4 comments/ 11791 views/ 9 favorites The Hippolyta Project By: fiveofhearts Special thanks to DawnJ for her invaluable help editing this story. *** I remember thinking she looked fierce. They were making her go through the usual rite of passage at work, trailing behind her manager Janet, going from office to office and cube to cube to be introduced to every single person in the company. It's really a dumb practice, but every new hire is brought around. It's not humanly possible to remember so many new people introduced in rapid fire succession, and they're already overwhelmed with loads of HR bullshit, so it's of no value to the newbie. And like most people, I don't really care unless the newbie is going to be working on my product, or was hired by one of my work friends, or sitting near me at the office. Janet was not my friend, and never has been. And most vice presidents can't remember everyone's name, anyway, so that leads to the awkward moment when someone like Janet fumbles around trying to remember who I am in the first place, so they can properly introduce me and explain what I do. I'm in content marketing - it's where journalists go to make a living. But this girl, Fiona, had something memorable. Several things, actually. It was her eyes, to start, stormy blue-grey eyes that were as dark as the North Atlantic. I sat in my office and saw Janet stopping at each cubicle outside and giving the little speech she had practiced about how excited she was to be adding another writer to her staff, and whatever details she remembered about Fiona's previous experience. So I waited for my turn in the tour to be polite, meet the newbie and get back to work. Then they came to my doorway. Janet stepped through, but Fiona lingered behind her at the door frame. I remember sitting up a little straighter when I turned and looked at her eyes. Janet launched into her comments, but the new hire's eyes met mine and locked on. She saw my mix of amusement, frustration and pity at the ritual introduction. Clear as day, her eyes said, "I know, right? It's way worse from my end." She mostly held my gaze, but I studied the rest of her as best I could without giving the her an obvious once-over in front of her boss. She was different. She dressed sensibly, but the nose ring and jet black hair were just toeing the acceptable line of edginess of our fairly laid back office. Her blouse wasn't low cut; she wasn't busty. But it betrayed ink at her wrists and neck. She was lean; her shapely legs were clad in knee-high stockings. Fiona wore her work-appropriate skirt in a way that suggested she wished it was a foot shorter, but that it would do for 10 a.m. She wasn't beautiful. Her strong jaw and chin jutted out into space like a stark declaration, and her sharp cheekbones gave her an angular look. But she held her shoulders high. Her hair was cool. She stood with confidence, and she complimented our locked gaze with a half smile that showed she could play the game but recognized it as just that. Most of our employees her age are slack-jawed idiots. When I was her age I was a slack-jawed idiot. But sharp intelligence and uncommon wisdom - and raw sex appeal - crackled off her like a static discharge looking for a place to leap. Janet finished her pre-rehearsed introduction. Fiona said something like, "hi." There might have been more to it; I remember her voice was a ridiculously melodious husky contralto, surprising from her small frame. I stood up and shook Fiona's hand. That static leapt. Then she and Janet turned and left my office, onto the next row of cubicles and she steeled herself for more pointless introductions. I sat back down a little too quickly. The phone rang and I answered it. *** That first meeting was somewhere between intriguing and disconcerting. It's not really natural for a young woman - a girl, actually - to have that kind of poise and self-possession. She knocked around inside my brain for the rest of the day, and in the fog of the commute home I thought about her demeanor. I listened to sports talk radio but didn't hear any of it. I wondered if she was actually a good writer. I assumed she was good in bed and I thought about that some. I went home and fucked my live-in girlfriend before dinner. I swept in through the door and into the kitchen where she was reading something on her iPad and drinking a glass of red wine. She was facing the counter when I strode in behind her and pinned her with my large frame. I circled her waist with my arms and bent to kiss the spot on her freckled neck that got her all gooey, and on cue she melted and pressed her round bottom into me. I slowly moved my hands up, caressing her tenderly but intently. I brought my hands to her large, full breasts and squeezed. She put down the wine glass and her iPad and gripped the granite counter to steady herself. I kissed up her neck, and she tilted her head back so our lips could meet. Hers parted, and our tongues danced. I tasted the wine on her lips, and it was good. I loosened my hold on her voluptuous breasts, and gripped her shirt where it strained in between them. I pressed my lips firmly into hers, and with a firm tug, I tore her blouse off. Buttons flew and clattered against the countertop. She gasped into my mouth. I broke our embrace and forcefully tugged the torn cloth off her shoulders, and her bra-clad breasts heaved as she started to pant. The excitement made her shiver; I think it was November, so it could have been the cold air. I reached up and grabbed a handful of her sandy brown hair, forcing her to bring her lips back to mine for a kiss. I attacked that spot on her neck. She thrust her ass into me and spread her legs a little. "Welcome home," she breathed, barely above a whisper. Fiona was completely forgotten. The moment I set eyes on Dagne, she was the only thing in my mind. But I had been energized somehow by the earlier encounter and that energy brought a vigor that had been missing in our sex life. That's hindsight. In the moment, Dagne's curvy Irish body was intensely in focus. I bit her neck firmly and then dropped to my knees behind her. She was still wearing her business suit skirt. I roughly pulled it up to her waist, exposing the globes of her glorious, round ass. I like women whose thighs touch. Dagne's amazing thick rear was bisected by a thong; she flexed her ass when I pushed the grey suit fabric up to her waist to reveal her barely-there underwear. I placed my hands on each cheek and pulled them apart. She stood on the balls of her feet and bowed her legs to give me access to her sweet spot. I dove in. I