Taking the Plunge

We're all taking the plunge here, as this is my first story. Constructive criticism is welcome!

***

When they tell you that all the passengers have to deplane, you want to scream.

It's just not fair. After over a year of false starts, the two of you had finally made the leap and booked two weeks at a sundrenched villa overlooking the Pacific, plus the plane tickets that would get both of you there at the same time. But apparently, your flight's scheduled copilot has gotten stuck in traffic, and there isn't a replacement available. The airline is terribly sorry, but there is nothing they can do. There is no choice but to wait for the copilot to arrive.

You gather your things and trudge glumly back to the gate with a hundred other grumbling passengers. The notice board informs you that your departure time has been pushed back 90 minutes. The urge to scream builds again, but you fight it back again. You take out your phone to let him know about the delay. A quick check shows that his flight left right on time. He's probably somewhere over Utah right now, cut off from news of the world below, but he'll see your message when he lands in an hour or two.

Once it's written and sent off into the aether, you find yourself at a loose end. Another hour in the terminal? What are you supposed to do? There's only one thing that you really want to do, and you certainly can't do it here. And how unfair is it for the stupid copilot to get stuck in stupid traffic and steal this time away from you? You've been waiting so long. So very, very long.

You heave a sigh to yourself, then give yourself a mental shake. You won't let this get you down. You glance around the terminal. There is a restaurant here; its bar is open. You're tempted for a moment, but it's a bit early in the day for you to sulk with a drink, even if it is an airport and no one here would think anything of it.

Instead, you wander into the bookstore. You feel pulled towards its romance section. Your body has been gently humming since your front door closed behind you this morning, and you are feeling indulgent. You want to fan the quiet flame burning deep in your core. You find a promisingly trashy-looking title to purchase, and add a fancy coffee to treat yourself on your way back to the gate. You're determined to make the best of your time, regardless of your mistreatment at the hands of an unfeeling universe.

The notice board at the gate informs you that another hour has been added to your flight's delay.

Tears of sheer frustration threaten. You fight them back. You're not going to cry in an airport terminal over a delayed flight. It's just not worth it. The delay is infuriating, but temporary. You will get there, however long it takes, and when you do you'll have days and days to spend with him.

You text him with another update. You check his flight status; he'll be landing in just under an hour. You can't wait to hear from him. Flirty texts would be an even better way to pass the time than the book. But you'll make do.

You find an empty seat, sip your well-deserved coffee, and open your book.

It's better than you expect it to be. While it is reasonably trashy, it doesn't take itself too seriously, and it's written with enough skill to get you invested in the overwrought plot and keep its pages turning. The first sex scene strings together some mental images that elevate the gentle hum in your body into a definite, persistent buzzing. You smile, imagining how the two of you will work to pay off the tension currently building in your body...

You wrap up a particularly spicy chapter and look up. Nearly an hour has gone by. The flight departure time remains stubbornly unchanged; you don't know whether to be happy about that. You suppose it's better than even more delays. The pleasant buzz between your legs has evolved to a modest but insistent ache. You feel slightly flushed. Perhaps a walk is in order. And a visit to the restroom, as your coffee cup is now empty and your bladder full.

You heave your carry-on through the terminal, looking for a more out-of-the-way bathroom. After all, you have some time to kill. You find one tucked away in a relatively quiet corner and settle yourself in a stall. You feel the urge to reach down and touch yourself, to see just how wet you are, but you resist. You don't want to be tempted to go further, not least because an airport bathroom stall isn't quite the setting you had in mind, but also because you have a good idea of what's waiting for you at the end of the journey. It's difficult, but you manage. Mostly.

Afterward, you take a moment to check your reflection in the mirror. Hmm, maybe a bit flushed, but it suits you. The blue in your hair has been recently retouched; it's electric. There's a smolder in your eyes. It makes you smile, because it makes you think about what's in store for you over the next two weeks. You let yourself think about it, just a little. Your flush deepens a bit, which widens your smile even more.

You take out your phone on your way out of the bathroom, planning to check whether I've landed yet. As you unlock it, it rings. It's an unfamiliar number, but you recognize the area code.

Confused, you answer. It's the airline calling. A replacement copilot was discovered after all, and the plane has just finished boarding. They know you're at the airport, so they're not planning to leave without you; nevertheless, you can't help but feel slightly panicky as you rush back toward the gate. You're the very last to reboard. It takes you a moment to find a place for your bag, because the overhead bins have all been closed, but you figure it out and you buckle yourself in. Your profuse apologies are waved away by the smiling flight attendant. "You waited an hour for us," he says. "We don't mind waiting a few minutes for you." Well. Fair enough.

You switch your phone to airplane mode as instructed. It's not until you are airborne that you realize you never had a chance to send him an update.

