Awaken

"That feels really good," she said.

"April!" Kira warned, and was ignored. April was off her script.

John flicked her hard nipples with his thumbs, sending electric surges through her body. Her hips flexed, and suddenly dropped an inch or so lower, with the head of his dick now inside. Intentional or not, she didn't push herself back up. Seeing an opportunity, he worked her more intently, teasing and pinching, caressing. Her hips bucked again, and he was another inch inside. He experimentally lifted his pelvis, sliding in even more, and she didn't protest. She was so slippery, and so warm, that he was at the vertiginous edge of climax now. On his tiptoes. Arms pinwheeling.

April was no longer joking, teasing or scheming. Breathing hard, she stared into John's eyes. She thrust downward, taking him in completely. He grabbed her ass, which he hadn't been authorized to do, but she was no longer enforcing any rules. Kira was shouting something they both ignored. She seemed to be exuberantly in over her head, worried about nothing. She sat up, his dick completely inside her, her breasts bouncing deliciously, invitingly. Her eyes were shut now, and she grimaced as if in pain. The sensation in his dick was so intense, almost hurtfully so, that he wondered if he'd even be able to tell the moment that he climaxed, or even if he had already. But he was still baseball bat hard. He reached up to her chest, knowing her nipples had grown more and more sensitive as they'd stiffened.

She closed her eyes at his touch and gritted her teeth, as if in pain.

He thrust again, at the same time pinching both nipples.

April climaxed, swearing and spasming.

I've got her, I've got her, he exulted, and he let himself come too. She didn't seem too disappointed about losing. She leaned down, and kissed him, and...

And he woke up.

April was not on top of him. She never had been. She was over on the other chair with Kira. Both were dressed. They were staring at him in captivated horror. On the other hand, he was naked, his hand clenched around his hard dick, come still dribbling onto the shaft, his hand, and his stomach.

What the fuck? his mind screamed. What the fucking fuck just happened?

He glanced at the girls, hoping for answers, or absolution, but they gaped mutely. Details of what must have happened spattered like paint drops on a canvas until a picture began to form. He must have taken his own trunks off. In his sleep. The girls had been naked only in his dream. A wet dream. Wet daydream.

This was bad. It didn't even matter how it happened. He wasn't going to find anything out just laying here holding his dick. He had to leave now.

Where the hell were his trunks? They weren't at his side, or under the lounge seat, or on the adjacent table. No time to look, anyway. He'd have to write them off. He was standing there, bent over now, peeking under the lounge, ass facing the hotel, cock dangling between his legs. Every second spent out here was one second too many. It was time to get the fuck out of Dodge.

"Sorry," he cried, for whatever good that would do, and bounded up, running toward the hotel entrance. His softening cock flapped as he ran. This was the nightmare probably every guy'd had occasionally: bare-assed, cock hanging out, clothes gone, completely naked in public. But now it was really happening.

He sprinted down the corridor in a full panic, still in shock. How had this happened? Why? Outside the gift shop, he collided with a middle-aged couple in swimsuits and towels. Alarmed, they backpedaled away from him. "Sorry!" he yelled, and spun around, lost for a moment. Anywhere. Out. Just go.

A couple of guys his age shouted and laughed, incredulous. An officious-looking woman in slacks and polo shirt backed away. John tried to thread his way through the thickening crowd without making contact.

He rounded a corner and tangled with a slim, pretty brunette girl, college coed probably, in a string bikini and designer handbag. She shrieked as she fell backward, lengthwise, onto an armless sofa; he stumbled forward, landing on top of her. She shrieked again, and he was acutely aware of frightening this must be from her viewpoint, a naked man pinning her body under his. He had instinctively reached out to steady himself, and now his hands were snagged under her bikini top, which was quickly jerked upward, freeing petite but very well-formed breasts. She screamed. He was trying to get free, ideally to lift himself off without touching her again, but her top was tangled, his elbows were beneath his ribs, and his hands were snared. He tried get free, to get some leverage so he could push himself up without crushing her in the process, but the only result, which he couldn't seem to avoid, was to continue groping her exposed breasts.

