hotel (1)

Hotel room.

It’s evening, most of a bottle of wine drunk between us, all our clothes stripped off except for your socks – overlooked in our hungry fumbling – and the lace bralette that’s pushed up over my tits. I’m sitting on your lap, toes just brushing the carpet, barely enough to balance, and I’ve got one hand down between my legs.

‘Keep touching yourself,’ you say, not so much commanding as impulsive, like you can’t help it, like you really want to see it, and I do: let my fingertips slip in circles playing round my clit. I’m swollen and wet with my own slick and lube, too, from the toys we started with earlier; wet enough now that I’m slipping a little on your thighs. You tighten your forearm that’s braced across my hips and to hitch me a little closer against your chest. Your other hand is up playing with one of my nipples, rolling it between your fingers just hard enough that my body gives a little quiver with every tug.

“I’m gonna – oh fuck – I want you,” I say, not very coherent, grinding over your lap. I can feel your breath on the back of my neck and the weight of your cock jerking against the inside of my thigh and –

“please,’ I say, frantic, ‘fuck me, let me, please,’ and you tighten your forearm, graze your teeth over my shoulder. I try to wriggle down, to grind against you harder, take you inside, and you pinch my nipple in the web of two of your fingers, a duller, deeper pinch than fingertips would be.

‘After,’ you say, ‘wanna see you,’ and you move your hand down from my breast and pull one of my legs wider apart so you can see my fingers slipping and rubbing, see the tendons jumping in my inner thigh, see my pussy pink and glistening. Your cock isn’t twitching now, anymore, is pressed hard and straining between my legs, just beside my cunt. I can see it there, see the bright sheen of precum over its head, see –

that does it: I arch back against you, legs pulling up involuntary, scream choked short because fuck, hotel, thin walls. I sit awhile on your lap while the aftershocks settle, tracing my fingers over your cock. It judders up against my open palm.

‘Now?’ I say, breathless, and you answer with a noise low in your throat and take me to bed.

hotel (1)

fire drill

‘Where are you?’ you say. It’s 9.15 am and you’re stuck outside in the office parking lot in the middle of a fire drill, shuffling your feet and watching the muster point wardens disinterestedly checking people off their lists.

‘Kitchen,’ he says, on the other end of the line – you called him just to say hi, and also to pass the time, and also you’re maybe in love with him. Just an unofficial little bit in love. You can hear the clatter of dishes in the background, the sloshing of liquid. ‘Coffee.’

There’s a little silence.

‘Whaddaya wearing?’ you say, singsong, almost a joke but not quite. He clears his throat, makes a kind of grunting chuckle.

‘Housecoat,’ he says, ‘and those, uh, those shorts you got me that time.’

That takes a minute to hit, but then

‘oh!’ you say, and stop. You’d tossed them in his basket for a laugh when he’d been through town a few months back and you’d done a 2 am Walmart run: a black micro-fibre thong dotted with grey stars. You take a second to picture it stretched up snug around his balls, tight over the line of his –

He’s talking.

‘…not so bad,’ you catch, ‘and as you know I’ve got one fine fuckin’ ass.’

‘Shit,’ you say, and your co-workers look at you, so it must have been pretty loud. ‘I never thought you’d actually – gosh – what are – I mean, you’re just hanging all thongalicious in the kitchen?’

‘Well,’ he says, ‘since you ask, I’m sittin’ on the edge of a table and I’m gonna jerk one off pretty quick here.’

‘Shit!’ you say, and take four steps away from the cluster of officemates, turn around. ‘Fuck, c’mon, you can’t do this to me – I’m stuck in a fire drill.’

‘Too bad you ain’t got my hose,’ he says, but before you can mock him there’s a groan over the line, so low and gut-real it makes you flush up your throat. ‘Oh honey wish you were here.’

You lick your lips.

‘What are you doing?’ you say, a little frantic, ‘they’re gonna call us in soon, quick quick.’ You can see the wardens starting to nod at each other across the parking lot. ‘What are you – are you – how hard are you? Are the shorts pulled right down?’

