just as heavy as mine. We stare at each other for a few seconds and then burst into laughter. The bathroom sounds empty again besides the two of us. A muffled announcement sounds through the walls.
“Calling passengers Neal and Belle Watson, please check in at gate E24. We are shutting the doors to flight 2653 to Las Vegas in five minutes. I repeat, passengers Neal and Belle Watson, please check in at gate E24. We are shutting the doors to flight 2653 to Las Vegas in 5 minutes. Thank you.”
My eyes widen. How long have we been here?
Neal snatches his pants up while I hurriedly pull down my dress. I want to hit myself when I see that the stall is still unlocked. Anyone could’ve walked in on us. We’re lucky no one was rude enough to try.
We rush from the restroom, Neal tripping over his boots. He catches himself before he hits the floor. I didn’t notice how far our gate is from the bathroom until now. No wonder it took Neal so long to meet me there.
I swore we checked in before we went through the bustling noisy TSA lines. Well, now that I really think about it, I’m sure we hadn’t, especially because I don’t have boarding passes for us.
The gate agent's voice reaches us again in an almost verbatim announcement, except instead of 5 minutes, we now have 3. Luckily, we’re just running up to the desk.
Panting I say, “Belle and Neal Watson to check in.”
The gate agent’s heavily lined eyes widen and red lips hang open for just a second before she catches herself. She clears her throat and drops her eyes to the computer screen as a deep, crimson blush tracks all the way from her forehead down to her neck.
“Yes,” she says, her pitch just a touch too high. She prints off two boarding passes and hands them over.
“Thanks,” I smile, so preoccupied with scanning the space for our luggage that I almost miss the way the agent snatches her hand away before I can touch her. I’m hyper aware of Neal’s hand on the flat of my back.
“Go ahead and board. I’ll grab our luggage and be right behind you,” he says. I do and then pause just before scanning my boarding pass, much more comfortable with waiting for Neal than boarding without him. He’s right behind me like he said and rolling both our suitcases behind him.
The two flight attendants posted at the entrance of the plane to greet us have peculiar reactions as they thank Neal and me for choosing their airline and wish us a safe flight. One frowns and the other snorts with laughter.
It seems as if everyone stares at us hard with various looks ranging from curiosity, amusement, disapproval, and plain judgment as we pass to find our seats. I’m starting to get annoyed, but my stomach is already flipping at the thought of what my fellow passengers might’ve heard from the women’s bathroom. They can’t have heard anything. The bathroom is yards away from the gate.
As we sit in our seats, me by the window and Neal in the aisle seat, the couple directly across the aisle looks at us and whispers to each other. They had to have heard us fucking in the bathroom. Why else would they be acting like this? I must’ve been so loud. As I buckle my seatbelt, I close my eyes trying to remember how we’d sounded. I’m sure I’d screamed, hadn’t I? At least once.
I feel Neal’s fingers slip through mine and look at him with a smile, and then my eyes widen, and I choke.
I’d been too distracted to notice that my matte burgundy lipstick, the one I always apply heavily, is smeared all over his mouth, cheeks and chin. His shirt, a simple black tee, is stuck to his body with sweat. His jeans are buttoned but unzipped, and the bottom right corner of his shirt is trapped in his underwear.
My heart thunders as heat floods my face. If he looks that bad, I must–Oh God. I snatch my phone out of my purse and open my front camera.
“Oh no,” I gasp.
Oh no…oh no, oh no, oh no.
My lipstick marks my face as badly, if not worse, than Neal’s. Thick clumps of my hair are wet with sweat and stuck to my face. My mascara traces swirly black lines from my eyes to my chin. My upper lip is beaded with more sweat, and my neck is littered in burgundy marks the shape of Neal’s mouth. Everything about the way we look practically screams to everyone why we almost missed our flight.
