Frankfurt in May;

He met her at Frankfurt airport. She spoke British English, and explained that a thirteen year old daughter limited her exploits. Her Ex was away on business, and she responded to the airline pilot's invitation to a shared a cup of coffee with an invitation to her residence, replete with guided tour. She put water on for coffee as he idly flipped channels on TV. She soon returned alone.

"Where is your daughter?" he asked, a little puzzled. "I put her to bed," was the coy reply. She was a short brunette, and she sank into an armchair, folding her left foot up under her, to show a limber constitution.

He regarded her steadily over the rim of his coffee mug as he sipped the bitter fluid. She twirled her hair around her finger, and met his gaze silently. The silence began to take on a life of its own, and it became a game between them to see if they how much they could say with just their eyes. Her limp wrist traced the neckline of her blouse. He broke. "My neck is stiff," he said. She smiled and didn't move. "Could you help me rub it out?" he implored. His neck was NOT what was getting stiff, but he didn't know any other way to break the ice. She took his hand wordlessly, and led him into the bedroom. He took off his tartan shirt and lay down on the bed, face down. She straddled him, and began to work his muscles with nimble fingers. Baby lotion came to hand, and he luxuriated in skillful tactile stimulation. The coffee didn't let him sleep, and she kept him interested by reaching farther around his torso until he wanted to massage her in return, and reach around HER torso from behind.

He was relaxing into sleepfulness when she showed the experience of marriage. She rolled him over, and began to undress in front of him. She shrugged out of her blouse, undid her bra, and soon revealed her triangle of desire. She straddled him again, and felt him rise beneath her without his hips moving. She shook her hair out and responded with a thrusting of her own that DID include the hips. He cradled her breasts in his hand and his thumb and forefinger twirled her sensitive nipples between them, without pinching. They hardened in response, and she told him what it felt like. "It's sensitive when they're soft," she said, "but when they harden it deadens slightly. Keep doing it until they feel it again." He followed her instructions and she kissed him. He rolled over on top of her in the missionary position, and quickly unzipped. They coupled for the first time uneventfully. She was soft and wet and warm, luxuriating in his pleasure. She urged him to more industrious efforts, by telling him, "Some bruising is normal, not only below the waist, but the breasts too." His missionary rhythm strengthened, and she made small sounds of encouragement when he pleased her. As his stroke lengthened, she followed him, moving back and forward to control the urgency of their collisions until she wriggled in the uncontrolled motion of orgasm. He finished soon thereafter, and she thanked him for lasting. "You know the difference between a husband and a boyfriend?" she asked playfully. "15 minutes!" He laughed, and made a mental note to improve his efforts at home.

His next assault on the castle walls of boredom was equally successful. "I love the contrast afforded the eyes from the dark shadow of your pubes against the pale refuge from the sun of your amazon valley," he ventured.

"The tiny wisp of hair below your navel gives ME fits," she reciprocated.

They didn't know each other, but they both were experienced lovers, and they didn't lose integrity of coupling easily. He governed his intensity like a baseball player, staying within himself on a swing, and she swung for the fences only when she was sure of a home run. The house was on a peer and beam foundation, and before they were done, rhythmic squeaking answered their efforts from the other room.

The smell of satisfaction entered his senses, and he instinctively capitalized in a way to be salient in her memory. "The olfactory memory is the most graphically unforgettable of human experience," he offered. "Your smell is like cheese to the wine of my desire."

She kissed him deeply, and spoke unintelligibly for a moment. He made out "sixty-nine," and soon they were sharing the olfactory vector of the experience of taste. Her self-cleaning organ was a little sticky, but she was not a complete mess, and he cleaned up without reservation. When he felt there was no more, he gently disengaged... her sex was far more cunning than her mouth. He kissed her for himself, and her mouth added a new element to the melody of their communal pleasure. They cuddled for a time.

She dealt him in, on a secret of female existence, as they enjoyed union. "When YOU cuddle from behind, your hands get more reaction than your dick can keep up with. You need to let _her_ cuddle from behind. Then when HER hands get the right reaction, biology and physics are in agreement, and you can arrive on time and under budget." He rewarded her by placing his hand right on her inner thigh, reaching his chosen location from the rear, and cupping the cheek of her ass, as his eyes frankly drank their fill.

He broke the mood reluctantly. "Flyin' fuck's over... I gotta go."

"Go safely... I'll fuck a maintenance guy later for effect."

He had no idea of her sincerity, and laughed. He had never expected this, from a florist.