used my tongue to pluck the purple thread from inside her lower lips. Pushing it aside, I craned my neck underneath her and assaulted her with my tongue. She shuddered. She was completely soaked, and the juices covered my bearded face as I voraciously lapped at her sex. She growled and gasped, short of breath. "Fuck me," she groaned. I stood, unbuckled my belt, dropped my pants and boxer briefs, and stepped out of them. My cock sprang out, hard as an iron rod and throbbing with anticipation. I grabbed the purple thong and pulled hard. It snapped, she gasped again and I tossed it away. I bent my knees and rubbed my cock head along her lips, slowly working it up and down, covering myself in her juice. She started to shake. "You asshole, stop fucking around and fuck me!" she whined. She began to grind her ass into me urgently. I pulled my own shirt off. I gave her what she wanted. She started to push back against me, and aimed my cock to her soaking slit. I pushed inside, thrust hard into her, and moved my hands back to her breasts. Her large tits were barely contained by a front-clasp bra; I worked the latch and they sprang free. I roughly grabbed them and started pumping into her. She tightened her grip on the counter; I returned one of my hands to her hair and snarled my fingers in the tresses. I pulled sharply, and her back arched. The other I used to maul her heavy breast and tweak its nipple. I fucked her deep and hard. I think I grunted a lot. She certainly was vocal, moaning and squealing as the head of my hard cock scraped along her insides, nicking her g-spot over and over. My hips slapped on her round ass. She came quickly and intensely. I think my unexpected assault caught her vulnerable and off-guard. She was sopping wet and I was really fucking her roughly. When her pussy spasmed the first time, I could feel it trying to draw the cum out of me. Instead I pulled harder on her hair and upped my pace. I started to bang the tip of my thick cock into her cervix, something that she usually found painful. Maybe it was painful then too, but it seemed to drive her wild. Her legs shook, and then she was fucking me back as hard as she could. She let out a high-pitched, long moan. I took my hand from her breast and moved it to her throat. She growled in lust and I squeezed. She came again when I choked her. Looking back, this was the best sex we had ever had. She must have craved this strong hand all along; most of the time I was a gentle, giving lover. I spent hours between her legs, pampering her sex with my tongue, fingers and a few toys, constantly making her cum that way. But that night I took her and used her. I'm pretty sure I said nothing before or during our romp. When I came, I let out a primal growl. I pumped into her at the same unrelenting pace, cum boiling out of me and coating her insides. I ended with a hard bite on her neck, right in that special spot, and she came for the last time. I wrapped both arms around her and we sagged onto the counter, completely out of breath. We kissed passionately for a while, and eventually cleaned up. Then I made her chicken, rice and broccoli. We finished that bottle of good red wine. *** It wasn't long after that Dagne and I had the talk. She initiated it, but I had felt it coming. We weren't going to make it, so it was time to give it up. She moved out, and I couldn't afford our place on my own so I did too. I wasn't too mad, and we somehow stayed friends. We had breakup sex, which was good, and fucked a few times afterwards, which was fine. She met somebody else quickly. I didn't. Dagne had made all the money. Writers don't make much. I moved back to the old somewhat dodgy neighborhood filled with artists and students. It was familiar, but shitty. Most of my friends had moved away like I had, and I had rather liked being downtown with the snobs. I was constantly reminded why I moved out in the first place. Kids are dumb, and artists are self-important. I rented a room in a house with three other guys from Craigslist. When you're looking for cheap, it's not like roommates come with references. Considering that, I did pretty well. None were completely insane. They were messy, but good people. We very occasionally smoked weed and played video games together like it was college. The apartment itself was shit; my window was about fifty yards from the interstate and the commuter rail that ran along side. The house shook at regular intervals when the train went by, and eventually I got somewhat used to the constant roar of traffic traveling at 80 miles-an-hour. It wasn't a good place to write. With no girlfriend to come home to, I had thrown myself into work. I spent long hours in my little office developing our publication, and wrote my own shit on the weekends at coffee shops and pubs. That stuff tended to be a little dark. I jerked off a fair amount; my shitty apartment worked just fine for that. I read a lot of erotica - I hate fake tits and asshole male porn actors that mistreat the actresses, so that severely limits the free video that interests me. At that point I was pretty broke, so good porn wasn't in the budget. I tried to go to my old haunts and pick up women. I'd love to say my heart wasn't really in it, but that's a lie. I just got old and out of practice. I went for the brooding, scarred, tortured soul thing. The students clearly weren't into complexity, and there were always more tortured artists. Eventually I figured out I needed a new angle, but I didn't know what that was. I jerked off some more. *** That spring my company bought some small startup in England. They needed a writer to take over their foundering information product and bring it into the fold. I volunteered. It was a promotion and a raise; I was going to get a junior writer to work underneath me. It was a shit load of travel, but it wasn't like I was doing much outside of work. Right around the same time, Janet got fired. It turns out she wasn't particularly good at what she did, whatever that was. They asked me if I wanted Fiona, who was good. I really did. We flew over to London to meet the rest of the new team. I didn't have much time to brief her before we went. We were both wrapping up old projects. We just exchanged emails and did a quick face-to-face or two. She seemed excited by the prospect of the job but reserved. It was hard to tell what she was thinking, but she handled her work proficiently. She constantly seemed to be evaluating something - me, the job, the situation. I figured she just had an analytical mind. We met our new colleagues, and I explained the vision I had