Preface: This can only barely be called chapter 1. This is more of an intro. This is for people who enjoy sex but are also interested in a strong narrative, and to be emotionally attached to the characters. Not to say that there is anything wrong with any other style of erotica. But if you aren’t interested in this type of story, then by all means, feel free to skip to the sex scenes.
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Lt. Major Angela Griego, through no fault of her own, became stranded on the Azores island chain due to an electrical malfunction on the plane which was to bring her home. One would think that an Air Force base would have plenty of spare planes lying about; she was an excellent pilot herself, and she imagined herself flying back to Arizona on a large, Wright Brothers-esque kite, should this layover last too long.
There was still war seeping from her pores, and fire and sand in her eyes, making them glassy. She hadn’t exactly thinned out, but her wedding ring was a little loose on her finger, as she stared blankly at her hand. A “communications specialist” marched down the terminal to tell them that there would be about 7 hours delay. Could have easily been 7 years, as far as Angela was concerned. Her son, Victor, would have black peach fuzz on his upper lip, and his Mexican accent would have been all used up in school. He would sound “Hispanic”; that is to say, too American to be Mexican, but too Spanish to be anything but. Her husband, Gerardo, would have wanted to go to mass with her, but that would have to wait an entire week.
There were a lot of men on the island, who almost but not quite spoke her language. Their words were kindly, and disturbing, all at once, with such a foreign familiarity to them. “De onde você é?” they would ask in the way an angler might speak to a pond, hoping the fish hears and understands them. They were very pretty men to look at, with their fair, European features.
There was one, he was dirty blonde, and very well tanned, holding an umbrella over her head. Somehow this man snuck onto the base, without being in the military himself. His hair to her made him seem like some kind of wild horse, blissfully unaware that horses didn’t belong on an island such as this. He was muscular, and devoid of any scent whatsoever, and he smiled constantly, with his dimpled chin, like a low caliber man at a high class soiree. He had no bars or patches on his sleeve which dictated that he was to obey her every demand; that’s what made linking arms with him so devilishly easy. It was raining, and his umbrella wasn’t very large…
She had never seen the Azores on any map or globe, until she joined the Air Force. They were just some dots in the rippled, ribbed, ridges of the middle portion of the Atlantic ocean, that your fingers might sometimes grind across, every time the globe spun beneath your hand. They were eating ham, outside of breakfast, like a saint had died centuries ago, to date, and he had his own holiday. They were sliced thin, like wafers of meat, never quite satisfying, but delicious all the same.
His name was Luís, and he was the custodian. Think what you may about the profession; Angela knew plenty of people who would have would loved to be a groundskeeper in paradise, than a clerk in a soulless limbo. He topped off her singular wineglass. “No quiero mas, gracias,” she said. He didn’t understand. Or he pretended to not understand. With a faint smile, she continued drinking. She drank herself into an alternate reality where the word “no” wasn’t almost completely universal.
His bare leg, with thick, gothic hair coating him like a beast, brushed past her ankle. His shoe had come off of his foot, and she felt his toes against the back of her calf, just above the boot. She felt the dull pressure of his attentions; and frowned until he stopped. Then she reached her hand across the table. She needed to be undressed with this man, and it needed to happen soon. Arousal and genuine attraction had been painfully lacking in the past hectic year of her life. Her body warmed under his touch, and she kissed this man, who wasn’t her husband, under the awning which dripped water on the other half of their table. Her nostrils flared as he borrowed her breath, with no intentions of returning it. He caused the entire table to quake precariously on its uneven legs, as he pulled her in. The tuft of poorly combed hair at the base of his neck, the serrated brown and copper stubble around his chin, his powerful hand taking her fatigues by the center of her spine tightly, turning her entire garment into an instrument of bondage, all of it was too much for this little patio. She pulled away, eyes ablaze, and they left together. They forgot to pay, and the wine bottle, which was still teetering back and forth from their heated display, toppled over onto the plastic flower in the center of the table, and then continued rolling over onto Angela’s plate, where it poured out the rest of its contents. Pink flesh, sweetened by wine, with a dull yet heavy warmth all around.
