You receive a text. You're five minutes from your work being done. You're to meet me downtown. You know the hotel but you've never been there. It's over by the city square near the park and opposite City Hall. You bite your pen and wonder if you really should. Those other times were crazy and so much fun... but they were soooo WRONG.
You mustn't ...then again, your husband isn't home for another three days. What harm could it be? You screw up the courage.
"I'll be there" you text me back.
You arrive at the lobby and find the elevator. You're all demure and perhaps a bit childish with the sunglasses on as it's nearly six on an overcast day. Still you can't look at anyone behind the front desk. You can't look at the maid pushing linens down the hallway. You can't look at the couple walking across the lobby with their dog ready for a walk in the downtown portion of the city. You just would DIE if you were recognized.
"I'm awful at this," you think as you tap your foot at the elevator, "I don't do sneaky well. Good girl. That's me. Bored boring good girl. SO HORNY THOUGH!"
The elevator arrives. Sure fucking took long enough. The doors open and you slip inside thinking that everyone in the building ... in that part of town... even the dog must have remembered you, (despite the sunglasses and the silly scarf on your head and the long coat). You're inside though and the doors have closed.
"It's the third floor, right?" you ask yourself.
It is.
Good. You've at least pressed the right button! You can't stop shaking; giddy doesn't come close to describing what's happening inside you.
The doors open at floor number three and you see the arrows for rooms 310 to 350.
You step down the hallway to room 327. The door is partially open. You're going to knock but then, THIS is the day you take charge and be your very own damned affirmative bitch who gets what she wants. That woman doesn't knock. She opens doors, enters like a boss, and makes the things she wants HAPPEN!
So you suck in your breath, push open that door and peer into darkness. It's okay, you're a big girl. You're a director at the company and people call you boss... now step inside like a boss girl!
Three steps into the shadows you call out in a squeaky girl voice...
"H-hello?"
You caught a heel on the rug as you came in. You just sounded like the squeak from a washed plate. You're slouching like you are at the scary fun house at the carnival waiting for a clown to jump out at you with a chainsaw. Ugh, good work girl... straighten up. Sound-off like a she-wolf and...
"Hello?" you say again, sounding even more like a question this time.
"Oh hi!" I say directly behind you as I step from the bathroom. My hand pushes the door closed. You're inside. WE'RE inside, more importantly.
You spin around. Okay... not good. You were all dorky and awkward and...
My hand is on your ass, pulling you in towards me. The hand comes up, right along your back. It's a hand that knows what it's about.
Now that same hand is alongside your face. It's simply there, moving back and forth along your jawline; fingertips running into your hair back and forth until they bend and pull you by the back of your head in for a kiss... a kiss taken, not so much given - but not unwelcome either.
It's then you notice my robe was open. Aside from that, perhaps body wash is the only thing I'm wearing.
The other hand finds your hips and you are pulled in for the full embrace, the full snog, the full smooch. You open your mouth. There's no more pretending now ...IS THERE!
I seize up your purse from out of your hand; tossing it on the console behind you, before pull you back into me. I ask about your day and rub the back of your neck while we stand there, clothed woman, nude man, (and all of it most improper). We're adults making terrible decisions; bad decisions, dangerous decisions.
You babble about your day. You talk a lot; it's all rapid-fire machine gun bursts of words stringing together your points of interest and concern. You babble and laugh at your own observations and you realize you are not alone... I'm listening. I'm looking at you dead in the eyes and listening and hearing you and letting you go on and...
"My husband never does this," you think out loud, the epiphany bursting in your head and out your lips; rippling through your neurons and exploding like a thousand stars of clarity.
"Keep going," I tell you, my eyes not straying from yours.
"Keep going," I tell you, my eyes never straying from yours.
You talk and tell and share and reveal like it's a massive fiber-enriched dump at a restroom break... that whole day is unloaded within a space of a few minutes. You feel almost like you should wipe and flush but it's all gone... the day is gone. Now the night is here -and so am I.
There's a pause. I still haven't taken my eyes nor my hands from you. You want to say something else as much to break the whole awkward whatever this non-talking is.. but a finger is at your lips. Mine.
You look down. My robe is on the floor. The good girl in you would have scooped it up long ago and thrown it on something but you have a shamelessly naked man wrapped about you. Fine... leave the robe on the floor... he paid for the room and the housekeeping anyhow.
"You're overdressed for this occasion," I observe," far too many clothes on you."
