Busted

I am sure he is about to come, and I am waiting for the flood inside me, it's already all almost too much, and then he reaches around and rubs his hand roughly across my pussy, right above where we join. He finds the clit, stays there, flicks it so fast, it feels like vibration, and my face is suddenly throbbing with blood flow, black circles filling my vision, my whole body is shuddering, convulsing, out of control, nothing exists except his cock, still pumping inside me, seeming to get even bigger before it pulses and fills me with that wet heat, my ears are shrieking like a freight train, every inch of my skin is quivering. The orgasm blooms from my cunt into my thighs, my stomach, my chest, my throat, my arms, everything is shaking, it's like being present for the birth of a supernova, and the top of my head seems to come off in a shower of purple stars.

When I can think straight again, I can hear myself sobbing into the pillow, and I am instantly hotly embarrassed, and bite my lip hard to stop myself, and then I realize that he is making almost the same sound, only more quietly, muffled in my hair. For a minute or two, we just lie there, breathing, my vertigo gradually subsiding. When I get my breath back, I tell him, "Only, for the love of God, please don't ask me if I am ok right now."

He chuckles, squeezes me tighter. "What? Why? What if I really want to know?"

"Has anyone ever told you she was NOT ok after something like that? Like what - nay, sir: that massive shuddering orgasm has deeply offended me? I shall have to report you to the proper authorities?"

He is laughing in earnest now. "Well, excuse me, I don't know - people have all sorts of pre-existing conditions. Maybe you have a heart murmur. Or an allergy to jizz. All kinds of allergies going around these days. I don't even have an epi-pen to poke you with."

"I'm sure you'd think of something. To poke me with."

"Oh, har har. I feel like I've just fucked Henny Youngman." He pulls back, rolling me onto my back to look into my face with an expression of faux urgency. "Henny? Henny, is that you?" He pauses, stares into my face with such an expression - I can't even name it, but it makes my heart beat in my throat. "You're beautiful, baby," he says softly.

This is where I always snap off and dissociate; this is when the little claws come out to scrabble against the inside of my brain. He is lying, you're nothing like that, he is making fun of you, this is the part he'll tell his friends about, how much saying this sort of thing MEANS to pathetic women like you, don't let him win, don't let him -

Instinctively, I roll my eyes, make a dismissive little sound, look away from him, but he catches my face in his hands, turns it back around. "No. Hey. Listen to me. I think you're beautiful. I really like to look at you. That's what I'm saying. I don't have any reason to say it right now, except that I want to. OK?" He is looking straight into my eyes, keeping his face over mine, not letting me look away.

I squeeze my eyes shut, force my lips into a smile, and hope against hope that he doesn't start asking me to say things again. Somewhat to my surprise, he lets me get away with it. Without getting up, he somehow gets the duvet off the pillows and untucks the sheets so we can both crawl in.

Hotel sheets are usually freezing when you first get inside, but his body is like a furnace, so warm, and wraps around me so completely. I wouldn't call him a particularly big guy to look at but, curved into one another like this, his body seems to swallow mine whole. It is shocking to me how well we fit. How comfortable it is to lie next to him like that; I thought I needed to know someone for months and years to feel this comfortable. His face is buried in my hair, his satisfied breaths seem to set the pace of my own heartbeat, his warm fuzzy chest is luxurious against my back. He wraps his arms around me, holding me tight, but I wish he'd hold me even tighter - and then, he does.

"Shhh, baby," he murmurs. "You're ok."

And even though I know - I KNOW I am fucking ok, I've BEEN fucking ok, I don't need anyone to help me BE ok, and I don't need anyone to tell me that I AM ok - even though I know it, somehow, that is exactly what I need to hear to fall asleep.

* * *

The next morning is surprisingly easy. My phone wakes us up early - I always wake up early before a meeting like this, give myself enough time to order breakfast, repack my overnight bag, get ready for the meeting and the dash to the airport after. He nudges me with his cock, but there is no way I can possibly relax enough for this type of thing on a day that includes a presentation and a flight. I start going down on him - this usually works well to get it over with - but he laughs, and waves me off, and I waste no time in accepting the out.

Charlie sits on the bed, watching me pack, making idle, amusing conversation. Neither of us alludes to the fact that, in about three hours, we are going to have to pretend that we've never met, apart from on that Zoom. He makes references to cartoons from the 90s and music from the 70s. He is just - he is just FUN. He is just so enjoyable to talk to. I am always tense and rushed on these hotel mornings - even if I have plenty of time - and he somehow teases me out of my mood, makes me laugh, makes me forget what is going to happen today. Makes me almost enjoy the morning - that blue Chicago sunshine on the patterned carpet and the heavy mahogany furniture and the rumpled white sheets. And Charlie's face, still faintly sleepy and oddly vulnerable-looking in this light. I catch myself wanting to stop what I am doing, wanting to crawl into bed and kiss him and take care of him and protect him - I don't even pretend to deny it anymore, what's the point.

