A Ride From The Airport
written by:
Naughty Miranda

"Shit."

I checked my watch once again, then commenced another weary circuit of the arrivals lounge. Norman Manley International is not the largest airport in the world, but still there was a lot of lines to look into, a lot of corners to investigate and a lot of faces to scrutinize. All in the dying hope that one of them might conceal the driver that the travel department had assured me would be waiting to pick me up when I got off the plane.

Instead I'd been here for two hours, and all I'd done was wander so aimlessly around that even the sniffer dogs had given up looking at me.

I wasn't sure what to do. I had my hotel name, but no phone number. I had a few numbers back home in Philly, but their offices were already closed for the day. I had dollars, both US and Jamaican, and I could always catch a cab and hope that the driver was at least halfway honest. A colleague had visited Jamaica a few years ago, and he still shuddered when he remembered the cabbie who drove him for an hour around some of the city's most unappetizing districts, before depositing him at a hotel that turned out to be just three blocks from where the ride began. But of course, my friend didn't realize that until the bandit had already been paid and sped off.

"A word to the wise. Don't get caught," he warned me when I told him where I was going. But what alternative did I have?

I stepped outside the terminal building and the heat hit me like a sledgehammer, thick and moist as though all the rain that ever fell had been absorbed into the very air, then heated to some way above body temperature. Without the humidity, it would have been nice, balmy even. Mid-eighties at the most. But the humidity sent it soaring and the sweat was pouring off me before I even stepped out of the shadow of the revolving doors. By the time I reached the edge of the sidewalk and began scanning the waiting cars to see if any of them carried a taxi sign, I was soaked through.

No cabs. Or at least, none that actually said they were cabs. Just a line of vehicles that stretched out of sight - not one of which, I shuddered grimly, would even have been considered roadworthy on an American highway. One of them was actually belching thick black smoke from under the hood, yet the driver sat unconcerned within, reading the Gleaner and sucking on a Real Rock. A few paces away, a bored looking cop didn't even glance in his direction.

A few voices called out of open windows to me, and it was difficult to tell through the street noise and the accents precisely what they were offering. I shrugged as unconcernedly as I could, and almost instinctively glanced again at my watch. Two hours and twenty minutes. My ride was never going to show.

I'd just made up my mind to approach the most roadworthy-looking of all the cars before me when a motorcycle pulled into the thin gap between two sets of fenders, and a tall youth grinned wide and white-teethed at me. "you de gyaal?"

I looked at him blankly. His clothes were loose and not quite tattered, black pants emblazoned with scorch marks and tears, a military style combat jacket patched with red, green and gold. His hair, thick dreadlocks, hung down from beneath a kitted cap that matched the patches on his jacket, and even from a few feet away, he reeked of old marijuana smoke. In a better mood, I might have called him a good looking mess. But I was not in a better mood.

He repeated the question. "you de gyaal for de hotel?". He rummaged in his jacket and retrieved a ball of paper, carefully smoothed it out and read from it. "Chrissie Bentley. Jamaica Pegasus. You de gyaal, yes?"

"You were meant to be here more than two hours ago," I hissed. Then repeated, slowly, "Two.... Hours...."

He shrugged and again that smile. "No worries, me is here now." Then he gestured to the back seat of the bike. "Traveling light. Dat's good.". And I looked down at the suitcase and the carry-on that I'd been clinging onto since I got here and 140 minutes of pent up frustration finally erupted.

I was not going to ride on the back of his bike.

I was not going to trust my life to a - what was he, nineteen years old? Twenty at a push? - To a kid who had kept me waiting for two fucking hours in a steaming hellhole of an airport.

And I was not.... Which is when he smiled again, grabbed my case and secured it (secured? That's a laugh) to the back of the bike, looped my carry-on around his neck and gestured again for me to jump on. "nice hotel. You'll like it."

My rage was spent. If I was go into die, I was going to die. I didn't have the energy left to argue. I straddled the bike, reached back behind me to find something to hang onto, then almost toppled off again as he revved the engine, mounted the sidewalk and headed straight through the crowds that mingled around before a gap appeared between stationery cars and we were suddenly onto the highway, that thin strip of road that races out over the water into the city, and looks like a decent wind could send it crashing. By which time, both my arms were wrapped tight around his body, and I was leaning into him as far as I could, more terrified than I had ever been in my entire life.

He drove like a maniac, weaving and jerking, in and around the cars that themselves were scarcely keeping to anything that even looked like their own lane. Once... More than once... I was convinced we were done for, as he swerved into the path of one oncoming vehicle or another, or darted so close the guard rails that I was sure we were about to fly over them. And alongside us, the bay receded and Kingston started growing, up and around and all about, a tangle of buildings that seemed undecided whether they were the outskirts of a thriving, modern city, or bit-players in a documentary about third world slums.

