Sex with a Sting: Six Erotic Fantasies with a Kink in the Tail

Text copyright © 2013 C.D. Foxwell

All rights reserved

Published by: Sting Publishing, London, UK.

All
characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Warning: This book features frank sexual
scenes. Adults only.

Contents

Plane

Online Dating

Hotel

Office

Threesome

Strangers

Business Class.
Whenever Helena thought of the words ‘Business Class’ she was reminded of the
cult comedy movie,
Swingers
, starring Jon Favreau and Vince Vaughn. It
was a boy’s film really, and a big favourite of her ex-husband who watched it
at least once every six months on DVD, but she had to admit it was pretty funny
in places.

During the
picture, Trent (Vaughn) refers to certain women as ‘Business Class’. It’s not a
compliment; it’s his sneaky way of saying that these certain women require a
larger seat for their oversized backside. Although, when you think about it, it
could
be a compliment (well, sort of) if coming from a man who prefers a
more, let’s say, J-Lo-style derriere.

But Helena did not
need to travel in business class because of a generous bottom. Her rear was,
well, not as perky as it might have been ten years earlier, but it still looked
great in the right jeans and would be perfectly comfortable in an economy seat,
thank you very much. Well, as comfortable as any butt can be in an economy
seat, at least.

No, Helena was
travelling in business class because she wanted to spoil herself. She deserved
it. And, for once, she could afford it. She had been on this earth for 38 years
and had never flown anything other than economy. Tell a lie. Once, she found a
special deal with Virgin and she and the ex had managed to fly back from a week
in Orlando (20% romance, 10% sex, 30% arguments, 40% Disney) in premium economy
class, which was lovely, despite the fact that any communication between
husband and wife by that particular point was conducted out of necessity only.

They were never
very good on holidays. Weekend city breaks – fine. Two-and-a-half days of
getting drunk on red wine in expensive restaurants and then having raucous sex
that probably kept the neighbouring guests awake for at least 20 minutes on the
Friday and Saturday nights was something they did pretty well. They’d sleep in
late, missing breakfast, and, really, they only spent proper, sober time
together on the Saturday afternoon. As long as there was an activity available,
like a special exhibition or an aquatic centre, the time would pass quite
pleasantly. But a whole week away? Or two? No. It couldn’t be done. They were
great together in small doses, but any prolonged period away from home, alone,
was always a recipe for a row and the resulting, inevitable, long silences.

In the end, they
realised that not being able to spend more than three hours together without
her wanting to scratch his eyes out and him wanting to emigrate was not
conducive to a happy, long-lasting marriage.

It was no one’s
fault, really. They married in their mid-20s at a time when they socialised regularly
in groups, going out several nights a week for drinks and fun. Their mutual
attraction led to regular ‘banging’ (as she liked to put it) and their
relationship rolled on, largely untroubled, for a couple of years until he
proposed and she accepted. It just seemed the natural thing to do. But once
they got a little older and people around them started having kids and their
social lives dropped off and the pressure on them to produce offspring
gradually intensified, the cracks appeared and then, quickly, widened.

After a few months
of reasonably amiable wrangling, they were divorced. The ex, a City high-flier,
was pretty generous in the settlement and they were still friends, at least on
Facebook if not in person. But Helena was already moving on. This beautifully
decadent jaunt to LA with a rather gorgeous man for company was her attempt to
start a fresh, new life. She had two weeks off from her job working as a buyer
for a High Street clothing chain and she was going to California for star
spotting, theme parks and evening cocktails.

Despite the
courteous divorce proceedings, it had still been a rough, sad time, riven with
doubts and regrets. But now, finally, it was over. She had a large lump sum in
the bank and distractions were necessary.

And Adam was some
distraction. Three years younger than her, he was, well,
hot
. Very hot.
Sexy. Fit as fuck. Gorgeous. Hunky – whatever word or phrase you prefer.
Helena usually preferred ‘hot’. And Adam was hot. From her business class seat,
in which she was wonderfully comfortable, she was watching him calmly stowing
his carry-on executive luggage (probably Armani. He seemed to like Armani) in
the overhead compartment. His pecs strained at his powder blue shirt as he
stretched. She resisted the temptation to reach up and touch them. That
wouldn’t be appropriate – at least, not yet.

With perfect
manners, he also placed Helena’s bag into the compartment and then her jacket too,
folding it carefully – even expertly – before finally clicking the
door shut and relaxing into the seat next to her. He looked across and smiled.
Blue eyes to match the shirt. Dark hair, short, with a hint of a wave. Immaculate
teeth, naturally. “How are you finding business class so far?”

“Well, it’s pretty
fucking fantastic, thank you very much, sir,” she replied.

“I know, right?”
he laughed. “There should be some champagne coming around in a moment. Or would
you prefer something else?”