To rectify the problem, I strip you. It's like I'm not so much a lover as a chef preparing a fowl; removing feathers and pulling away all that is unnecessary... throwing it all onto the floor. I lead you into the room... pulling your clothes from you as we go; plucking them, and tossing them over my shoulder. Oh I know - you sooo want to scoop up those things but NO... I know what I'm about and the maids are good here in this hotel. They'll earn their keep.
You see the bed. It's turned down. Now completely unclad (save your heels), you take a step that away to the sheets and pillows, only to feel the squeeze of my hand upon yours, (directing you to the window and a chaise lounge beside). The drapes are closed. He wants me here? Okay GOOD... nobody is going to see us through those blinds.
I pull you to the curtains before I take a look outside like I'm in a bad spy film. I'm taking my dear sweet time; studying the outdoors with intent. What's he looking at?
While you wait for me to get done whatever it is I'm observing, you have a look about you. The room is nice. I've obviously spared no expense. You can't help but notice, however, I've pulled the chaise up close to the window, (and for a reason you can't explain).
It doesn't matter. As soon as you put the question to yourself I open the blinds to let you peek outside, at which point the sight of the crowd and our wardrobe choices force you to pull the curtain across you at neck level so as to protect modesty. THAT will be a thing of the past soon enough!
"Stay at the window," I whisper.
Doing as told, you find me behind you; kissing your shoulders, kissing your neck, kissing along your spine and lolling out my tongue along the way to savor your skin's saltiness. Reflexively, goose flesh rises upon your limbs; like so many weeds in an unplowed field. Your nostrils flare, gradually steaming the cold glass.
My fingers are at your nipples and at your sex. Shamelessly you part your feet. You quietly hump against my hand while I nosh and nibble and feed upon your naked hide.
The dance ... it's truly a dance, it's euphoric for you. You're being fingered and groped by a man not your husband... a man you should have broken it off with last week, a man you said you'd never see again; that you might go back to your boring dependable life of making everyone happy. He's kissing your shoulders and back and neck in just the way you crave; his stubble scratching your skin in a way fit to make your clit throb... throb beneath his fingertips, throb in a way you fear you may dew and juice.
Oh that fear, that nagging fear, that thrilling wonderful fear! You fear you may lose control... and with all those people down below in the square. Your mind is a whirling echo chamber of guilt, condemnation and ambivalence with silent screams of 'You shameless slut. You TERRIBLE filthy selfish...ohhhh! YOU! the person who is letting everyone down and ruining it all for everything and everyone and - OH SHUT UP! SHUT UP SHUT UP! YOU LOVE IT!'
Silencing your mind is one thing, silencing your racing heart another completely. To make things worse you're not alone in that head of yours. It's as if I heard the very words you screamed in your head; as if I could feel you wrestling with that last shred of guilt and denial whirling about in your mind like a cloud of scolds and judgments passed. I know what you're fighting but I'm pleased you seem to be winning for the first time.
"They don't matter anymore. Fuck them all," I whisper, suddenly bending you at your waist. You feel my cock's blunt poke against your buttock as its then drawn across rounded fleshy softness over to your cleft, trailing slimy pre-ejaculate like a snail the whole way. I hiss in your ear like steam,
"Fuck them all like ...THIS!"
I hock and clear my throat loudly then next thing you know; your anus is splashed with warm spittle. I'm a good shot, even considering the dimly lit room. You feel a rude poke as my cock's mushroom bell-end, all warm meaty and jutting, plies your anus. It's now notched.
I push. You feel a slickened bluntness stab and stretch your sphincter until its clear to all present I can be held back no longer! Your nasty shame pucker gives way to penetrative forces of equal parts determination and lubrication. Your breath fogs the glass in a great,
"HAAAARRRR!"
I'm in. With strong hands I draw at the remaining distance of you against me. You whimper with a mix of excitement and fear but excitement gains the upper hand and exhaling through your nostrils, you push back against me the last few centimeters. That's that, you are impaled.
How long do we saw-away? How long do we sodomize? How long do we sin?
You have no clue but then again, time is now irrelevant to you. It feels awful. It feels filthy. What's more, it feels like everything your mother told you never to put in your bottom ... and it feels like you are alive for the first time in your LIFE! At forty-three, you have just given birth to yourself - and I'm the OBGYN performing the delivery. You'll no doubt send cards at Christmas, yes?
I saw and saw and saw some more. Your hand is a buzzing masturbatory blur at your sex. Your nipples are like pebbles and you pull and twist at them in an attempt to somehow alleviate the terrible wonderful ache... oh but in vain!
