I was travelling from London to Los Angeles to visit friends – and the cheapest flight I could find was via Porto. The hitch was an 18-hour layover, which was a pain, but the price was so good I went for it and booked an apartment for a night in the old town.
I took a cab from the airport, half an hour’s drive. It was a journey that kept the attention – one moment we were on a raised motorway, passing light industrial units and out of town supermarkets, the next minute without warning we were taking sharp turns up cobbled streets while the driver made enthusiastic use of his horn. Where we ended up was a warren of alleys and arches and cafes that spilled onto the road, all under the deep blue of an August afternoon. This was more than great – it was awesome: beautiful, romantic, mysterious.
I dumped my bags – the apartment was on the fourth floor of a narrow building with a crazy complicated lock that required about eight twists to work. It had mezzanine bedroom with a tiny balcony over an invitingly crooked roofscape. I took a quick shower, dressed in a blue bikini, a light summer dress, sandals and a little cross-body bag and headed out (my hair was horrible: I sorted it with a messy bun). There were a few people sitting at tables outside the bar at the end of the street, under a triangle of eucalyptus trees. Someone waved – I waved back and frowned in confusion. Did I know her? No, just being friendly; that’s nice. The beer looked inviting, but the clock was ticking and I wanted to explore.
I followed the shape of the hill downwards, past the old university building with its baroque facade and ice cream parlours and bookshops and a long plaza where projector screens had been set up to show a football tournament. I went down steeper roads with restaurants and stairs for pedestrians to ease the going. I smelled from somewhere sardines on a barbecue, and the combination of salt and olive oil made my mouth water. And then, round a corner, the wide river Duro.
It was a good scene. A high iron bridge spanned two rocky points with a train passing above and cars on a level below. On both sides – the far bank was perhaps eighty metres away – were restaurants scattered along the quay and across the water the hoardings of the Port houses – Sandeman, Taylor’s, Ferreria. Old-fashioned boats cruised the water packed with tourists. I walked along, smiling involuntarily: it was a happy place. I crossed the water and passed by a cool quiet church and – how could I resist – has a small port before I crossed back as the sun began to set and headed back uphill towards where I had started.
The dusk crept in slinkily. First it came at the horizon, a peach smile, dusted above with a kind of cotton wool mist. Then it darkened above slow enough I didn’t see it change – but then it was dark there with Venus shining brightly and the peach had gone and was replaced by a streak of tigertail orange, catching a forest of TV antennas and satellite dishes and roosting starlings and dormer windows and crooked chimneys and busted gutters in perfect black silhouette. It made me horny, that dusk. It pulled me forwards, took me by my waist and grabbed me, leaving arms and hair trailing behind and my toes scraping the paving stones. Whoosh!
The bar under the eucalyptus trees was busier now, and strings of bulbs I had not noticed were strung between the boughs, creating a pocket of golden warmth where five or six narrow streets met. Music was playing, though all I could hear was a rhythmic bass above the chatter. I went in to order some food. I spoke no Portuguese so I tried menu, got a smile and pointed at some random items when the barman gave it to me. He spoke no English, but saw my pain and smiled and said something which through the universal language of smiles must have meant ‘I’ll make sure you get something good and I won’t rip you off’. He charged me a sensible amount of money and threw a glass of something icy and cold and alcoholic into the bargain.
I found a table under the lights and sat. I sipped and caught my breath from the climb up the hill.
‘Hey.’ I turned. It was the person who had waved to me earlier. She was about my age – mid 20s. Her hair was clipped close to her head. Her nose was pierced. She wore black kohl that flicked at the corners of her eyes, like some Egyptian temple babe, above the strong curve of her cheekbones. She had her hands on her waist in an amusingly sororitorial way. They framed her pierced bellybutton below the ripped black t-shirt and above the low-riding Levi’s. She was as punk as fuck and my panties got a bit twisted. I may have blushed a bit.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Do I know you?’ I smiled, confused.
‘I’m Ana,’ she said, smiling back. ‘You know me now.’ She had a pleasant presence, a solidness, despite being quite short. Her accent was Mediterranean. ‘You were lucky Joel liked you in there, or you’d be eating three kinds of pickled squid.’
I giggled. ‘I’m the worst tourist.’ I put up my hand to catch a drip of water that hung on my bottom lip, left by the sweating glass. ‘Though – in my defence I’m here on a layover. I’ve only got until tomorrow morning.’
‘A one night stand in Porto.’ She threw her head back and did a striking thing – she voiced a silent laugh. Her face smiled, her mouth opened and her chest shook but no sound emerged. It looked confected, practiced almost. But I quite liked it. I wondered if she practiced it in front of a mirror.
‘You want to sit?’ I pointed to the seat across.
‘That was my plan,’ she said.
Joel – the barman and waiter who was a spitting image of one of the three musketeers, in black jeans and black shirt with a white apron and arms tattooed with dragons, came piled with colourful glazed dishes with exciting-looking things on them. Ana spoke to him in Portuguese and they laughed and he looked slantwise at me and laughed again.
‘Enjoy,’ said Joel in an accent so thick it came out as ‘Enzoi.’
‘I ordered us more drinks,’ said Ana. ‘And more food, because I am going to eat some of yours.’ She leaned forward to spear an olive and I knew she wasn’t quite telling the whole story but I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind how forward she was either. Because of the twisted panties thing.
‘So where are you going after this?’ She said.
‘The states,’ I said. ‘Heading to a wedding.’
‘Special,’ She said, and in a word dismissed the entire institution of matrimony. She was clearly a person with Opinions. ‘By yourself?’ I nodded. ‘Good,’ she said, and it was more than the strings of lights that twinkled in her eyes.