for our blog, the benefits of well-written content and how it would draw attention to the rest of the products. They didn't really understand it at first. British stoicism can be infuriating. It seems to take hours for them to work up to a single point. No one ever says what they actually mean, or asks for what they want, or objects outright when they disagree. Somehow, that's all impolite and simply not done. So getting through our planning meetings was like wading into knee-high mud. All my energy was spent mucking through. I had dinner with the team some, which was pleasant enough, alone some, which I was getting quite proficient at, and went to bed early every night. It felt like Fiona didn't say a thing for the entire week we were there. She listened to the Brits, took notes about the new business, communicated with nods, sighs to denote annoyance or resignation (usually at my expense), and husky laughs when appropriate. Every once and a while she asked a question. The Brits hemmed and hawed. I got more annoyed. Our last night in England we were booked into a low budget chain hotel near Heathrow, since our flight was early the next morning. It was in that strip of hotels where the closer to the airport, the nicer they are. We weren't close. At all. We checked in, and our rooms happened to be across the hall from each other. At our doorways I advised Fiona not to leave the hotel after dark. She was a slight little thing and a long way from home, I thought, but didn't say that out loud. She just looked at me. I asked her if she wanted to join me for dinner. "Probably not," she said. Probably not. That felt like a strange answer to the question. I shrugged, and wished her a good evening. I stashed my suitcases in my room and headed out to an Indian restaurant I had seen just down the road on the way in, nestled between a betting parlor and whatever a bodega is called in England. I brought my book. I don't remember what it was I was reading. The restaurant actually turned out to be more of a bar that served Indian food. There were lots of locals, many of whom were Indian, which is always a promising sign in an ethnic food joint. There were a few pasty English toughs standing around the bar watching Tottenham Hotspurs completely outclass some shitty European team. I didn't recognize the name. They wore yellow jerseys, I think. It was my kind of place. I sat down at a table near the front and had a few Kronenbergs. The lamb madras I ordered was the real deal. I opened my book and sipped at my beer. The waiter diligently refilled it when needed. I made it through a few chapters. The waiter appeared carrying the black bill holder. I didn't remember asking for the check. Confused, I opened it and read the note inside: "You aren't very bright." This was inarguably accurate. Someone had found me out, and dispatched me a bolt of truth printed on a cocktail napkin. It was written in a neat hand with what appeared to be fire-engine red lipstick. I looked up at the waiter. It wasn't his shade. He shrugged and gestured over to the bar. Standing there was Fiona dressed in full battle attire: a high-collared black leather jacket that ended just below her rib cage, a tight white button-down dress shirt mostly unbuttoned to show her tattooed lower neck and high breastbone, a very short red plaid skirt, thigh highs, and chunky ankle Doc Martin boots, also red. Turns out, it was her shade. She was expertly ignoring the toughs just across the bar, who were inexpertly ogling her, mouths agape. I had the sense she knew she had captured my attention, but she was giving me a moment to take it all in before turning slightly and glancing over her shoulder at me. She had the full kit on, dark eye makeup and long lashes standing out starkly against her pale white skin, and the recently informative lipstick calling attention to plump and pouty lips that I hadn't yet appropriately admired. She appeared annoyed. My brain melted. The slag was a burst of hormones dumped into my system that might have killed someone older or infirm. I swallowed hard, forcing my pounding heart back into my chest, and then decided to begin breathing again. I started with a long, slow inhalation and followed with a long slow exhalation. I put my bookmark back into my book, and slowly set it on the table. Then I gestured to the empty chair across from me. She strutted across the room in a manner that just ... dazzled. It was sexual radiance via motion. Either the bar got very quiet or the roaring in my ears drowned out all other noise. Maybe both. She settled into the seat, looked up at the waiter who'd faded out of existence for a while, and said, "I'll have whatever he's drinking." I looked up at him. He looked down at me. I'll take the memory of the look on his face - "I don't know you, mate, but I know you've done precisely nothing to deserve this" - to my grave. "Two Kronenbergs, please," I said. He faded out of existence again. "Hi," she said. "Hi," I said. "This place is kind of a dump," she said. "Was the food any good?" "Yes, actually, it was." Two Kronenbergs appeared somehow. "You look nice," I said. "Really?" she said. "Damnit. That's totally not what I was going for." She took a sip of beer. Not a dainty sip, or a sloppy chug. The perfect sip. She looked at me over the top of the tall, slender glass. Those stormy blue eyes ... did something enthralling. She put the glass down stained with that red lipstick. It occurred to me, somehow, she was the only girl - woman - in the whole place. "I see you weren't keen on my advice," I said. "It was bad advice." "We'll see," I said. That hung there for a moment. I took a sip from my beer. "I'd like to show you a project I'm working on outside of work called the Hippolyta Project," she said. The Hippolyta Project. That sounded distantly familiar. "Shakespearean tradition, or Greek?" I asked. Fiona blinked twice. Perhaps she was surprised that question came from someone whose brightness was no longer in question. Perhaps she had something in her eye. "Shakespearean," she said. "Oh good," I said. "She dies in almost all the Greek myths." "Yes, I know. In battle." "This isn't some kind of martial arts display, is it?" I said. She took another perfect sip, eyes piercing over the glass. "Not exactly," she said. I'm dim, but I caught the message: don't fuck this up. This was important. "I'd love to see your work and the project," I said. The Hippolyta Project Ch. 02 Special thanks to DawnJ for her invaluable help editing this story. *** Fiona had just told me that she recorded our - albeit extremely hot - sex. Pardon