Customs Hall Fantasies

Standing in the long queue in the Customs Hall, I estimated the crowd in front of me to be above 200. My eyes scanned the customs agents, computed how many people they would each process, on average, before my turn would come. As one lucky arrival approached an agent, I began ticking off "one-thousand one, one-thousand two," until the processing was complete. The mental math was more strenuous than it should have been, but I was tired from the long flight, and it occupied me enough to turn a few painful minutes into tolerable ones. By my estimation, I was looking at an hour of zig-zagging through the line before freedom in Paris would be granted.

As you're reading this, and have travelled to foreign lands, you know the experience well. You're stuck in a line that forces you to walk past the same people, again and again. At first, you subconsciously ask yourself the basic questions. Are they on holiday? Travelling for their job? Why did they choose those clothes today? Are they successful? Why do they look so unfriendly?

But as you zig-zag through the line, those questions turn to more, well, personal thoughts. Such was the case for me that day. As I would pass next to the same seven women ahead of and behind me in line, I found myself thinking, "Is she a good lover? Does she like oral sex? Is she loud and aggressive in bed?"

Of course, the appearance of some women just doesn't strike a chord of sexual chemistry, and even those questions are left with blank images. On that day, one woman did in fact stand out. She was about 15 people ahead of me in line, so that as she was turning to walk towards me, I had a good 15 meters of direct visibility before she'd pass next to, then behind me.

Early on, I know she caught me staring. I definitely wasn't the only man in line doing the same. She was black, but I hadn't yet determined if she was Nigerian, African-American or Caribbean. Her hair was braided, with long extensions added to allow a tight bun to sit atop her head. The hair on most of her scalp was woven into artfully organized rows and lines, forming a dazzling maze. Her full lips were shining of lip gloss, no doubt an attempt to combat the dryness from a long flight.

Her skin was smooth and dark, without a spot of blemish. She wore a bright blue, short sleeve pullover shirt, and a pair of stretch denim pants. Her toes were exposed, as she was wearing some thick sandals that looked to be designed for performance rather than fashion. As she passed to my right, I kept my eyes down, and noticed that her feet were freshly pedicured, and each toe nail was perfectly painted a rich, dark red.

As I took a step forward, she was immediately at my side, and as I pretended to be looking at the customs desks, I focused on her eyes. These were confident, knowing eyes, and I could tell that she knew exactly what was on my mind. She turned her head to make eye contact, and to let me know that it was no longer my secret. No words were spoken, but we both knew. I smiled back, almost apologetically.

As we both pressed forward, I glanced back at her, and my eyes gravitated to her large, firm ass. She was a full-figured woman for sure, but more firm and thick. Guys know exactly what I mean. Her big ass was stretching her pants, and her thick thighs were proportionate to her Rubenesque body.

I could feel my cock beginning to twitch as my staring turned to fantasizing. I imagined her crawling on top of me, that big naked body slowly pressing against me, as a long session of 69 began. My fingers would squeeze those cheeks apart, as my warm, wet tongue devoured everything within reach. Her soaked pussy would be dripping sticky, slimy juice onto my mouth, and I'd swallow and spread it all over her ass hole with my tongue. I surmised that she was a woman who'd enjoy feeling my tongue up her ass too.

Fortunately, I was wearing a long, wool overcoat which blocked the view as I reached down to adjust my cock. The precum had already started, and with an hour to go, I was expecting wetness to bleed through my pants.

As she turned the corner and began moving in my direction, our eyes met. She couldn't really know, but I'm confident my blush gave it away. She looked away with a grin on her face, and I could hear my words in my head . . . "Ohhhh fuck, she knows!"

Her full lips were perfect for kissing, and my fantasy turned to standing in front of her whilst she knelt. I'd hold her wad of braids, pulling up just enough so she felt the tug, felt my power over her, as she looked up at me and slipped her wet lips around my throbbing, hard cock. She'd slowly take me deep, gagging a little as my mushroom head touched the back of her throat. Her sloppy blow job would have saliva dripping down her chin as she slurped and ravaged my manhood.

I used a technique that all men have perfected, and managed to maneuver my erection into a comfortable, upright position in my briefs. This would disguise it well enough under my top coat. I felt a sense of relief, knowing that I could dream my way through this line, staring at this gorgeous black babe.

I felt my confidence grow as we'd pass each other at that particular point in the zig-zag. My eyes would linger a little bit longer on her. I didn't care if she noticed. I was convinced she enjoyed the attention, and my fantasy grew more and more intense.

I imagined her on all fours, that big ass pressed up high as my hand slapped hard, sending a loud crack into the air. She wouldn't let out a timid yelp, but more of a deep, groaning, slutty moan. She was clearly the type that enjoyed being ravaged, at least in my mind she did. She probably had lots of stress in her life, and thrived on being taken away from it all. She loved that type of attention from many, no doubt.

As she walked past me, I noticed how her ass moved with each step. I visualized that ass being pounded, bouncing and jiggling against anything slammed against it. Her butt was big enough to handle a thick leather belt, and I could see the little welts developing from each snapping whip.

As our next pass approached, I decided to engage her. I knew she noticed me, and as she approached to my left, I said, "Would you mind hurrying up please." Followed by a slow developing smile.

She looked up in faked surprise, then relaxed at my smile. She let out a muffled laugh, and said simply, "Yes, I'll surely try."

She was Caribbean, I assumed Jamaican, but I could've been totally off. Her accent was classy and sexy, refined and slutty all at the same time. I imagined her in a bathing suit, next to a palm tree. She seemed the type to enjoy turning on the tourists, and no doubt garnered lots of attention. I noticed a wedding ring, but the look on her face said that it didn't matter, she was up for it.

As she walked on, I fantasized about being on one of those sunset catamaran cruises that run out of the tourist spots. We'd find a way to grab just enough privacy for me to slide my hand into the bottom of her bathing suit. She would easily take three of my fingers, and the loud reggae music would drown out her orgasmic moans. Slowly I would exit her dripping cunt, lick my fingers clean, then walk away, giving her no choice but to follow me.

I'd tease her, pretending to me interested in the drunk, skinny Canadian women on the cruise. Within minutes she'd be begging for another taste of me, pulling me back into our private spot so she could take my cock back into her eager mouth.

At this point, I calculated that I had about 15 minutes to go before I had to return to normalcy and act like an obedient traveler. I'm sure my flushed, red face would trigger some curiosity from the middle-aged Frenchman at the desk. We had three more passes in line before this special day in the customs hall would be brought to an end.

I spent the first two passes teasing her, avoiding any eye contact. Didn't want her to think that I was hers for the taking. As she turned to make the final length of the line, she was five meters ahead of me. Her immediate eye contact confirmed what I assumed. She was likely fantasizing about me as well. I know that sounds conceited, but I was there, and it was obvious. I could see her nipples pressing into her top, and I bet her pussy was dripping warm juice and soaking her lace panties.

As she passed by me, I handed her my business card, with my cell phone handwritten on the back. I whispered, "Call me if you want to compare stories."

She looked up at me with an award-worthy look of surprise, but I just gave her a knowing smirk and said, "Yeah, you know exactly what I mean."