You can only stand there, legs apart, juicing like a smoothie at the gym and simply TAKE IT. You take it with your face pressed up against the glass to one side; the fog all around your noggin like a steamy halo. You take it with your tongue and snoot against the window; leaving a saliva and runny-nosed snail trail against the cold surface; and all mixed with tears of pure joy!
You take it like a submissive whipped pet; servile and vulnerable, your breast full of shame at the pleasure this gives you and your head still swimming in the wrongness of it all. Your mind is a maelstrom of contradictions of should and shouldn't but you take it and take it some more; that is until the brat kicks in and realizes two can play this game. I'd wondered how long the brat would hide and yet here she is, as you reach back with a naughty paw and find my body with your palm. Your hand finds a grip, a hand-hold, a handle on my flank; that you now can hump yourself back up into me - and hump you do!
You piston hips to and fro and taking the hint, I freeze myself statue-like; allowing the jut of my cock to receive the lovely strokes from your warm rectum. It's now your asshole taking the active roll, doing all the delightful dirty work; fucking me with your bottom in the act of reverse sodomy. You run your tongue out to lick the window as if it were rock candy before crying out,
"OH SWEET JESUS I LOVE IT!"
The pushes, the shoves, the impassioned murmurs and the wonderfully unclean tightness have now taken over. Our minds as well as our flesh are now swept up in the moment and the quake begins. Where is the tremor coming from? Is it in me? Is it in you? Neither of us can be sure but it builds, and builds, and builds; until we both choke and sob...
"BAAAHHHRRR!" ..."OOOOHHH!"
The glass takes the brunt of our cries and the lovely walls of the hotel muffle the rest. Obviously the room is made of stronger high quality stuff... the stuff of a building with good bones. Good things cost more, but they keep private things private and no guest to either side of our room hears our plaintive joyful duet. What's more, no one but us feels the rush of my cock spouting its jets of hot life up your most wonderfully shameful of passages. No one but the carpet knows how much dew and brine runs like spring rains down your thighs. Of course that steamy glass knows (all snot and spittle slimed in a trail left by your pretty face), but it's not telling a soul.
I pull dripping-wet cock from your bottom. Well-fucked anus smell fills the air. Almost immediately a cascade of my jism pours from your marvelously wrecked rectum like so much melted sugar. The maids will have fun with this carpet after checkout ... we can be sure of that much. We're not done though. Oh no, not in the least.
You're pushed up against the glass, then the curtains are closed behind you (but not entirely). Your breasts and body are outside the drapes; pressed upon the glass, whilst your head, neck, and shoulders are very much inside the room out of view. I'm flashing you. You are quite literally on display up against that cold window pane for anyone down in the square to look up and behold.
"What are you about?" you ask.
"SHHHHUSH!" I direct softly in your ear,
"Masturbate. Do as I say. Touch yourself."
You view me from the corner of your eye as if I'm quite mad. A second look over your shoulder however, tells you I'm sober and lucid as a judge. That chills you. I'm not crazy, I simply am unencumbered by care. It chills you... then it thrills you. The thrum in your heart and the pulse in your clit tells you all you need know.
Your hands set to the task before you and you begin to move... moving against the glass, moving naughty paws up and down your legs and thighs, finding your sex, finding your breasts; doing shameful things best done in the privacy of a shower or dark bedroom beneath covers, but now all done in a third floor window.
Your clit rushes and swells at your own touch. Your fingers pinch and twist at your nipples as you do "the thing," that shameful thing... that thing you learned to do long ago when people who might judge you for it were out of the house (or out of town), and now you do it on command. Such a good girl you are doing as told.
You remember all the times you've engaged in your secret self-pleasure. There was a country drive where you stopped by a dirt road to squat and piss beside a cemetery; a rest stop that turned into a marvelously selfish girlie wank in among the headstones with the sun upon your sex. There was a secluded lake where you slipped away from the other swimmers and gave yourself shameless "self-care" in neck deep water after witnessing your fitness coach sunning himself on the river bank, clad only in his speedo. There were those times in college when you'd lock your door; that you and your roommate could have a competition side-by-side atop the twin bed to see who could wank their clit to climax first with tits out while holding hands or with hands wandering over goose-fleshy female forms. So many times where you did this shameful thing, all of them private ...until now. This is new ground...and it's three floors up for the benefit of all outside.
Your mind now wanders as to who might be out there... looking up, seeing this spectacle of a beautiful woman; wearing only a pane of fogged third-floor glass, smooshing breasts and belly against the night, seeing that woman being intimate with herself in such a shameless and shocking way. Brazen even.