He finally freed one hand, then the other, her left nipple momentarily caught between his fingers, stretching, and snapping back as it was released. He lost his balance, though, and collapsed, no longer even propping his body above hers. Her top was shoved up around her neck, and her breasts pressed against his bare chest. Her heart beat as fast as a bird's. Her eyes were wide, and her lips parted. He was face to face with her, lips inches apart, close enough to kiss. She was too terrified or appalled at this point to even scream. He felt his dick, which was growing hard again, poke between her clamped thighs, pushing and probing against her bikini bottom.

Conflicted feelings swirled in him. He could tell she was horrified and repulsed by him, yet he was increasingly attracted to her; infatuated, even. She was very cute, and nearly naked herself. As she squirmed beneath him, her breasts rubbed pleasingly against him, and her crotch, protected by the bikini bottom, unwittingly pushed against the head of his erection. Her lips were really kissable, parted just slightly, inches away...

"Get OFF of me!" she cried. She found leverage under John's shoulders and forced him to the side. He bounced off the floor hard and leaped up. She brought her knees up to her chest and crossed her arms over them, protecting herself. If she'd had a cross, she might have waved it in his face. He came to his senses and ran off, finding his way to the elevators.

Thank heavens, no one else waiting. He slapped the Up button and kept pushing it until an elevator arrived. Please be empty, he prayed, as the doors leisurely slid open. No one was inside.

This was the home stretch; he thought he had a decent chance of making it back to his room without being seen again. How many people had seen him so far? Ten? Twenty? Would there be cops here ten minutes from now, and tearful women giving his description?

He jammed the Door Close button, cursing the slow response. The doors finally started to shut, a moment too late: a woman slipped her hand in between. They reopened obligingly and she stepped in.

Winnie was 35 and a mother of twin ten-year-old boys, both of whom were staying back home with her sister. Her husband was away on business. Busy family life and bearing children had taken their toll on her figure, but she had worked hard the last six months, and was proud of what she'd done. There was still that inch of tummy that wouldn't go away, and she wished her thighs were thinner. But nursing two infants had given her breasts an extra cup size that now, even a decade later, had not been taken back.

This vacation was for her alone, to sit by the pool, maybe flirt with a few guys, feel good about herself as they admired her in a swimsuit. She wouldn't cheat, not even a kiss, but looked forward to feeling some vicarious (and imaginary) romantic thrills.

What she didn't expect was to hop into an elevator with a naked man.

"Aaa!" she cried, and wanted to step back out, but the doors were now shut. The elevator started upward.

"Sorry," John said, covering his dick with both hands. "Long story." Well, wasn't this awkward.

He expected her to look away, but she didn't. In another situation, he might have made a pass at her. She had the natural bronze skin of a Pacific islander, and dark brown, nearly black hair. She wore a dark one-piece suit, a mesh poncho coverup, and carried a matching mesh bag. Initially shocked, she now seemed intrigued, if only as rubbernecking a car on fire.

"Is there a nude section in the pool area?" she said.

Are you being sarcastic? John thought. It didn't seem like she was trying to editorialize, though. Certainly he was dressed for exactly such a thing. There was supposed to be a nude beach just down the road anyway, in La Jolla. He shook his head and looked away.

"I didn't mean to be rude," she said. "I just thought... anyway, I was wondering. I'm Winnie."

"John." He looked at her more closely. Underneath the mesh coverup, where he'd assumed was a swimsuit, Winnie wore nothing at all. She had voluptuous hips and breasts, nipples the color of dark chocolate.

"You'd be all set," she teased.

He stared at her dark bush. How had he not noticed right away? "I'm not so sure," he said glumly. "I, uh, tend to get excited easily."

"I know, that's what they say." She waved it off. "Nudity and sex completely divorced from each other. Healthy, non-sexual 'naturism' and all that." She stepped closer to him. "When I'm out there naked in the sun, all kinds of people watching me, I have to go to my room every once in a while, let off some steam, if you know what I mean."

He knew.

"Some places are more cool about it," she said. "I can just lay outside and get myself off. People tend to be polite, go out of their way not to watch. Sometimes they will anyway, my legs are spread and I have a finger or two inside myself. But it isn't as good as it would be having a guy just make love to me right there."