me, not just recorded, but streamed live out across the Web to something called the Hippolyta Project. Or fucking me was the Hippolyta Project. Or something. A surge of panic rose in my chest. She was my direct report at work. If anyone from the office saw the video, we'd both be out on the street that day, jobless. What if my parents saw? Panic gave way to a wave of anger. She had deceived me, recorded me without my permission. Was she blackmailing me, or just using me? Then suddenly images from our incredible coupling flooded back in. Our passionate kissing. Her bare pussy peeking up unexpectedly from underneath her skirt. Her standing in front me, letting me take her all in, wearing nothing but her excellent tattoos. Her making sure I was watching as she took my throbbing cock in her mouth. Her whispering in my ear, advising me to "hold on," before riding me and taking her own pleasure. Her climax, and mine. I looked down at her. She slender body still snuggled close, still drawing gentle circles in my chest hair with her fingertips. Her stormy dark blue-grey eyes were looking up at me, pouty lips even more red with arousal, cool hair slightly mussed. There was no malice, nothing sinister there. She was still glowing from our coupling. She had called it "perfect." In the background, I saw my cock slowly lift off my stomach, filling again with blood and lust. I looked at it with some surprise. She saw my eyes change location, and she looked down, and then quickly back up into my eyes. She licked her lips, and slowly and languidly shifted, climbing more onto me. She whispered, in that incredible husky voice of hers, "This is going better than I had planned." I exhaled sharply. This woman ... was this actually happening? She kissed me. Again, pure passion. We kissed for a long time. That definitely happened. Finally, we caught our breath. I said, "So, tell me about it." She slid back down my body again, head on my chest. She began to stroke my cock lightly, caressing it. It occurred to me that this woman was in complete control of her every movement. She had unfaltering agility and grace. "The Hippolyta Project is a by-invitation-only, entirely female run community for peer-to-peer amateur pornography sharing," she said. She paused to let me make sense of that. "Oh," I said. After a beat or two she made her exasperated noise. "Didn't you used to be a reporter?" "A long time ago," I said. "How about you ask some fucking questions?" she grunted. "Sometimes not saying anything gets you the best material," I said. "Especially if someone wants to tell you something. Like if they're proud of what they've done." She picked up her head, propped herself up on her forearm across my chest and leveled a stare at me. She raised an eyebrow, appraising if I was taking the piss out of her. I tried to keep a totally straight face, but I'm pretty sure I smiled. "I am proud," she said. "It's an amazing thing to be a part of." "Well my brief experience with it has been nothing short of amazing," I said. I leaned down and gave her a nice long kiss, to show her I meant it. "Watch it, or it might remain brief," she said. She crawled down my body, past my hard cock, then looked up at me and took it in both hands. She ran her tongue all the way up my shaft. "Sex is important to me," she said. I made a throaty groan of approval. She pursed her pouty red lips around my tip, and rubbed it between them. "The Project is a way for women to control the erotica they want to see, to create and share," she said after a while. "Women choose their partners, who they want to share with the community via video, and who they want to share the community with." "Does every guy get ambushed with this?" I asked. "No," she said. "But many guys, when they know a camera is on, start performing for the camera and not for the woman who has singled them out as special. So lots of the women tell them after the fact. Some take it better than others." "How am I taking it?" She took me all the way into her mouth, and slowly bobbed her head on my cock for a little while. "Better than most," she said, eventually. "It's technically illegal in most places." "Not technically," I said. "It's illegal just to record conversations without both parties knowing." "Sometimes money changes hands," she shrugged. "Usually guys come around once they get a feel for the project and realize some of the benefits. Plus the women who post generally don't choose assholes. I was willing to make an exception in your case." She punctuated that last jab with a playful swirl of her tongue. "It's incredibly empowering," she continued. "If I really want a man, I do something about it. I judge his character, to see if he actually can handle it, if I want him to know about the Project. I seduce him; if that goes well, I fuck him how and when I want. I have a community supporting me, completely non-judgmental. It's so sexy to show off my conquest, have them rooting for me. They get to see what I like, I get to see what they like." She began to softly lick me again. My head sagged back on my shoulders and I stared at the ceiling, mind in a fog. "Hippolyta, Shakespearean Hippolyta, because she's one of his strongest female characters, and a warrior," I said. I was thinking aloud. "She's beautiful, sexy; she's Theseus' equal even before he makes her queen." Fiona looked up at me. Her eyes smoldered. Apparently she liked a little English lit talk in bed. I smiled; she began stroking me with her little hands. I groaned again. I had a sudden realization. "Where is the camera?" She smiled. "I'm impressed it's taken you this long," she said. "Actually, there are two, one on the desk over there, one on the bedside table. They're webcams connected to a laptop. I paid for the extra hard-wired internet." Sure enough, there they were. They weren't conspicuous, but they weren't hidden either. Obviously, I had been focused on something else when we came in. "I don't think you should expense that to the company," I said. She gave me a playful squeeze. I reached down and pulled her towards me. She let go of my cock and came up to kiss me without complaint. We locked lips. "Do me a favor, Fiona," I whispered, eventually. She tilted her head, curious. "Turn them off now." She kissed me again. After a time, she got up and half-sauntered over to the laptop perched on the desk. After a few keystrokes, she walked back to the bed and crawled up next to me. We kissed again, and her hand strayed back to my cock, still hard as an iron bar. "You okay?" she asked, after another long bout of kissing. "I'm not sure," I