Now I'm kissing those shoulders again, now your neck, now pulling your chin around, meeting your lips with mine. Your hands are a whirring frenzy upon yourself. As wrong goes, this is all next-level wrong and you simply don't care.
Three fingers are now up inside you. Your ears are met with the sound of your own squishing. You're all murmuring heaves and sighs up top; hot stirred noodles in garlic-butter down below.
Thumb finds the bean. Fingers dance upside down on the ceiling of your sex, raping your own juice button as only you know how.
You whine through that pretty nose. Your nostrils flare. It builds. There's the shudder. There's the splash. There's the sob of...
"OH GAHHHHD....BAHHHHHH!"
Hot spritz trickles down the glass. Rivulets of brine move through down the cold surface; gravity doing its work. To eyes outside its crystal clear what you've done. For that matter, anyone who's ever used a car windshield washer knows what you've done. You know it...you know that they know and you are certain of it; you wicked thing you!
I pull you back into the room and down onto the chaise. The shades are thrown open. You sit there with me, your head on my shoulder and we cuddle and admire your work... MY work.
It's a lovely fog on glass negative of a woman ravaged. It's stark, the image captured in vapor and cold hard smoothness; your face pressed to one side, your nose smooshed along with your lips against the pane. Your breasts and belly are a cookie-cutter imprint in cold steamy flatness, (along with a shameful shocking spray of your piddle-gasm trickling in slow salty lines to the edge of the window). I'm tempted to sign it.
"You do good work," you tell me.
"Well," I confide in between kisses and absent-minded gropes, "if you enjoy what you do, it's never work."
"Still," I observe, "it needs a little something, EXTRA."
***
So here we are. You certainly didn't plan for this, but you're grateful for it. You're not certain what I am... saint or sinner, corruptor or savior, but I'm here and you're glad you're not back at home, (all alone and predictable and miserable in your big house).
There's another kiss. A deep one, a tender one. It's one you feel way down in your belly. Your toes curl involuntarily at it.
Your gooseflesh rises again. My cock does the same. Your forearm feels the warm brush of its nasty dewy tip. Your eyes connect with mine.
"Suck me," I whisper. It's not me begging. It's a command.
Without so much a second thought, your head drops to my loins. Warm mouth is immediately upon my bell-end. My balls rise and lower involuntarily at the sensation. You cup them with cold fingers; forcing me to suck in my breath from the delicious mint-cool shock.
You can't believe you're doing it; sucking a cock pulled straight from your ass. Ass to mouth should fill you with revulsion but to the contrary; you are now basking in the wrongness of it all. Your heart skips a beat with joy at the thought of you doing something beyond base, beyond vulgar, beyond filthy. Your free hand finds your sex. You strum your clit.
My hands move above you and behind you, pulling the drapes open; then in one fluid motion your ass is shoved back rudely against the window pane's coldness. I yank the blinds closed again, trapping your bare bottom on the other side against cold foggy glass; your upper body still in the safe seclusion of the room, as you suck my fouled prick and squeeze my balls playfully.
You feel that crisp cold against your hindquarters and know very well you're exposed to the world. Worse still, you feel that frigid flat pane pressed against the bubble-gum pinkness of your anal pucker. The irony is you simply don't care, your shame now melting away like snow sizzling on a hot stove.
Your sucking makes me shudder like I've stubbed my toe and I shake my head at the intensity of the sensation. This is a first, and you've never heard me do that. It's always a snarl or a growl as my ardor rises, but your mouth has plucked just the right note this time. Mouth and naughty palm have worked in unison to open me up and express my vulnerability with a choked sob.
It thrills you, stroking your wicked little ego in the same manner as your tongue stroking the tainted underside of my cock! Your fingers are abuzz at your sex with selfish rapidity. My plaintive bellyache noises urge you on, like heady fuel poured on the bonfire of your libido.
Oh, you'll make me cry out, you decide. You'll make me cum so fucking hard I'll leave my body! This you resolve. This you vow.
Again and again, you force jowls down upon that cock, impaling throat and tonsils as you squeeze my hairy balls as if they were a sack of hot boiled eggs. You'll show me. You'll make me cry out. My rising hips against your face tell you as much, and my shudders and gasps only serve to confirm.
Oh, but I'm not about to be outdone. I reach into those closed drapes and find that lovely bottom of yours. Seizing the halves of your rump loaf, I stretch them apart. Your rectum and twat now mash against the glass like the belly of a snail. Alarm and panic light up your brain as you recognize that unmistakable sensation of my jizz, leaking from you!