John didn't know what to say until the elevator dinged. "My floor," he said.

"Mine, too." She followed him out. The landing was open-air, with a light breeze, a great view of the shore and other hotels along the beach. No one else was on this floor, but they were still within view of a lot of people. She set down her bag, gripped the hem of her poncho, and lifted it over her head.

Her legs were a little thick, and picky men would have complained about her waist and tummy, but John wasn't shooting for a fashion magazine. He considered her sexy as hell; nothing wrong with her. She took his hands. They were both naked; there was little doubt about what was coming next. His erection poked her belly as they came together and her lips took his. He reached for those buoyant breasts, damn she was hot, he'd have to watch himself.

"When I see a man get hard," she said, "from looking at my naked body... it makes me so wet..."

Right here? he wondered, thinking it might be a good idea to take her to his room, but she wasn't waiting, she wouldn't let him wait, this gorgeous woman who loved being nude and making love outside in the sun. She was stroking him as he pawed her breasts and reached down between her legs, yeah, she was slick wet, just like she said. Her attitude, her hunger for this made her even more appealing. He felt his dick start to pulse and thought either they should back off a bit or he should slip it inside her...

He climaxed. Too early, but way too pleasurable to fend off. She would understand. They'd head back to his room, he could clean up, and they could start again, slower this time, savoring each other's touch. He closed his eyes, shivering as his dick throbbed. She was right; there really was something to outdoor sex, even interrupted outdoor sex; he could do this as many times as she wanted. He opened his eyes, and he was--

Back in the elevator. His right hand still wrapped around his pulsing dick. Come dribbling onto the carpet. Winnie, if that was even her name, in her mesh wrap (and she wasn't naked underneath, no, he had imagined that; she wore a black one-piece suit) was still retreating, squeezing herself into the corner opposite from him as far as she could.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. He backed out into the alcove serving the main elevators and scrambled blindly into the main hallway. Anyone standing in the way would have been bowled over; but the hallway was empty. It was also enclosed, of course: a row of doors on each side. It always had been. The open-air landing existed only in his daydream.

A housekeeper's cart, loaded with linens, cleaning supplies and coffee packets, was parked about ten doors away to his right. From the open room next to it was the muffled whine of a vacuum cleaner. The other doors were shut. All John had to do was reach his own room before the person cleaning the other room stepped outside. An embossed sign showed which room numbers were to the left and to the right. He hadn't looked at it directly; he knew where his room was. But something odd struck him about it, and he glanced at it again.

This wasn't his floor.

His floor was 17; this was the 11th. Probably Winnie's instead of his. If she wasn't still in shock, she had probably decided that following him out of the elevator was not such a hot idea.

John didn't relish trying to catch another elevator to floor 17. That left far too much up to chance. There would be less traffic on the stairs. On this floor, to the right was whoever was cleaning the room, out of sight for now. To the left, the hallway was completely empty, and a green exit sign beckoned at the end. There was his stairway. He sprinted in that direction.

His bare feet thumped on the carpet as he ran, along a half-length of corridor that now seemed as long as a football field. He hoped that none of the occupants in the two dozen rooms he dashed past would wonder why someone was running by and poke their heads out. People could be counted on to be intensely curious about the wrong things.

He pushed the safety door open and spun into the stairwell. Worn carpet gave way to cold concrete. He let the door swing closed and caught his breath. As it clicked shut an ominous thought occurred to him: what if this was one of those stairways that you could exit only at the ground floor? He could climb up to 17, but the one-way door wouldn't open on his side; only on the room side. Some hotels were strict about that: stairs were only for escaping fires. Otherwise you used the elevator.

If that were true, he was screwed. He'd have to walk back downstairs, go through the lobby again, and ride the elevator again, hopefully without being seen. At this point that seemed unachievable.

I might as well find out now, he reasoned, before I go up six flights. He gingerly tried the door handle. It engaged, and he opened the door just an inch, enough to verify it could be done. Relieved, he let it quietly click shut.