We swerved violently onto Windward Street and I saw the Belvedere Hospital flash by. I wanted to ask how far to the hotel, but we were going so fast that I could barely catch my breath, and I doubted he would hear me anyway. Or that I would understand his reply. His accent was strong and though the simple sentences made sense (or seemed to, at any rate), the patois was another matter entirely. So when we suddenly pulled up outside what I could only call a burned out brownstone with half a dozen more Rastas congregated on the stoop, I didn't even utter a word of protest. If I was going to die....

He spoke to one of the Rastas and pointed to the bike; spun a coin into the air for the other one to catch, and then pointed me towards the door. I looked at him in utter confusion and he laughed. He said something, and I caught the word "hotel" somewhere in the midst of it.

I sighed and made to follow, then spun back to retrieve my suitcase. He could make whatever arrangements he wanted for the safety of his bike, but no way was I leaving my stuff on the street. I reached for my other bag too, and shrugging his shoulders, he untangled it from his arm and handed it to me. Then watched as I struggled to lift both pieces of luggage up the stairs, and into the building. Ahead of us, a flight of stairs wound its way into darkness and for a moment I thought I was going to be negotiating my things up there as well. Instead, he steered me through a side door that I hadn't even noticed, then left me standing in the center of the room while he disappeared into another.

A burned out brownstone. Scorch marks traveled the walls around the windows, and there was a patch of floor that was blackened and charred. But the furniture, such as it was, was undamaged and a television in one corner quietly babbled what may have been the news, but could as easily have been a commercial for hair product.

I looked around. A bookshelf stood naked around the half a dozen paperbacks that lay on their sides on one shelf, thrillers that were clearly as popular here as they were back home. A stack of LP records and a handful of CDs lay in a heap on a chair, half concealed by discarded clothing, and a few tattered posters snarled the belligerent faces of musicians I'd never heard of out into the room.

There was an ashtray on every surface, overflowing and filthy, and unwashed glasses and dishes too. The smell that clung to my escort seemed to permeate the very walls... And there was one other thing I noticed as well. My escort himself, out of sight in the other room but caught in the mirror that faced to where I stood, changing his clothes... Shirt off and then another on, pants down and then glancing up, and catching me staring as he stood there half naked, his body ebony against the whitewash behind him, and his cock caught in profile, halfway to his knee.

I froze, he glared. I looked away, his eyes dragged mine back again. How much time passed in that ridiculous tableau. Ten seconds? Ten minutes? Then he turned to face me full-on, one hand reaching down to cradle his cock, and his face cracked again into that impudent smile.

He spoke and his words were a jumble that could have been another language. But I stepped forward anyway as he moved to stand in front of the mirror, his face serious as his hand stayed on his cock, holding it towards me, drawing me closer. It was hardening. From ten feet away, I could see it filling, growing fatter, thicker, longer. How long? How fat? I am not even going to get into that old, old debate about how black guys have cocks that whites can only dream of, but at that moment it looked like he had more meat in one hand than I'd had inside my body my entire life.

I was moving slowly. Too slowly. He stepped out of the room, shedding his t-shirt as he walked towards me, and tossing it back behind me. His body was as muscled as it was lean, hairless from the pubes up, glistening with the thin sheen of sweat that he probably wasn't even aware of, but which I suddenly wanted to lick... To taste.

I edged forward and his arms enfolded me, pulling me close but... it was strange. There was no tenderness in his embrace, no sense that two strangers had connected across a room and were about to embark upon some great exploration. Words like lust and desire, and all the other terms that writers use to convey that moment when you know you're going to fuck somebody... they didn't even come close. It wasn't even animal. It was pure instinct. Instinct that had me scrambling from my own clothes and kicking them across the floor as I bared myself to his deep brown eyes; instinct that allowed him to turn me unprotestingly around, so my face was pressed against a poster on the wall as my ass stuck out into the room.

A thick finger parted my cunt lips and pushed inside, jamming me as my wet folds spread, but there was no tenderness there, either. The finger was simply checking that I was slick enough for the prick, which rammed inside without a word of ceremony. Without any words at all. It struck me that neither of us had spoken since he first saw me looking, and I wondered if we ever would. If we would ever need to.

He was fucking me now, his palms pressing on the wall above my head, his sledgehammer cock and the rhythmic slap of his balls the only bodily contact we had. Or even wanted. I could feel myself stretched around him, a twinge of pain dancing in the back of my mind somewhere as I was spread wider than I had ever been before, then filled even more than that. No matter how wet I was, no matter how I spread my legs wide before him, I felt as tight as a virgin the first time she is fingered, a narrow crack that he was tearing apart with a rod that felt like burnished steel, still scalding from the furnace where it was cast.

My cervix was burning, bruised by the battering. Any other man, any other time, I would have pulled away long ago, complaining of the pain and maybe laughing later that he was just that little bit too large and we should maybe be more careful next time. This time, I relished the pain, wore my endurance as a badge of honor; found myself pushing back at him so his next thrust would hit me even harder.