The flight is otherwise uneventful. You land and see messages from him acknowledging your updates and reciprocating your love. He clearly can't wait to see you. You let him know you have landed and order a rideshare to take you to him.

Luck is on your side for once, and there's a driver approaching the airport. Less than a minute's wait and you're on your way.

It's only a twenty minute ride to the villa. Your anticipation builds with each passing minute. You're slightly annoyed that he hasn't responded to your texts, but at this point you also don't care. Only a few short miles separate us now. Close enough that you could run the distance if you had to.

But the rideshare is quicker than the run, so you tolerate it. You pull into the villa's driveway, say your thanks to driver and send a tip, sending him on his way. The sun is just beginning to set over the Pacific. The view is glorious and you could not fucking care less. There's only one thing you want to see right now.

You try the front door; it's open. "Hello?" you say tentatively. You're certain you're in the right place; you've seen photos and obsessively triple and quadruple checked the address. You text him again and hear a quiet vibrating sound from the kitchen. His phone, carelessly discarded on the island, clearly out of earshot from wherever he's gotten himself to.

You call his name, again questioningly. No response. But you do hear some gentle splashing coming beyond from the screen door. Another step to your left, and you can see to the pool in the backyard.

And there he is. Swimming. Probably he needed to burn off some nervous energy; you know he's been looking forward to this just as much as you have. He must have been at least as frustrated as you by the delays. You hadn't been able to update him before your flight left, and he clearly hasn't seen any of your messages since you landed.

Your annoyance vanishes immediately. All that remains now is raw, overwhelming need.

You drop your bags on the floor, open the sliding screen door, and step through it.

The pool is small, but private within the walled backyard of the villa. You hardly notice anything else about it. The sound of the door has finally alerted his oblivious ass to your presence, and he turns and sees you. You're face to face at last. A glowing smile lights up his features and you have absolutely had it with waiting. Almost without thought, you kick off your shoes, unclasp the front of your jeans, yank them down and off, and march straight into the pool in your T-shirt and panties. He comes to meet you in the shallow end and you crash into him, wrapping your arms and your legs around him, kissing him harder than either of you have ever been kissed, feeling him kissing you back with just as much enthusiasm.

You can feel him through the thin fabric of his swimming shorts and your underwear, hard and pressing against your aching sex. You are single-minded, reaching down and stroking him briefly through his shorts and then tugging at the drawstring to set him loose. You get the shorts down around his thighs and he springs free, hot and firm and smooth against your stomach. You push him back onto the top step of the pool, climb on top of him, tug your panties to the side, and sink your hips down until the two of you are, at long last, truly reunited.

The agony of the longest wait of your life, multiplied by your earlier efforts to stoke the flame of your passion, lead to an unexpectedly swift payoff. The wave of pleasure builds up way too fast with each inch of him you take until, at the moment his entire length fills you, you're shattered by an enormous, toe-curling orgasm. You shudder and twitch on top of him, breath coming in moaning gasps. His hands are on your hips, guiding you up and down slowly as your pleasure spikes and then ebbs. Your eyes finally open again, and find his right there looking back at you.

"Holy shit," you pant into his ear.

"Hello to you too," he says back, kissing you.

Your hips are still rolling gently, almost of their own accord, as you savor the feeling of being filled. He always was the perfect fit for you, and that certainly hasn't changed one bit. You close your eyes again and moan into his mouth. He finally loses whatever semblance of control he's been hanging on to, picking you up and sitting you down at the edge of the pool, reversing your positions without pulling out of you. And then he's pumping into you harder and harder, faster and faster, sliding smoothly in and out of your hot wet center. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his waist, urging him on. Deep inside you, another orgasm is beginning its slow, wonderful build.

His hand slides to the back of your head, holding you firmly. "Look at me," he whispers. "Let me see your eyes. Look at me."

You open your eyes, and you can see the intensity of the desire written in his. Suddenly the buildup is no longer slow. You want to squeeze your eyes shut and throw your head back and lose yourself in the pleasure, but he wants to watch you. He wants to see it in your eyes when you come. You're not sure how you manage to do it, but you bite your lip and keep your eyes locked on his as you pass the point of no return and your climax crashes into you, harder than you ever thought possible.

You see it in his eyes too; his mouth forms a little "o" and as you pass your peak, he presses himself fully into you. You hold onto him as tightly as you can while still looking into his eyes. You can feel him throbbing and pulsing inside of you. Nothing else exists but the two of you and your pleasure.

After several long, glorious, rapturous moments, each of you eventually relaxes against the other, sinking down into a delicious afterglow, foreheads pressed together. Your breath slowly returns to normal, but your heart is still soaring with the simple joy of being with him again. And somehow you know for a fact, as inevitable as tomorrow's sunrise, that you won't have to let him go ever again.