There wasn't time to relax. He imagined what was taking place in the lobby: April, Kira, the girl on the couch, even Winnie from the elevator, retelling and corroborating their stories at the front desk, where a staffer quickly phones security. Men in suits fanning out, climbing stairs, combing the hotel floor by floor, looking for a naked man on the run. Even high-tech video-screens in security headquarters, the red outline of his body tracked against a blue diagram of the floor plan. Cornered like a rat.

The sooner he reached his room and got dressed, the better. He could figure out the next step once he got there.

He took the stairs two at a time, turning twice for each floor, counting them as they went by. At floor 17, he paused outside the door, short of breath, his heart pounding. It seemed like he had been running all day. He swept back hair that had plastered to his forehead with sweat. His dick was rock hard, rigid, and throbbing. He shook his head: that organ had a funny idea of what was considered stimulating. It wasn't helping. He took another deep breath. It was probably just the rapid flow of blood, he reasoned, that was making him hard. That's how it worked, didn't it? In any case, it would look much worse if he was caught looking like this. If he could calm down, his dick probably would as well.

He nudged the door open a few inches, making sure no one was directly outside, then just enough to scan the 17th floor corridor. It was deserted as well, except for another cleaning cart, and the open door of a distant room being cleaned, on the opposite side of the elevator alcove from where he was. If that room was farther down the hall than his, he wouldn't have to sneak past it. He was preparing what he hoped was his last sprint down the hallway, when the cleaning lady stepped out of the room. His heart nearly stopped. He stepped back and let the door swing almost all the way shut; he didn't want her to hear it click.

She knocked and called "Housekeeping!" before entering the next room. He listened to this behind the nearly shut door, and gave her time to go inside before he dared peek in the hallway. Right away, she stepped out again, and he froze. She didn't notice him. She took a stack of bedsheets and re-entered the room. How many times is she going to pop in and out? he wondered. He forced himself to count to fifteen, and hoped she would stay busy for the few more seconds it would take him to reach his room. How far was it beyond the elevator area? He tried to remember the floor plan he had glanced at when he arrived, to make note of the fire exits. The third room on the right. Maybe the fourth. He didn't want to spend a lot of time looking.

A chime sounded: one of the elevators. He moved back and peered with one eye down the hallway. There were muffled voices, then two parents and three kids lugging suitcases and a stroller. They turned his way, and he pulled the door shut. Their voices carried enough that he could eventually overhear the conversation: a lunch was planned, somewhere, after they unpacked and got the baby changed. He listened to them enter their room and lock the door.

Moments later, the cleaning lady started her vacuum. Good. She would have to spend at least a couple minutes using it, and she wouldn't hear him in the hallway. He gathered up his courage, opened the door, and checked one last time. The hall was empty. As good a time now as any. He ran toward his room. He was so close now, feeling like a running back who had juked past the last defender, and now all that waited between him and the goal line was empty turf. He sprinted past the elevator area, past the ice machine room, and nearly skidded to a stop at his door. Then, as it dawned on him what he was missing, he stood in front of the locked door, dazed, nearly numb.

He didn't have his key.

The little white mag-strip card was not with him. It was in the pocket of his swim trunks, somewhere on the pool deck, down 17 floors and through the lobby. Didn't think about that, he thought morosely. Guess that leaves me right and proper fucked. Do I sneak back to the pool and try to do this all over again? Or do I head down the stairs and just leave, taking my chances outside?

The chime of the elevator meant he would need to decide now. Before the elevator people walked out, could he make it to the stairway ahead of him, past the cleaning lady? No. She might see him anyway. The stairs he had come up, behind him? No way; too far. He was trapped, and starting to panic, when he remembered the ice machine room. It was toward the elevators, and the people coming out; but he would be running and they would not. He sprinted there and ducked inside before a group of three coeds rounded the corner.

The ice room offered almost no place to hide. It was the size of a walk-in closet, with no door, and most of its space taken up by the ice maker and a vending machine selling two-dollar bottles of soda. He squeezed in between the soda machine and the forward wall, maybe eighteen inches of dusty space. Still, it was the best choice. Any place else was within easy view of anyone walking past and glancing in. Here, he was hidden, as long as no one on the 17th floor got thirsty.