Your heart and mind are awash in shock and shame, but they are quickly replaced with shamelessness and beastly ardor that ride off with your soul. It's then you realize, those qualities are not mutually exclusive; in fact, they can be but links in the same chain, (all wonderfully interconnected like marvelous tastes and fragrances in the same sip of wine). The shame is now the fuel driving your passion; making you do foul things, making your bean ache and throb just so!
"Push it out," I command.
You know what to do. You've been holding it, trying not to degrade and humiliate yourself but now what IS the point? You simply release that which is sliming its way from your innards anyhow.
BRAAAAAAPPPLFFFF!
Like a great incontinent seagull, you fart a great blast of penis pudding from your poor pounded popo; splattering the glass in a shame blossom of jism. The joyful depravity and shameful wickedness inspire your fiendish side, suppressed for oh so long. Like some greedy bird at a worm, you pull and tug and gorge upon my cock. You feel my balls tense... then you feel the all too familiar rush of my prick as I sob,
"OHHHHHH! AHHHHHHH!"
Your mouth is filled with hot ball butter. As if in salute you fart yet another generous salt-splatter against the glass. Your fingers have long since buried themselves up in your twat-hole and you hump clit against the heel of your hand. Once more your own crescendo builds and you...
"UGHGG GLUCK GLUCK!" you sob, gagged with a mouthful of cock as your self-inflicted splattergasm rips through you, drenching the windowpane!
You gulp down that load. It's warm and salty, and mine. It's precisely what you wanted. Who really needs room service, honestly?
It's then that you hear it. At first, you're not certain you heard what you've heard. Is it.... APPLAUSE?
Now hoots and cat calls join in. You spin around and come to your feet. I join you at the window. We kiss as more applause and more cheering rises up from below.
A car passes by. The driver wants to know what the crowd's all about until he looks up across the street and spies us there, stark naked in the window. He drives past, BEEPS in salute while the mob of onlookers scream and howl encouragement up to us.
We wave to the crowd, then as if on the stage of some performance that critics say shall run forever, we graciously bow to them. We kiss as the applause and laughter are like a happy positive energy storm, rising from the street below. I close the curtains and the throng of people offer up a sad and disappointed, 'AWWWWWW!'
I open the blinds once more. The crowd now claps above their heads and one woman even sees fit to pull forth a cigarette lighter, saluting us with a respectful display of flame, concert style. We bow once more, we kiss, and I close the blinds. Your toes are suddenly off the floor and you're taken by surprise yet again as I sweep you to the bed.
***
About forty minutes later, we lay gasping and drenched in sweat in a jumble of bedclothes, you with your leg over my middle, snuggled in close. Your head is on my chest. Another trickle of jism streams its way down your cunt and onto the sheets.
"It's a good thing," you observe, "this mess will get a good cleaning from the maids tomorrow."
"Oh I'm not concerned," I reply, "I only hope they've done a decent job with OUR room."
"What do you mean, OUR ROOM?" you ask, still breathing heavily, "but THIS is our room! You sent me to room three twenty-seven. This is three twenty-seven."
"Well," I explain, "you see, I arrived at the hotel this afternoon and could see the maids rushing about the place to get it spotless. As luck would have it, I arrived in this hall and heard one mention that her associate need not hurry with number three twenty-seven as the hotel had vacancies and no one was expected in the room. Both women then departed, having changed towels but they neglected to close the door, so it gave me inspiration.
I dropped my things off down at room three one zero - the room I'd reserved. I then came back down here to room three twenty-seven, finding the door still ajar. Careless careless! That's when I phoned you."
"You mean; we've been fucking in the wrong room?"
"Well, I suppose if you want to nitpick, YESSSS," I chuckle, "delicious, isn't it?"
"But WHY..."
"Because," I interrupt enjoying how unsettled you now are, "if we're going to make a mess of the windows with a crowd outside like we JUST DID, wouldn't it be good to have a lovely room to get away to should someone decide to notify the police of the goings-on in three twenty-seven?"
At that, we're out of the bed and into our robes. Scooping up our things, we scamper out the door and down the hall to room three one zero. My keycard clicks open the door and we burst inside to a fresh room, (and the safety of plausible deniability).
You see me in a new light, not only am I your corruptor and lothario, I'm also truly dangerous. You're a bit cross with me, but it's made you hot and steamy and ready for another round with me. You tear my robe off and yours hits the floor but a split-second later as I find myself pushed upon the bed. Down in room three twenty-seven, the imprints of our fucking, our depravity, and our irresponsible dedication to pleasure are etched upon a fogged window facing the cold night air; the only witnesses being ourselves and perhaps a hundred or so people who've now probably headed home.
THE END