He ushered her into an office high above the flight-line, overlooking both the coast and the mountains, like a hyper-condensed version of a proper continent. The cotton of his shirt against her fingertips was softer than anything she remembered existing. She wanted to hang there on his shoulders, with her face pressed against his soothing, calm diaphragm, for all 7 hours. She knew that she had to go home eventually; she still looked forward to it. She loved Gerardo, and Victor. She loved them more than anything else in the world. But, there was still war seeping from her pores. She refused to bring any of it home with her. “Quiero ser dominado,” she said, once the thud from her collapsing onto her knees finished reverberating through the dark room. It was still raining out. “¿Me entiendo?”
“Sim…claro,” he answered. His voice was darker when he wasn’t poking his way through English. His body seemed darker without clothing. She put her own arms behind her back, and opened her lips just enough for him to see a sliver of teeth and a slightly longer length of tongue. He had to send her a message, without his words. He had to quickly and deftly put her where she wanted to be; at his mercy. With a savage glint in his eye, he reached down with one hand, landing on the center of her chest. She trembled with excitement, up until the moment he reached his target. He seized her dog-tags, and pulled them off, over her bun. She almost torqued her wrist out of shape from how fierce a visceral reaction she had to this action. He had no right. None whatsoever. She began to number the ways that she could neutralize the man, in the back of her head, as a freshly old memory resurfaced. She was sitting up on her knees no, subconsciously, and he pushed her back down onto her heels with his fingers.
His manhood bobbed back and forth in front of her lips, and she was fighting all of her instincts to stay subdued. In this way, she was forced to dominate herself, on top of his orders. His body was pleasing just to view; he clearly spent most of his days in the gym, sculpting himself into a piece of art. He was so beguilingly handsome that for a moment she forgot about her own body, well hidden beneath her fatigues. He liked to be nude, and exposed for her; this much was obvious as she held out her tongue beneath his drooling cock head. The taste was an opiate, and she was completely transfixed, unable to move or resist, as he pushed his swollen girth into her mouth. “Com as maõs,” he said. “Manos,” he clarified.
Hungrily she seized his length in one hand, and pulled him another inch inside of her lips. More of his precum landed on her tongue, and she moaned out of pure excitement. Her hand shifted back to his waist, and she dug her nails into his ass cheek, as she began to cram his cock in deeper. She was frightened by how badly she wanted this stranger.
She gathered his sack, tacky to the touch, and just a measure cooler than the rest of him, in one palm, and held it parallel to his shaft, as she began to work her face and neck down over him. She flicked her tongue over his clean, shaved sack, with every stroke, each time creating strands of saliva, connecting her face to his thighs, until there was a web, folding in on itself and stretching until they snapped. He was stained red with her lipstick; she wondered if he had someone at his home who would see it. She hoped there was. She didn’t want this moment to vanish, once it ended.
Her body trembled hungrily as her nose made a foray into the tuft of pubic hair above his shaft. She coughed around him, and he pulled away, caressing her face with a warm hand. She obediently bent herself over the desk, without being prompted to do so, as he took her fertile, motherly hips into his hands. He laid himself in between her clothed cheeks, and began to slowly grind against the fabric, as he folded her arms together over her back. “Sí,” she moaned, as he lowered her pants, only enough for him to catch with his knee. Her government issue underwear was far from aesthetically pleasing to the eye, except for the fact that they were soaking wet, hot, and gooey against his head. Her cheeks gently grasped his foreskin, rolling it over his sensitive red cap, as he bucked his hips. It was all very slow, the pace people adopt on rainy days in paradise. He had to peel her underwear from her enflamed, juicy lips, and they curled into an oddly shaped thong as the made it down her soaked thighs. “Damelo, Luís,” she begged. She didn’t know why she wasn’t speaking in English; he hadn’t spoken a word of it to her. They hadn’t said much of anything to each other…
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/5qdufs/an_angels_voyage_ch_1_limbo_paraíso