said. "You totally ambushed me, and it might cost me my job. That's kind of bullshit, and not something a friend would do. I've had an up and down last couple of months, and if I lose my job things would definitely be trending down." She looked up at me, eyebrow cocked, hand full of cock. She wasn't sorry, that much was clear immediately. "But..." she said. But. Indeed. "But it was the hottest fucking thing ever," I said in a rush. She kissed me. Then she said, "Who ever said we were friends?" I kissed her back. I couldn't help it. I realized then, as our lips slowly caressed each other, as our tongues lightly darted, that I wasn't actually mad. I was inflamed with passion. Something about this woman, her audacity, her frankness, her "by-invitation-only, entirely female run community for peer-to-peer amateur pornography sharing" completely took me out of my comfort zone. It was a new experience, one that she blindsided me with, but one she had sought out to have with me. One she called "perfect." For the second time that night, my blood boiled and surged in my veins. Her hand, still lightly gliding over my cock, felt the surge and she tightened her grip. I began to kiss her more insistently. She made a fist and began jerking me harder. I grabbed both her arms and pulled her atop me. Her slight little body came up easily. I reached up and held her face, giving her a long look of lust. Then I pulled her towards mine and kissed her hungrily. There are millions of teenage boys who only know about sex from free internet porn. Unfortunately, they all learn eventually, not every stroll across a warehouse leads to anal. And they are totally unaware of the erotic possibilities of a kiss. This woman had sucked my cock, twice. She had climbed atop me and ridden me in a lust-filled romp that blew my mind. But that kiss told me more about how she felt, and about how I felt about her and this situation she had thrust me into, than anything else. I kissed her with everything I had. And she gave it right back. All doubts, all trepidation, all restraint fled. My desire swelled. I broke our kiss. I grabbed her upper arms again, and spun her onto the bed. I caught her off guard; she squealed. Still holding her arms, I pulled her to the side of the bed so I could stand. I grabbed her leg just below the knee with my left hand. With my right hand, I grabbed my cock. I looked up into her eyes. They were the closest thing to timid I'd seen from this beautiful creature; maybe mildly curious on someone normal. I looked down, and watched as I guided myself into her with a thrust. I buried myself to the hilt easily. My skin slapped against hers. She groaned. She was soaking wet. My cum was still oozing out of her and her juices felt like they had never slowed down. I reached up with my right and and grabbed her other leg. I began pounding her. I looked at her face as I fucked her hard. She had this look of disbelief on her face, which was mixed with something that looked like ... ecstasy. I fucked her harder. She closed her eyes and began that low wail again. I took my right hand and rotated her legs down so they were pressed together and her torso was sideways on the bed. I pinned her legs with my left hand, right hand on her upper arm, and I held her down. I never stopped pumping into her. The new angle had me jabbing her g-spot. She came hard. I moved my right hand from her upper arm to her throat and squeezed, just enough. Her eyes bolted open. I kept fucking her, pinned just like that. And she came, and came, and came. I was ready to come too. I pulled out of her, growled and sprayed my cum all over her lithe, heaving, tattooed body. I stood above her, panting, holding my cock. She looked up at me, panting. And then she smiled. *** The next morning we had an early flight out of Heathrow. Early that morning, I had retreated back to my room, showered, and dressed for the flight. I usually fly in something comfortable. At 6' 5", flying coach is a nightmare, so any little bit of comfort I can manufacture is crucial. Sweatpants and a hoodie are usually the go-to outfit. When I met Fiona in the lobby I saw she was in the other camp: she dressed up for flights. She was wearing a nice skirt and blouse, and makeup. "You look nice," I said, leaning in for a kiss. She stepped back. "Thanks," she said frigidly. She turned and walked to the hotel desk and checked out. She ignored me all the way to and through Heathrow. Shuffling through the endless security line I wracked my brain, trying to remember if I had made any sort of obvious misstep. I could think of none. Was it because I told her she looked nice? Heathrow is one of those amazing places sprinkled around the world like Grand Central Station or Port Miami. It's basically its own thriving city. Millions of people from all over the world come and go, politely ignoring each other. There are people of all color and creeds doing the exact same thing, trying to go somewhere else. It's an incredible place to people watch. Despite being surrounded by other people, there is so much bustle that you're essentially alone. So I tried to take it all in, but I couldn't stop thinking about Fiona. Her behavior was simultaneously off-putting and intoxicating. She was driving me crazy. She sat a few seats away in the terminal, pointedly ignoring me and doing something on her phone. She looked very classy dressed up as she was; I'm sure I looked like a shlub. As I glanced at her, flashes from the night before flickered in my brain. Her strut across the bar. Her slow-motion spin as we entered her room. Her bare pussy peeking out from under her skirt. Her eyes meeting mine as she swallowed my cock for the first time. Her riding me, pleasuring herself with my thick dick. Cumming all over her writhing, tattooed body. It was all I could do to keep my rock hard cock pinned in my waistband and not tenting my sweatpants. I glanced back at Fiona; she was still ignoring me. I looked around the terminal and saw a dark-skinned woman looking at me. Her eyes flicked to my crotch, then back at my face. She smirked. I obviously wasn't that successful at concealing my erection. Finally our flight boarded. Fiona and I were several rows apart but both towards the back of the plane. Through some sort of minor miracle, there was no one in the middle seat.I had an aisle seat; I usually prefer a window, but that was taken by a middle-aged woman. With shoulders as broad as mine, anytime someone walked up and down the aisle I get jostled. The drink cart is public enemy number one. Despite this, I was able to doze off for a