“Well, there
is
something else I’d prefer, but if we’re talking in terms of drinks, then I
think champagne is probably just about perfect, thank you.”

“I occasionally go
for a Cognac. I find it gives me a certain air of…
sophistication
.” Had
her flirty comment registered? Or had he deliberately chosen to ignore it?

“Oh, really?!”

“You don’t think
so?”

“I’ve never really
thought about it. As long as you don’t order a bottle of Blue WKD you’ll be
okay with me.”

“Damn, I was
thinking of Blue WKD, too. One of my faves,” and he made two sarcastic quote
marks with his fingers on the final word.

“Mine too, if I’m
honest.”

“It’s gorgeous,
isn’t it?” They both laughed. “Actually, I’ve never even tasted it before. What
flavour is it?”

“Alcohol flavour.”

“When I was a kid
we used to get those ice pops for about 10p in the summer, and the blue ones
were everyone’s favourite. I think they were raspberry flavour.”

“I remember them!
Someone should make some alcoholic ice pops. Real gap in the market. I had an
orange one, once,” said Helena.

“Ice pop?”

“No, WKD.”

“What’s the
matter? Don’t you like sucking… ice pops?” Ah, so he had picked up on her
comment then?

“I wouldn’t say
that. I
love
to suck… ice pops. When the temperature’s right.”

“Of course, the
temperature has to be right.” He slid his hand across the small barrier between
them and interlocked his fingers with hers. Helena felt a little thrill at his
touch. “What flavour was the orange one, then?”

“I dunno. I was
drunk. Lucozade flavour, I think.”

“
Lucozade
flavour?”

A stewardess, all
red skirt and red lips, approached and asked what they would prefer to drink.
Both settled on champagne and she quickly produced two flutes of bubbly. They
clinked glasses. “To… a wonderful ride,” said Adam, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, a wonderful
ride!”

A few of the
business class clients were still making their final preparations for a long
flight, producing special travel pillows, small laptops and the odd book from
their uniformly sensible, smart, expensive hand luggage. In the distance,
Helena could still just about make out the hubbub emanating from the economy passengers.
She was not a snob. She had always travelled economy class and thought it was a
fine way to travel. She believed that business class prices were, generally
speaking, an unnecessary expense, especially for shorter flights. Much better
to save that cash and spend it on the actual holiday, not on the transport. But
despite all of this she couldn’t stifle a small smile as she imagined the
people in steerage: desperately fighting for space in the overhead
compartments; squashed up next to smelly strangers; small children kicking the
back of seats; sparse leg room; tiny TV screens. No champagne!

“What are you
smiling at?” Adam asked, leaning over.

“Nothing,” she
lied.

“Come on, what’s
so funny?”

“Nothing! I
promise!... I couldn’t tell you anyway.”

“Now you
have
to tell me.”

“I was just
thinking of all the people in economy. You know, all squashed up and
uncomfortable and thirsty and getting ready for an 11 hour flight with their
bodies all folded up into unnatural positions… I was being very, very cruel
darling, I’m sorry.” She tried her best face of contrition, but Adam just
roared laughing, so loud that several people and the stewardess all looked over
at them instinctively, before looking away again so they didn’t appear to be
nosy.

“That
is
very cruel!”

“I can’t help it!
I never get to travel in business. What’s the point in travelling in style and
comfort if you can’t laugh at the people travelling in the cattle trucks? It’s
like… like eating steak in a world where there’s no hamburgers. It tastes good,
but there’s nothing to compare it to, so it becomes average. Is that what you
want? A world where business class is just average and there are no
hamburgers?” she cleared her throat and tried to look innocent. “Okay, so I
have no idea what I’m talking about now.”

“No, you’re right,
you’re absolutely right. Enjoying something is always a little sweeter if you
can see other people in distress. It’s human nature. Perfectly natural,” he
laughed.

They began to taxi
to the runway and that slight hush you get once a plane starts moving fell
across the passengers. The safety video began, but Adam and Helena were much
more interested in the complementary sleep pack – blankets and blindfolds
and earplugs and socks and so forth. “Hey,” whispered Adam, “isn’t it strange
how sometimes you can look at perfectly innocent things and all you can think
about is sex? I mean, if you think about it, this is like a special little sex
kit, isn’t it?”

Helena paused for
a moment and looked at him. Then she looked at her luxurious pack of freebies.
Then she looked at him again, pouting, confused. “Well, maybe in your world,
you weirdo, but in mine this is just a load of stuff that keeps you either warm
or comfortable.”

“Use your
imagination! I’m serious. Look, take this blanket,” he smoothed the material of
her blanket between his thumb and forefinger and began whispering in her ear. “Imagine
that this is part of a hamper I’m carrying. We place it on a beautiful meadow
in the middle of nowhere and lie down together. We’ve got delicious food, a
bottle of wine and a hot sun beats down on our bodies, making our skin tingle
with warmth. There’s no one for miles around.