Fuck the Rules

Like a cheap whiskey, this is a blend of several encounters: a recent adventure and a planned future one.

Plotless fuckery.

A bar and room service - these were my main concerns on booking this hotel. That, plus a simple taxi drive from the airport. Life's complicated enough. And here's me, Ms-longtime-married, walking into the empty bar of a decent hotel in a generic city in the North West of America to meet an also hitched cyber-friend. Almost empty bar, that is.

I am wearing, as instructed, the short blond bob, heels (kind of), and the white Summer dress with black roses. I am also wearing, strictly against the rules, knickers. Nice knickers, but knickers nonetheless.

Fuck the rules.

Despite the attitude, I am shaking as I spot you, and it's only when you catch my eye, and smile across that I, taking the deepest of breaths, sashay on over, and slide onto the stool next to yours at the bar. I can't stop beaming, but equally can't look you in the eye and keep the gaze. No hug. You know I'll just duck. But you turn right around, put one hand on my left shoulder, turning me slightly to face you, and place your other hand under my chin. Rub it with your thumb.

Getting up in front of me, simultaneously ordering me a large dark rum and coke, you stand between my knees, slightly open, still stroking my chin, like soothing a scared kitten. I look up at you. Smile.

That smile just increases as your hand, once on my shoulder, slips under the flounced skirt of that dress.

Fuck the rules, you say, flick the dampened crotch of that flimsy laciness to one side, and rub what's yours, pausing awhile on that clit.

Meow.

My head lolls onto your shoulder, forehead literally rubbing at the fabric of your shirt, and I bite my upper lip slightly, swallow an mmmm, as you push, not slip or slide, two fingers into your honeypot. Claimed.

And in and out. Just a little, you. Hell, I'm not a total slut, though with my eyes closed, and my lips just about chewed away as I struggle to maintain anything resembling my customary decorum, it's true, I could be mistaken for one.

For a moment we stay like this, then over. Done. This time it's a slide, as your fingers come out, and you kiss my lips, light, brief. And sit down.

We drink. Me, quicker than you, but then I'm quicker than most, especially with the first one. We drink and talk. You mostly. Me more as the liquid flows. About the journey, the two days I spent alone before your arrival - we feel casual, like friends.

Two drinks, both large, and your relaxed banter, and I'm calm. I am. I'm amazed at myself, and at how well you've done. Bullshit-free, you cut straight to the core of each topic, ask me how I feel, pause, listen; this is an aphrodisiac for me.

And then a gap. Not wanting to drink too much, not needing to, I bite my upper lip again, knowing what's coming next, wanting it to. And not.

You stand, take my hand, and lead us through the door of the bar, hotel lobby, entrance, past the doorman, porters, into the Summer twilight, round the first corner we reach, just round, visible from the road, to anyone walking by, and stand me still by the outer wall of the building. Me trembling shy-kitten-grrrl, you close-close up to my body, close. Taller than me, bigger than me. Perfect.

Make me purr.

You kiss me. Soft. Gentle. One arm on my arse, one on my shoulder, you kiss me for the first time, and me? Fuck, I want to kiss you again and again and again, melt on into you. This is what we miss... The shiny newness, the electric sparks, the melting, that fizzes away over time... This is why we're here. One of the reasons.

I have known you, and not, for months -- seven of them to be precise -- and this, though not the first time we have spoken face-to-face, is our first meeting, two days, two nights.

You kiss me and my body pushes on into yours, grinds. Mind gone, I follow that body and let it lead, while I relax on into it.

Of course, we've talked about this, about how it will be, and I know what you want now, at this point when we first meet, but, erm, fuck the rules.

Okay, you want public, so I'll give you that, and I had been of a mind to go along with you, but, mate, this is the wrong kind of a car park unless I want to end up in a jail cell -- slightly too public.

So.

Let me make you an offer you might struggle to refuse.

Look, I know standing up is difficult: a logistical nightmare. But what if I were to take off those damn knickers, and, what if I were to chuck them out into the July-night ether, just fling, and what if I were to slither out of your grasp, and simply scooch myself around? Face to the wall. Hands on the wall, arms straight out in front of me, and, what, erm, if I now flicked the hem of that dress up, right up, and presented that ample white English arse for a spanking? What then, I ponder. And so I do that very thing.

You take the hint.

Here's me, round the corner of my mid-range hotel, biting back a grinning, 'Fuck you,' as you whack that naughty behind for its stubborn refusal to follow the regulations as laid out in numerous emails, Skype-chat, messages. But no-one's complaining as your thick cock dives into its glistening waiting greedy purry cunt. Splash.

You lean your arm around and give her, your honey-dripping hole, a stroke, which turns into a rub, as I push that behind back up on into you. Maximum cock-in-cunt-age. You kiss the shoulder of me.

I just want to be yours. Simple. I want you to focus on the task in hand; I want to drip with and smell like you. Single-minded, that's me.

Moving your hand from its erstwhile home, it joins the other as they grip my hips. I relax a little, and let you do the work, while I focus on the friction we're brewing inside of me. Not thinking, me, just feeling, willing you to cum in me.

Squeezing and gripping with all the might of that needy pussy, while you pound in and out and I hear the slap of our combined bodies, compete with the noise of the cars driving on the main road.

Cum-in-me. And tighter than ever when I feel what I know is you reaching those final throes. Fuck, I do, I love you, like I knew I would.

You slump slightly over me, we both laugh... more a giggle... and, still inside me, you reach that hand, same hand as before, round to polish that shiny pearl of mine, until she gleams. Bright. And in that shininess, she clamps fast around that cock, now gently resting, pushing him out. Awwwww.

You make an attempt, gentlemanly, I think, to find that cast-off underwear, but, nah, fuckit. Gone.

A kiss. And back to the bar for a post-coital drink, methinks, before heading upstairs for more.