bit. It had been a long night. I dreamed about running my tongue and hands all over Fiona's body. I awoke when something warm and wet ran the length of my bare left arm. I blinked twice and then turned to look behind me; Fiona's figure was walking down the aisle away from me, towards the bathrooms at the back of the plane, hips swaying suggestively. I touched my arm, and it was definitely wet. I brought my arm up to my nose; she had wiped her juices on me on her way by. I took a deep breath; that had to be the sexiest invitation I've ever received. I looked around the plane; nobody was looking at me, and the woman at the window was snoring lightly. I unbuckled my seatbelt, tried to conceal my arousal, and followed her to the back of the plane. I saw Fiona slip into a lavatory and close the door. I walked up to it and saw it wasn't latched. I looked around. Nobody was in sight, so I pushed the door open and ducked inside. Airplane bathrooms are usually cramped for me when it's just me in them. When I ducked into this one, Fiona was there sitting on the toilet cover and grinning. My crotch immediately was in front of her face, and she didn't' hesitate before yanking my sweatpants down and grabbing my cock. She looked up at me and again made sure I was watching her eyes as she slowly took me into her mouth. My head started to spin. I closed my eyes and leaned against the door behind me. When I opened my eyes again she was still staring at me, swirling her tongue around my cock. "Why are acting like this?" I asked. "Why am I sucking your cock?" she asked mockingly, tilting her head to the side. "Why wouldn't you talk to me all day?" "Are you sure you want to spend our time talking right now?" she said, teasing me in in her low husky voice. Fuck. That was a fair point. I shook my head and she grasped my shaft with both hands, twisting in opposite directions, rubbing her saliva all over it. She spit on my cock, then began sucking it furiously. She was going to milk me dry any second if I let her. But I wasn't ready for that just yet. I grabbed both her arms and pulled her towards me. She was small enough to stand despite the curve of the plane, and I bent to kiss her. Our tongues tangled and I could feel her smiling. She put her arms around my neck. I grabbed her ass with both my hands and she went to her tip toes. I hoisted her up and she was able to wrap her legs around my waist. Her skirt hiked up, and exposed her bare pussy. She wasn't wearing underwear, again. I was sensing a trend. Actually I was sensing little more than her hot, wet lips pinned against my shaft at that moment. She pulled herself up, arms still around my neck. With one arm wrapped around her, I used the other to reach down and position my head right at her opening. She looked up at me and slowly, deliberately impaled herself on my cock. She was sopping wet; she enveloped me to the hilt, then took a deep breath. I pushed against the wall to steady myself, then I began to thrust. There was almost no room in the lavatory, but we found a way to grind and wriggle into each other. It was exquisite; I wasn't previously a member of the mile high club, and Fiona's beautiful, wet pussy quivered as I stroked in and out of her as best I could. She tightened her legs around me and let go of my neck, leaning back into what little open space there was. I had to hold her just above her waist, my large hands gripping just below her ribs. The readjustment clearly brought my cock in contact with one of her special spots; she began to shake, and started a long low moan that was quickly turning into a wail. She was cumming, and her orgasm sent shivers through her inner walls, pulling the cum out of me. With a full-throated groan, I let loose inside of her, filling her with my cum. She reach backed up and pulled herself close to my body into a full hug. We stayed like that for some time, clasped together, her legs still wrapped around me, my cock still deep in her gushing pussy. Finally she kissed me again, then lifted herself off of me. She opened the lid of the toilet and sat, letting our juices drip out. Then she reached over to the sink and picked up her phone, which I hadn't noticed before. "That will be a good one," she said, looking down and fiddling with the phone. "I can't wait to post that when we land." I blinked. She had recorded us again. "I ... " I began to say. " ... need to go out first," she finished for me. She tucked my softening dick back into my sweatpants, reached behind me to unlock the door and slid it partially open. She gave me a shove and I stumbled back out into the plane. Thankfully nobody was there waiting. I looked down the aisle towards the seats; nobody was looking back towards the bathrooms. I let out a relieved sigh, and reached down to adjust myself, feeling Fiona's moisture all over me. I brought my hand up to my nose and inhaled deeply, smelling her on me. Then I heard a giggle. I turned and saw two stewardesses looking me over from the small kitchen at the end of the plane. One, an attractive tan-skinned woman who looked vaguely Indian and about my age, was shaking her head at me sternly, but didn't appear to have the heart to actually scold me. The other, an older but rather statuesque blonde had her lips pursed and was wagging a finger at me. She mouthed "naughty boy" at me, and she gave me an amused look. I winked at her, stood up straight, and walked back to my seat. I can't explain where the hell I got the balls to react like that instead of blushing and stammering some excuse. My heart was pounding, and when I finally sat down I took a deep breath, gripped both armrests and closed my eyes. After a moment I opened them and looked to the window; the woman was still sound asleep. A few moments later Fiona came back down the aisle and walked right past me without stopping or even looking my way. This woman was unlike anything I had ever encountered. My heart was still racing five or so minutes later when the tall blonde stewardess came down the aisle and stopped at my row. Without looking at me she bent over practically into my lap, and undid the tray on the back of the seat in front me. She put down a napkin and placed a plastic cup with a few ice cubes and some brown liquid inside that looked like - and was - whiskey. The Hippolyta Project Ch. 02 "On the house," she said, still without looking, stood, and walked back down the aisle. I turned to watch her go, and she swayed like Fiona had, although this woman had a beautiful round rump under her skirt, not slender hips like Fiona. I took a sip of the whiskey; it was just