I’ve been in hotel rooms before, so what’s wrong with this one? Maybe it’s the room number. I mean, who would knowingly give an erotica author the key to this room? It’s ludicrous, and I had told him so when I flung my stuff on the floor under the desk and opened my emails.
“I’m in room sixty-nine. Don’t laugh.”
Immediately, there had been a bing. “Well, I won’t have difficulty finding you. I’ll recognise you from my own vivid imagination in that description of your arse in the story I sent you, as I press my face up against it and lap at your pussy lips.” That had been at 3.40 a.m. He’d followed it with “Sweet dreams!” and I’d replied back with the same, but for some reason, added a kiss. Why did I do that? A minute went by, and I’d sent one last one—”Is it weird that we’re so close by, right now?” Immediately the reply had binged. “It’s sexy. And my cock is hard.”
The silky fabric of my little black nightie clings to the perspiration that beads between my breasts and along the arc of my writhing back as I awake, agitated, and unsure why. I still lay here, damp between my legs, my nightie sticking to my thighs, and with the pristine mock-innocent whiteness of the hotel room bed sheet clutched in my fingers. Snippets of my dream appear and hover, before fading away—skin pressed against skin; butterfly kisses tracing their way from my lips, down my neck, and onto my breasts; my knees and palms screwing into the bed; his fingers tentatively investigating between my thighs, exploring my folds, pressing against them until they open up under his expert encouragement, checking whether I’m aroused enough to take his fingers. Their coolness against the heat of my flesh as they circle my wet cunt and slide in. How the knot in my tummy unfurls and spreads its way down my spine, and between my legs, to join his hand. Then the hot sting of the smack. And another. Then one more before the throb begins to radiate beyond his hand, just a little, and I lift my arse further towards him. His deep moan as I reach around and wind my fingers in his hair. The harsh slap of hand against my folds, to make me gasp, make me wet.
And make me wake. The handle of the open window has come off its hook and flops, flaccid and inept, against the frame. The repetition of wood against wood. Smack. Smack. Smack. It’s raining; that incessant, drenching patter of a shower in April that appear from nowhere and, in no time at all, finds a way to slide through your hair and linger on your skin, clinging, caressing your body and pooling in warm moisture between your legs before drenching your thighs beneath your clothes. I peel myself from the bed to save the frame from its wet spanking. Steering my bewildered gaze through the maze of droplets that cover the glass, I wonder in which direction I should be looking. East, West, all the same to me, here on ground level with no discernible markers to point me towards him. The kettle boils and, still twitching from my dream, I watch the water pool into the cup as I pour, the infusing teabag spreading a brown inkblot test across the surface, before immersing itself in the water completely. Does he drink tea? I honestly have no idea. Does it matter? No, of course not, but it irritates me, not knowing.
The irritation bothers me all morning while I’m meant to be writing. Supposed to be working up one of my stories, since I have nothing else to do but write. It’s what I’m doing here. But it sits there on the long bench-like desk top, between the kettle and the ash tray, and smothered by yesterday’s panties and bra. The white lace had been beautiful, I’d thought, when I had bought them. French knickers, in fact, and a front fastening bra. They’re immensely difficult to get hold of but I thought I’d invest in a bit of research; thought he might appreciate it—how I could describe opening up the catch at the front, slowly peeling back the lace to reveal the fleshy part of my breasts, stopping just before exposing my nipples, brushing the lace over them and watching them harden under the gentleness of its caress. I’d asked him what he thought of French knickers, and he seemed keen, and I thought that, maybe, I could remove them under his instruction. All in the name of research, and the work. Our work. Collaboration of minds, of words, of our art. Does he want to fuck me? Sorry.
But the panties and bra are discarded, useless and used, on top of my work. The Internet connection had failed as I was undoing the buttons of my top and shimmying my skirt down my legs. It works now, at least. But he may not be out of bed yet, and I’ve got to sort out this story. There on the screen, the little envelope symbol radiates tingles from my inner thighs. They pay homage to my pussy lips on their way to bed my clit. The throb intensifies and I can feel the heat if I hold my hand there. I wonder, just for a minute, what would happen if I don’t obey, don’t work? If I open my messages instead. Do I ever do what I want? Or do I just submit myself to what seems right?