‘Yup.’ You can hear his breathing pick up a little and the thump of something – a chair leg? – in the background. ‘Got ‘em pulled right down under the balls, like you like ‘em.’ You flush bright red, put your hand up to your face. ‘And I’m – yeah, I’m hard as they come, honey – fuck.’

‘What?’ You’re walking back up to the building now. Everyone else is inside and the last of the monitors is standing at the door, obviously waiting for you. ‘Shit – I can’t really say any more, going back into the – I’ll listen though, keep, keep telling me.’

‘OK,’ he says, and you’d swear you can hear the thwick thwick of his fist jerking quick over his dick. ‘That’s hot, baby, you on the line but you can’t touch yourself or even make a noise – uggghh, getting close – christ – bet you’re getting wet cause you want it, don’t you, you want this dick so good and hard between your legs, baby, fuck, fuuuuck, just say yeah, say it, say it, Christ I’m gonna-’

Yeah,’ you say, halfway up the stairs, perfectly still and gripping the rail with one hand like it’s salvation, and you hear him grunt twice close together, long and torn up from the bottom of his chest, and you’re gripping your phone so hard it’s leaving dents in the pads between your knuckles.

He laughs, warm like melted honey, and it goes right through you.

‘Ok there?’ he says, and you take a light shuddery breath, make your feet start up the stairs again. You’re astonished they’re working.

‘I’ll call you later,’ you say, like a threat, ‘once I’m home,’ and he says

‘You’d better.’

fire drill

You’re lying back on his bed, panties pushed down and tshirt pushed up, sweaty and breathing hard. It’s the heaviest day of your period, charnelhouse-heavy, so when he pulled you onto the bed and rolled between your legs, kissing you thoroughly, you’d scrabbled for your bag on the floor and reached to pull out your little vibrator. He’d murmured appreciatively against your skin and you’d slipped it into your panties, tracing it around and over your clit, while he pushed your tshirt up over your tits and sucked soft and wet on your nipples, his big hands under your ass. You’d come, two times almost together and then again, and now you’re warm and drowsy and arching up softly into his chest.

‘Sam,’ you say, and drag your fingers messily over his face. He turns his head to the side and catches two of them in his mouth. ‘I want you to come too. Can you – I wanna watch you get yourself off.’ He gets up on his elbows a little and pulls a face, something between a smile and a smirk.

‘Really? I don’t need – I mean, hey, I liked this. It wasn’t. I like just getting you off.’

‘I know.’ You wriggle a little against him. ‘But really, I – I want you to. I think about it a lot. When I’m. You know.’

His eyebrows go up a little, and this time it’s a straight-out grin. He sits up, kneeling over one of your legs, and leans a little back, one arm braced behind him against the mattress. With the other hand he pushes his shorts down over his thighs, past his half-hard dick and the soft weight of his balls. He looks right at you and drags his tongue over his lower lip.

‘Wait,’ you say, and sit up, curl over and hold onto one of his knees so you can reach his dick. You take it in one hand and wet the length of it with your mouth, tonguing and licking, getting it as wet as you can. Maximum slobber. Then you lean back.

‘There,’ you say, and your cheeks are flushed, watching. Waiting.

He starts off slow: light, easy drags while his dick is still hardening. He shifts on the arm holding his weight, settles his ass more firmly onto his heels. The muscles in his shoulder roll and flex and he tips his head a little forward, enough that his hair falls almost across his cheekbones. He’s focused, hand jerking steadily now in long stripping motions, hips flexing forwards into his fist, a subtle counterpoint of moving muscle. You forget to breathe for a minute, only realise it when you stutter back into shaky breath, watching the flush creeping up his chest and the hard curve of his dick, slick now and squelching a bit in his fist, and you think of it inside you.

‘Fuck,’ you say, sort of under your breath, and he glances up, lips pink and hanging a little open.

‘Baby,’ he says, and you sit up, fast, against his side and kiss him hard on the mouth. His tongue is flickering wet against the back of his teeth.

‘Wanna see you come,’ you say against his face, hands tangled in his sweat-damp hair, fingertips pressed hard against the weight of his skull, ‘yeah, yeah,’ and he makes a sort of whimpering strung-out noise and comes, chest heaving, face turned into your neck.