what the doctor ordered, calming my nerves a bit. As I went to place the cup down on the napkin, I noticed two words written on it: "open me." Inside was a longer note. "She said you were fantastic. It sure sounded good. I can't wait to see the video, she gave me the link. Here is my number. Text me and I'll text you when I fly into Boston again next week. - Rachel" A pretty woman just gave me her number. That had never happened to me before, let alone the fact that it was after she had just heard me fucking another woman, and was going to deliberately look up the video of it. Plus ... there were now going to be two videos of me having sex online. I shook my head and tucked the napkin into my pocket, and slowly savored that whiskey in a plastic airline cup. *** I woke up just before we were to land, drooling slightly. The plane touched down without incident. I half expected Fiona to be waiting for me at the top of the jetway, but I guess I wasn't surprised when she wasn't. But my heart ached a bit; I was disappointed. This woman had completely twisted my head around in about one day. I stood at the baggage claim and waited for my suitcase, reflecting on the madness of the end of this business trip. Suddenly she was next to me at the baggage claim. She had a business card with her; she tucked it into my jacket pocket as she reached up to give me a chaste peck on my cheek. "See you Monday, boss," she said, and then walked away, suitcase in tow. I stared at her as she left. She didn't look back once. I pulled the card out of my pocket. On it was a shortened link, a username that was a bunch of numbers, and a long, complicated password. I kept the card in my palm as I thrust my hands into my pockets, trying to think. I failed in the effort. My bag came and I caught a cab. On the ride home I found the napkin in my pocket; after about five minutes, I texted Rachel my name from my phone. The Hippolyta Project "The most important parts are back in my room." That hung there for more than a few seconds. I took a long pull from my beer. "Check, please," I said loudly, raising my hand. It somehow materialized a few seconds later. *** I've never been so self-consciously uncool as during the walk back to our hotel. My feet and our conversation stumbled along. Each step felt false. Suddenly she was swiping her keycard. The lock clicked. She swung her door open. We were inside her room. I seemed to be holding her hand. She turned in slow motion, which was a neat trick. I started to form some inane comment. She quickly put her finger to my lips. She moved her hand to the back of my head and pulled me towards her. We kissed. She started at it hungrily, pressing her lips hard against mine, her tongue tangling with mine. I wrapped my right arm around her waist and pulled her towards me, hard. With my left hand I cradled her firm ass. She gasped, and pulled away from our kiss slightly. Those stormy blue grey eyes looked up at me. She looked surprised, then somehow annoyed. Something I didn't understand was happening. Or did I? She was my direct report. I categorically should not be here, doing this. I would end my employment if found out. On the other hand, this job wasn't that good. And I'm not bright, but I can pick up the bright fucking flashing lights that say, "fuck me." Those have been on strobe since the Indian joint. So was she having second thoughts? Should I be? Did I have my first thought yet? "Fiona, we ..." I started. " ... aren't here to talk," she finished. Right. The bright flashing lights continued to dazzle. "Are you going to show me that project?" I asked. "I am, honey," she said, in that husky voice. Eyelashes batted. She reached up and began to kiss me hungrily again. I was still holding her, turns out. All doubt fled. I held her close, and kissed her back. The worries of tomorrow were obscured by the sensual joy of now. The kiss was changing. Hunger is mindless need, insistent and aggressive. We started with that. But hunger began to give way to passion. Passion is want, much different than need. Passion is appreciation and affection, not insistence or aggression. I didn't want to fuck. I wanted to fuck her, any way she wanted. Our passionate kissing was perfect. Her soft lips caressed mine. She was playful with her tongue and teeth. We were smiling. Every once and a while we caught a few breaths, and our eyes remained locked. She managed both demure and wry. I caressed her too, only with my hands. She balled her fists in my jacket lapels. She did something vaguely kung-fu with her weight, and she spun me three-quarters round. The back of my knees hit the edge of the bed, and I went down on my back. Even as I was falling she was vaulting into the air, never letting go of my jacket. She came down straddling me, mounting me. I looked down at her short skirt, riding up her legs. Her pussy was bare. She hadn't had underwear on this whole time, not even at the bar. It was also completely without hair. I looked up at her quickly, surprised, and a thrill shot through my body. I shivered. She grinned. She shrugged out of her leather jacket. I clumsily tried to remove my own. Pure will overcame the awkward angle. She lunged forward and again we kissed passionately. She lay on top of my tall frame, her hot sex pressed against me. I could feel how wet she was through two layers of shirt. She began to slowly unbutton my dress shirt as we kissed. The buttons confounded her nimble fingers; she made an annoyed sound and ripped the shirt open. The confounding buttons flew. She was surprisingly strong. I grasped her arms, intending to get her to the bed. She tried to escape but my big strong hands held her. She stopped and glared at me, eyes flashing, her upper lip curling into a feral expression, part smile and part snarl. Quick as a viper she reached out and slapped my face, hard. In the shock of it, my grip on her involuntarily loosened. She knocked my arms away with quick blows to the inside of my elbows. It fucking hurt. Suddenly she was planting her hands on my chest and spinning around. Her bare, soaking pussy came down on my face. I gasped; the sharp inhalation brought her aroma deep into me. Pain was forgotten. My tongue lashed out, almost on its own, and buried itself in her. My blood surged, and I thought my heart was going to burst in my chest. I'd never been more intoxicated on lust. My world went black and I thought for a second that I was passing out. Her skirt had just settled over my head. I grabbed her hips and steadied her over me. I lapped at her frantically, dipping in and out of her. I found her clitoris