And when I came, and came again, there was no grunt of satisfaction, or tender words in my ear, just the relentless thunder of his cock in my pussy, as though the wave upon wave of orgasms that now shook me were occurring in another lifetime, and had nothing to do with whatever he was doing. Just once, as yet another wall of sensation beat down on me, and I felt as though my legs would buckle, did he even seem to acknowledge that I was in the room with him, two fingers driving unerringly to my clitoris, to pinch and twist till I cried out again while he kept my body upright with the strength of grip alone.

Music started up in the other room, startling me with the proximity of a world outside of my soaking cunt. Bass slammed through my stomach, deep and heavy, merging with the monster that pounded me, and part of me hoped that we'd closed the door behind us... and part of me prayed that we hadn't. I'd already seen us in the mirror on the wardrobe, six feet something of powerful black pummeling five foot nothing of pasty, puny white. I was meat, my body pushed so hard against the wall that even my breasts were invisible, and yet another orgasm wrecked me as I watched us in the glass, a wild bull goring a broken doll, a blazing arrow driving unerringly into its target, again and again and again.

Voices in the other room, laughter and the sound of beer bottles. My mind lurched into a nightmare world where I was held prisoner here forever, to be fucked like this every day by a gang of uncaring, unfeeling Rastas. And compared to the life I lived in America, or at least the love life that I'd lived with the men I'd known before, I wondered would that be such a bad thing after all? I turned my head, scraping my face against the poster to look at the door and a figure stood in the opening, one of the guys who had been out on the stoop. He was entering the room and I wondered... Is this where it begins?

But then he turned and left again, and the sound of a drawing breath in my ear and the thick pungent smoke of freshly burning marijuana... Oh my god. He is fucking me and smoking a joint at the same time. A joint that his buddy just walked in and handed him.

The thought made me come even harder than before.

Fingers in my face, hot paper on my lips. For a moment my mind could not even make sense of it, but then instinct, another instinct, took over and I parted my mouth around the joint and inhaled, holding the smoke in my mouth for a moment as the most powerful weed I have ever tasted reached out to every fiber of my being and sent me flying through the heavens even as I remained pinned to the wall. Then a rough hand in my hair, tugging it brutally, pulling me back and pushing me down... The pounding had stopped, though my cunt could still feel it, and I was on my knees now, his cock just an inch or two from my face, fatter than ever and soaked in my juices... I could smell them, mingled with the smoke of the joint that I suddenly realized I was now holding, and as my one hand reached for a cock I knew I could never fit into my mouth... but would... my other raised the joint to my lips and took another deep drag.

I exhaled and watched as the smoke coiled around his cock, wreathing it in tendrils that my tongue hungrily lapped at, and above me, he spoke unknown words once again, but there was an edge of approval on their fringes, and I sucked down another lungful of thick, pungent weed, then chased it down with the tip of his cock.

My jaw locked for a moment of madness, protesting, "you'll never fit that thing in here." But of course I could and I pushed through the sudden discomfort until the muscles relaxed with an almost audible sigh. He was too big to suck on, in any conventional sense, but my bobbing head knew that that didn't matter. Slick with saliva and fast pooling pre-cum, his cock and my jaw were locked to one another and, with the pounding of the music the soundtrack to his thrusting, I matched my rhythm to the thump of the bass and his hips began grinding a back beat of their own.

I released him and inhaled again, smoke escaping from my nose and lips and he became the joint I was drowning in. Drowning because, even as I breathed out and the smoke hung and clung to his flesh and his pubes, he noiselessly jammed himself back into my mouth and he came.

I have often thought about that moment since then, how my jaw hung so wide that it might have dislocated, how my mouth filled to full that I ought to have choked, how my throat could have closed and my body shut down, and he would have left me naked and writhing on that hard Kingston floor, coughing up cum as his buddies rifled my belongings, stole my money and my credit cards, then left me for whoever else might stumble by and want to fuck a half dead American.

But that's not what happened. My mouth opened painlessly to accept the gift he gave me, my throat opened wide for his cum to wash down. And I kept on sucking as he softened in my mouth, and it was as though every secret that his body held was suddenly revealed to me, the way his cum tasted - sweeter than any other I have ever encountered, alive with fresh herbs and freshly picked ganja; the way his flesh melted onto my greedy, swirling tongue, and his foreskin rolled back with a flavor of its own, and the gentle moan... yes, gentle!... as my hands reached around to his ass and drew him even closer, till my nose was pressed against his belly and the hair of his tight balls caressed my chin. Then he stepped back and knelt, his hand on my chin, and he looked me in the eye.

"What I started to say was, if you don't mind waiting a moment while I get changed, would you like to go for a meal after I drop you at your hotel?"

Or at least, that's what it sounded like he said.