My little black nightie rides up, so my backside is exposed to the ageing plastic object that passes for a chair. The plastic hasn’t warmed with the stifling heat that puffs into the room through the grill near the bathroom. It’s not absorbed the heat like me; not hot like me. It’s cold against my cunt and I press myself down into it so I can concentrate on my work. My mouth is dry; I make more tea, and wonder who might have sat on this chair before. Did they leave their cum on it, too? A cum-fy chair? Except it’s not. It’s hard, and that makes me think of him. Is he hard right now? What’s he doing right now?
I need to drink my tea and fish out the story from beneath my panties and bra. That’s what I do. But it’s not what I need at all. My fingers tell me what I want. I want to talk about fucking. With him. Fucking. Him. The words gel together, run a self-perpetuating rhythm round my head. I throw down the pages of typing. Click on the little envelope.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about what we said – about meeting to discuss the project. It might be very useful. We can brainstorm, face-to-face, about how we deal with the fucking. Really get to grips with what we’re doing. You know my room number. We could meet here, if you want, or a cafe.”
I click send; add another. “I may not reply straight away. I’m going for a shower. Let me know what you think.”
I don’t move. I drink my tea. My nightie has wriggled up to rest above my legs and I look down at my thigh; balance the cup on it, right at the top. I hold it there as long as possible, just to see if it can stand the pain. I might write a BDSM story about pleasure-pain sensations on the skin. Someone suggested I wrote about dripping hot wax once; I’ve never done it. Yet. The cup leaves a deep pink ring on my inner thigh. The shape, the colour, they mesmerize me, and I trace the circumference with my index finger. It looks like a hole. The heel of my palm brushes my sex as I go round and round, and I melt into the chair; close my eyes.
Email: “Yes, it might be good for us. Let’s think about it. I need to go out for a while, or I won’t have anything to eat. Enjoy yourself in the shower. ;-)”
I return: “I hate showering alone… ;-)” My finger hovers over the button for a minute, longer, or maybe just a split second. Send.
I lay out my clothes over the chair, check my emails once more. Nothing. I head to the door, just to be sure it’s locked. I can’t hear the clanking of the maid’s trolley yet, so I can get in and out of the shower without being given a coronary by some strange, pert behind, bent over, making my bed for me as I step out naked to retrieve my clothes. It was a male cleaner the last time I was in a hotel, which was a surprise… The door’s locked already. The twirly catch is cold, and it absorbs the heat from my fingers. I should let it go quickly, or my clit will get a sensational head start on the rest of me in a minute. But I wonder—. I grip hold of it until my knuckles glow white. Then I do it. Just in case. I leave it to turn on the shower.
And the door, unlocked.
The water is reliably hot. I stand under the shower head and let the water spray through my hair, down over my shoulders, and I can’t resist running my hand over the curve of my tits as the water rolls so it’s taken to the very edge, then waterfalls over my nipples and onto my stomach and down, gathering in force between my legs. Cupping my tits, I watch the tiny bubbles in the water tickle over my flesh and gather in my hands; I bathe each one in its own steaming pool before letting the water go. My body radiates with warm tingles and, as the door begins to steam over, I can only just make out the outline of the room beyond. The soapy shower gel I lather over my skin begins to bubble and froth against me. I rub it down my body, over my arse. I love the curve of my arse; stroke it; squeeze it for a while as I allow the water to trail hot wet kisses down my neck. An instinctive sigh leaves me coupled with the water, and my eyes close; wet, hot, revelling in the sensation. Alive to every motion, every sound.
There’s a feint click, a distance away. While the shower head runs its watery tentacles between my legs, I strain my ears. Very feint; a shuffling coming from the bedroom. My breathing falters. It was stupid, leaving the door unlocked. What do I do now?
I let the water continue to pour down over my curves. What else can I do? The bathroom door is open now—sudden gust of cold air over the top of the shower door. I have to swallow, to try and keep my heart inside my body. I just know; know he saw; read the message. A pain grips and pulls its way from my navel down to my pussy, flooding my clit, and gushing between my legs, and it’s all I can do to stop my knees buckling when I sense the door open. I feel his presence, taller than me, and there’s a distinctive smell, sweet, yet also of musk, that I’ve experienced in department stores. It fills my nose, but it’s not overpowering; it’s nice.