and worked that pretty hard. She was wriggling and moaning. Suddenly that light flooded back in; she had been removing her shirt, and pulled her skirt off over her head too. She leaned forward and grabbed for my belt. Quickly that was undone and her hand was in working on my pants. Her hands were inside my underwear and my straining cock was out. She had small hands but I know it had never been bigger. My boiling blood had it painfully engorged. She looked over her shoulder at me, leaning slightly to her left. Again her eyes flashed. She smiled wickedly and then bent and jammed my cock in her mouth. She had wanted me to see it disappear into her. I almost came right there. Instead I redoubled my efforts on her. With her laid out on me, slurping on my cock and pumping it with both her little fists, her tiny frame had pulled her pussy away from me. I frantically reached up behind me searching for a pillow. I found one, the first time a round throw pillow was actually useful. With my head propped up, I was able to lap at her and use both my hands to caress, rub, spread and penetrate her. I don't know how long this went on for. I lost myself in trying to please her. Suddenly my wet shaft was out of her mouth, and she was lifting herself off of me. I opened my eyes - turns out they had been shut - and propped myself up on my elbows. She was off the bed, standing at the foot of it, looking at me. Appraising me. She bent down and started pulling off my shoes, still on my feet. "Take off your shirt," she said. She moved from my shoes to my pants and underwear, pulling them off me as I wriggled out of my clothes. Then she stood up between my naked legs and looked at me. She smiled, a little more softly than her feral grin I looked at her, finally. She only had a lacy bra on, covering her small perky breasts. She had tattoos all over her, winding from her wrists, up her arm and to her neck on the right side. Much of it was flowers, as if from a wild, overgrown meadow. On her left ribs was a pixie that had a positively mischievous look. The art was superb, and she made a stunning canvas. I had considered her slight. I was wrong. She was slender in the way a cheetah or leopard is, thin, but graceful and muscular. My gaze flitted up to her eyes; she was watching me admire her. Slowly she reached behind her and unclasped her bra. She peeled it away. Her breasts were magnificent. They weren't big, somewhere between A and B cup. But they were ever so round, and sloped on her lithe frame perfectly. She had small, pert little pink nipples. I looked back up at her. "You are amazingly beautiful," I said. "You haven't seen anything yet." With that, she started to slowly crawl onto the bed, eyes never leaving mine. My knees were still at the bedside, feet on the ground. I knocked away the pillow and shuffled backward. It was only to get myself onto the bed, but it seemed like I was trying to get away from a stalking predator, closing for the kill. A little smile played over her face. When my head bumped the bars of the headboard, I sank down on the bed. She kept coming. She stalked up and kissed me passionately. She began rubbing her body up and down mine, her sharp little nipples poking into my hairy chest, her sopping wet pussy brushing the tip of my rock hard cock and then retreating away. I brought my hands up to caress her back and ass. I wanted to be in her so badly, but this was exquisite. Eventually she pulled away from our kiss, biting my bottom lip as she went. She straddled my hips, and reached down to grasp my dick. She rubbed its head up and down her slit. She closed her eyes and used my tip to rub her clit. She sat down, pinning my cock to me and sliding her sopping pussy along its length, tilting forward to get the most friction on her engorged little button. Finally she raised up, aimed my cock into her and slowly sat down, taking all of me into her. She closed her eyes and bit her lip as she slid down my length. My leg muscles spasmed and a jolt rippled through me, my tip bumping into her cervix. She gasped a little, but kept me all the way in her. She leaned forward, kissed me passionately, and then moved her full red lips to my right ear and nibbled. She reached down, grasped my hands, which were cupping her ass, and brought them up to the bars of the headboard. "Better hold on," she whispered. She sat up, eyes on mine. I did as I was told. Slowly, she began grinding on my cock. She was stirring her insides with me like a straw, scraping my tip along the velvety walls. Then she began sliding me in and out of her, gradually picking up the pace. Her gaze never left mine. She rode me. When she leaned back and adjusted her angle, she broke our gaze. She looked up the ceiling and started to moan rhythmically. I could tell this was just the way she liked it. Somehow, I didn't cum right away while watching this vixen take her pleasure. She was using me to fuck just the way she wanted to fuck. It was the sexiest thing. Soon, she was beginning to give a low, constant wail. I could feel her pussy begin to spasm, but she didn't slow her pace at all, she just continued to ride me, hands behind her propping her up. She came and came. Finally, she leaned forward again, and again started to gyrate her hips. She steadied herself on my chest and ground on me in circles. She was absolutely glowing, radiating with lust and pleasure. She reached up suddenly and pinched my nipples. With a tremor I groaned, and came, filling her. Still, she moved on me, drawing out every last drop. When I could cum no more, I let go of the bed frame and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her down to me so I could kiss her. She didn't fight it, and squeezed her lithe little body to mine, both of us covered with sweat, both of our chests heaving. "Oh god, that was unbelievable!" I rasped, throat dry from gasping. "Believe it," she said. "You were perfect." We kissed a little more, my hands softly caressing her. I stared at her with what was probably a very dumb look on my face while I tried to recall everything that just happened. She made a little face. "I'm sorry, I'm just trying to take in the details. I really don't ever want to forget this," I said. "Oh don't worry, the recording started as soon as we came into the room," she said, kissing me again. "Oh good ... wait, what?" "The video recorded while it was streaming for the Hippolyta Project," she said, still snuggled up to my chest, now drawing rings in my chest hair with her finger. "Anyone who wasn't watching it live will be able to catch it later, including you." Oh, shit.