‘What about you?’ I said.
‘I’m a student,’ she did. ‘Drawing mostly, with a minor in fucking.’
I laughed. She laughed, properly this time, and snorted in a way I thought was cute. Joel came back with more drinks and more food. He looked at me and looked at Ana and shook his head and smiled.
I spent too long trying to open the unfamiliar lock of the apartment door. Ana turned me round and pressed me against it. She kissed me passionately, dominantly, and I let her, eager to feel her tongue, her large breasts push against me, her hands feeling my waist, pushing up the skirt of my dress. My hip finished the job and the door sprung open and we tumbled in and without breaking our kiss found our way up the stairs. The balcony was still open and the sound of the night city drifted up.
My bum was on the railing, and my hands to support me. Ana took the shoulder straps of the dress and pulled them down, to my waist. She took both of my breasts and squeezed hard and I moaned into her hot and enthusiastic mouth. The bikini top was pulled away and her mouth moved there, the brief cold of the night air replaced by the burning heat of her lips and tongue. With her mouth on one breast and her hand on the other she spread my legs and I complied, quickly. She was not gentle but it was so romantic. Three of her fingers rubbed me from my mound and over my hood and lips and just beyond.
‘Fuuck…’ I trembled, joining in the urgency by pulling my panties to the side. I was trimmed but far from shaven. Her strong and thin fingers parted me and found me eager. I took her face in my hands and brought her back to kiss again. She was in jeans and I undid the button and the zip.
‘Inside,’ She said, grabbing me and almost throwing me onto the bed. I might have squealed. I pushed her jeans down enough to feel the elastic of her knickers and the curve of her ass but then had me on my back. She had strong toned arms and her fingers raked my stomach and pulled the dress down over my legs. Her mouth was on my hipbones and the panties were round one ankle. She took me behind the knee with one hand and pushed it back, at the same time bringing her lips and firm tongue to my clit and sinking a finger into me. I swore again. This was not her first rodeo – or whatever the Portuguese equivalent of horse dancing is. She managed to make me feel teased and owned all at once. I arched my back and lifted my groin and she pushed and retreated and pushed again, batting one of my hands away from my breast so she could enjoy my curves.
She wanted me to come. I could tell by the pace, and by the fact whenever she pulled her face away she said she wanted me to come. I laughed and then moaned and threw my head back and my light hair, which was dyed grey, fanned across my face and shoulders and pillow. I wanted her to make me come but I couldn’t, not quite then. And in a sensitive way, never apologetic, she slowed and made herself available to me. It was terribly pragmatic. She took off her bra and her jeans and rolled over. Momentum baby keep up the momentum.
Jesus fucking Christ her breasts were amazing. They were big, firm and soft at the same time, tiny diamond-cutter nipples. It was my turn. I kissed her neck and above her armpit and the side of those magnificent breasts as I put my hand into her panties. She was clean shaven; it takes all sorts to make a fun bedroom. And was she wet boys and girls? Of course she fucking was. A beautiful sort – where I felt only her warmth and then parted her lips to find her slick and ready. I sunk my finger in and brought it back to her clit. I followed her lead and went fast. She liked it, squeezing my hand between her plump thighs and saying something in Portuguese that even I could guess meant faster. I took her nipple in my mouth for the first time. If my tongue hadn’t already been pierced I could have had it done for free that girl was hard. She moaned and swore and I knew she was close by the way she held my head against her. By the way her fingers dug mountains out of the sheets.
Her orgasm was surprisingly delicate. A lean of the head to the side and up; a tension in her neck. She pushed her hips back in the mattress and moaned prettily, in alto, which seemed in keeping. She moved my hand away almost as soon as It had finished. She was sensitive. I loved it. Her orgasm was pretty to watch and made me feel complete.
But she wanted the same, wanted the fulfilment of gifted pleasure. She tried to spread my legs. I let her – how could I resist. But it wasn’t going to happen. I kissed her deeply, held her breast. I bit my lip and smiled in the way only a grey-haired petite layover hussy can. I shuffled back into the pillows. She snuggled up next to me, breasts against my forearm, hand on my thigh.
I opened my legs again and touched myself. My god I was wet. Stupidly soaking. I began to stroke like I’m used to, two stiff fingers up and down, the flick of a half circle every now and then over my hood, ramping the pressure. She whispered in her language, encouraging, complimenting, occasionally straying into English to tell me I had a beautiful cunt. Her hand took my breast once more, gentle, a hint of caution but I put my hand on it to get her to squeeze. She pulled on the nipple and I crawled closer to my O, reaching our like a woman in the desert who sees a stray iceberg. My fingers flashed over my pussy, my shoulders pressed back against the headboard
‘Oh fuck…’ I ground my teeth. I was going to…brightness welled up behind my eyes…it slid away from me. I gasped but didn’t slow: come on motherfucker! My breath came in heavy sob-like gasps. Then she put her fingers in me. She fucking put them in. Two of them, stretching me open. She just held them there. I moaned like I do. An exhalation caught in the voicebox, breathy an sharp edged. Stars came. I came, trembling and sliding back onto the bed. I felt her thrusting her fingers into me as I clenched on them, as our mouths met each other, as I sought for more, O-drunk and high as a kite. Yes.
We breathed. We settled in the maelstrom of sheets. Our legs knitted and our fingers. I put my head on her shoulder. She played with my pussy in a friendly and gentle sort of way. We slept.
She cooked me eggs and drove me to the airport.
When I got back to London, three weeks later, there was a bottle of port waiting for me. Ana wasn’t done yet.
——
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Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/acas1o/ff_the_layover_lesbian_fingering_semiclothed
This is really good!