The door clicks shut again and my eyes are wide open now. I feel his chest brush my shoulders, hard and warm, and the hair there rubbing coarsely against my skin until the water makes it soften and stick instead. I ache down my thighs; the throbbing shoots down them, preventing me from being able to lift my feet, as his arms brush my sides and his hands seek out my tits, squeezing and moulding them with long, cool fingers. Neatly cut fingernails, two of the fingers on his right hand slightly nicotine stained, and for some reason that turns me on. I gasp at the air, the water filling my mouth and running down my jaw, and I lean back against his chest, feeling the strength of his naked cock pressing into the base of my back, not noticing immediately how hard my nipples have become as his fingers tease them, tweak them. Concentrating on his cock. My breath forces itself out, heaves beneath the hand that lingers over the contours of my midriff; each breath heavier than the last as his fingers slip over my skin until they begin to stroke my inner thigh, where the cup had pressed on me just a little while before. The soreness that I had caused yields to his touch and the pink circle responds, tingling, excited.
The water is usurped by the hot skin on my neck; his lips roaming with gentle kisses, as his fingers cast a spell on me, beginning their witchcraft on my pussy lips. The softest of touches; everything blurs behind my eyelids; the softest circular motion on my clit. His fingers are still a little bit cool, but warming under the water, and I lean further into him. I can’t help it. He’s caressing my body where the water ends, claiming its power over my body for himself. My wetness oozes from me. Can he tell the difference now? His fingers work their way, exploring my pussy; opening me with his fingertips to feel the heat inside. The folds that hide my entrance swell, and my cunt pulsates in time to the tiny moans that fall from my mouth and into the water when his fingers touch the very edge of it. Any moment now he will enter me. I know that. And my ache floods my entire body as I press my back hard into his chest, and I can feel I’m on the verge of coming at the thought—the thought that I will meet him. The real him. The one that matters to us.
The tip of his cock is at my entrance, and I want to press myself onto him. I want to feel myself close around him, feel his motion inside me, but I let him ease in his cock when he’s ready. It slides beautifully, moves slowly, and he knows instinctively how to draw moans from deep within me. I can tell he wants it to take a while, and we do our best. The water falls around us as we fuck, slowly, and the heat between us turns into steam and disappears over the top of the shower door. I open up for him, my most secret self exposed to the thrust of his cock and the closeness of his body. He holds me tight, wraps me in his arms as he holds himself deep within me and we both come. Tiny white lights prick behind my eyes; I want him to catch me because I’m sure I’ll fall. I’m shaking. My sex ignites the rest of my body, the ripples of pleasure pain extend right through to my finger nails. His cum fills me, and he holds himself there—can he read my mind?
His cock stays hard for a while, and I want him to stay where he is, but I sigh to the inevitable as, eventually, while his arms remain wrapped around me, I detect that plop as he falls out. I’m oozing with his cum; slowly it begins to slip out of me and mix with the water down my legs. And I don’t really notice, just smell that sweet muskiness of his lingering aftershave as his stubble rubs against the side of my face. His nose is in my hair; strands of it part, and my head is hot with his breath as he buries his lips in it. And, as I lean my head into his caress, something grips me. It washes over me, overwhelmes me, and I have to try not to let it show. I don’t know if he recognises panic. He’s holding me in his arms, but it will be over soon. And more than anything I want him to stay. I want to be fucked through the night; I want to be kissed; held; I want—to be with him tonight.
I don’t say anything. Neither of us says anything, as he leads me out of the shower. The only thing I notice is the strange tentativeness of his smile, and I respond with my own as I see his face for the first time. And I notice his eyes. I’m well aware that the brilliance of their blue has cast its gaze all over my body, but now his eyes don’t leave my face as he picks up one of those large, cream hotel towels. No-one has ever dried me before, not in adulthood, at least. But he wants to. I let him stroke me with the soft towelling, and it’s so fluffy it tickles because he’s so gentle, and he’s still kissing me, trailing butterfly touches over my collar bone, and up my neck. On my lips. And he’s wrapping the towel around me, cocooning me in his arms, and still kissing me. Still. Even when he takes my hand and leads me to the bed, he kisses my hand. And I think that—maybe—this could work. This partnership. Our work. He’s going to stay…
That cup of tea hurts my leg now. I take it off, and the skin looks sore. Stupid thing to do. I’ve had one and a half hours’ sleep and it makes me cranky. I haven’t slept because of the work. I woke up thinking about it, and about what he said about us fucking—”I reckon we should and we will” and I know he qualified that with a suggestion that he meant the fictional authors, maybe. But it stuck in my head overnight. Wee hours emails tend to do that. He mentioned Sinatra last night. So I’m doing what I always do. I react to music. And I know it’s what I did with someone once before; I spent my days immersed in everything he loved, and there was so much that we both loved, and if I was unfamiliar I would find out, and get it, and know he loved it as I listened. But this is different, isn’t it? A completely different arrangement. Not a mind-fuck, or any other fuck. Just two people working together.
So, yes, he mentioned Sinatra, and the ‘wee small hours’. And so I have my connection for the morning. At 11.02, I find myself looking at the clock, wondering if he’s out of bed yet. Or whether, like me, he’s working before having something to eat and a shower. It doesn’t matter, really. But we keep returning to the shower in our conversations. What is it he likes about it? About coming up behind me, and about coming behind me, too? I haven’t fucked in a shower for a long, long time. There used to be one, made of stone, and cement, and tiles, and I was made love to in that and I loved it. The water was always fast and hot, and my back hurt with the cold from the tiles. Or my hands, and my cheek, and my tits, if I was fucked from behind. So I’m thinking about showers, and getting no writing done, and I said I’d get him a scene today. A shower scene. I wonder if it will make his cock swell in his trousers, or under his dressing gown, or whatever he’s wearing? I want to think of it, hard and turned on by my first efforts. Raw material. Something to work with. It worries me that refining it, editing it down, or expanding it to become something to conform with the notion of ‘the book’ might spoil what I have to say. But it’s important to me that he likes it. I can’t pin down why; maybe I’m avoiding doing it. I just know it’s imperative.
Maybe I’m scared the work will stop before it really starts. Or is it that I’m worried that he might vanish off the grid, leaving me confused and with no idea what my next move should be? When you’ve been bitten by something like that before, it lingers within, gnaws its way into your core and begins to digest you—your self-worth, your capabilities, your confidence in your intelligence—until there’s no escape. It’s your fault, you tell yourself. Something wrong with you. He seeks you out; gets what he wants; treats you badly. And you let him. Because—I’m not saying it. Fucking obvious why, isn’t it?
Is everyone the same? Do they all just want you for what they can get? That’s fine, most of the time, of course. I’m just like anyone else, feeding off my friends; we become reciprocal vampiric creatures, mutually taking what we need to support the structure of our very essence. But what happens when it becomes one-sided, and you’re sucked dry until your own very self is unidentifiable in the mirror? I know what happens. I know.
So, anyway, it’s important to me that he likes the scene I’m playing with. A kind of validation. And that he’s turned on. Because this is only going to work if I can arouse him. We’re supposed to be capable of producing work like this, after all. I should be capable of making him want to fuck me. Does he think about it when we’re talking? It turns me on to think that he does. Who would he want to fuck, though—me, or the one that writes emails? Are we similar, me and my writerly self? Maybe one day someone can tell me. Maybe him. Maybe one day we’ll lay in bed and he’ll roll over and see beyond the deep brown of my irises and discover me for himself. Will he fuck me? I don’t know. Do I want him to? Ah, now that’s a question! Another question is—what does he want with me? But it’ll keep; right now I’ve got to concentrate on this blank page. The beginning, where all things are possible. I need to stop drifting off and imagining him working at his table, smoking, and drinking coffee. I need to take my fingers out of my cunt and do some bloody work. I think I can write this.
With love, as always,
Note: This is another one of the stories which was buried on a static page on my website. In reorganising the site, the page has gone – but I still wanted to share the story. This was originally a trial piece for a collaboration, and I love it just as much now as when I first wrote it. Apologies to those who have read it before, and bigger apologies to those whose lovely comments I have lost in moving the story.