The way he smiles at me. Like we've been doing this for years. Like we belong in a room together, ordering breakfast and making sure the chargers are packed. Talking about headlines that he reads off his phone. Making fun of how many tiny perfume bottles I seem to have brought.

"Dibs on first shower," I tell him, and head to the bathroom. "Mind letting in the room service guy?"

"I live to serve, ma'am," he deadpans, and turns to his phone, starting to read something.

In the bathroom, I quickly brush my teeth and wash my face. My skin is glowing. There are pink circles on my cheeks. As I undress for my shower, I notice that there appears to be some residual color on my other cheeks as well, and I blush as I remember last night, my pussy starting to tingle with the memory. I turn the water on to let it run warm and idly eye the showerhead, wondering if it's the removable kind.

I've got my eyes closed and a cloud of shampoo in my hair, something that smells like synthetic apples and money, when the door clicks open. "It's just me, baby." I can see Charlie's silhouette through the frosted glass. "I decided that I couldn't wait another minute to get clean." He slides open the door, and joins me, barely looking at me, like we are locker room buddies after a good practice. "Don't mind me, I'll only be a minute."

He starts soaping his hair, humming something nondescript, and every time our eyes meet, he looks at me so innocent, I want to either start cackling or drop the soap. I decide to play the game, putting conditioner into my hair, washing it out, pretending he isn't even there. He really does only take about a minute or two - how do men do this?? - and then he nods politely at me and makes to get out.

"Wait a minute," I tell him. "You missed a spot."

"Huh? Where?" His eyes are so guileless that I have to hold back laughter.

"Right here."

"Where?"

"Right. Here." I've got his cock in my hand; not quite hard yet, but definitely getting there. I get an idea, and squeeze a little dollop of hair conditioner onto it. "Let me help you out with that." I wrap my hand around his shaft, start moving it up and down very gently. I feel it stir and swell in my hand - it's not unlike holding a small hairless animal, and I mean that in the very best way. I love the way it feels. Love the sound of his sigh, his eyes momentarily drifting closed as a little smile plays over his sweet mouth.

"This is, like, a really good hotel. Great bathroom amenities."

"We aim to please. Mmm." I seem to have forgotten how gorgeous that cock is, because it takes me by surprise all over again - the bloom, the heft, the appealing color of it, like the inside of a conch shell. "You know. You have a really, really gorgeous cock."

"Thank you, ma'am. I'm told my great-grandfather had one just like it." I guffaw, but I don't stop stroking him, and soon enough his cocky little grin fades, the skin over his jaw goes taut, he closes his eyes and when he opens them, the look he gives me makes my skin feel too small for my body. He catches my wrist, holds it tight.

"Bend over. Spread your legs. Do it now." He spins me around, away from the spray, and I lean over, bracing my arms on the shower wall. He grabs my hips and enters me abruptly - he must have rinsed off the conditioner, because his cock feels very damp and - refreshing? Is that a thing? - but that doesn't last very long as he begins to slide back and forth in my wetness.

The idea is definitely hot, and I do love the feel of him inside me, the feel of his hands on my thighs, the sounds of our wet bodies slapping together, but the fact is, this tub wasn't exactly made with such activities in mind. My feet keep slipping, my hands keep losing traction on the wet wall, and the edge isn't high enough to place a foot on. A couple slip-outs later, he swears, and shuts off the shower abruptly, pulling me out of it. "Bugger this for a lark," he says, and puts my hands on the edge of the vanity, bending me over at the waist.

"What comic books have YOU been reading?" I ask, as he positions himself behind me.

"The ones your exes should have read," he flips back, and thrusts himself inside me so quickly, I squeak, and make no more smartass remarks, concentrating on the feel of his cock inside me, the grip of his hands, our hazy reflection in the fogged mirror, the rocking, the bouncing of my body in the foreground, his chest rising behind my head.

He reaches around me to fondle my breasts, then my clit, then seems to remember something. "Wait. I almost forgot. You did miss something packing." From behind a stack of towels on the towel rack in the corner, he produces my little blue vibrator. "Found this in the dresser drawer."

"Oh my God - "

"Looks like someone came prepared to play."

"No - you don't - it wasn't for - I didn't - "

"Oh, I know, I know. It gets lonely, I bet. All these trips. All these hotels." He pulls out of me, leaves me feeling empty and incomplete. "Show me how you use it, baby."

It isn't the first time I've been asked for something like this, and it isn't even the first time I comply. But I think it's the first time I actually feel pleased to be watched, as I prop myself on the edge of the vanity, open my legs, and slide the vibrator between them.

It's a small version of the famous Rabbit; you could put it inside yourself, but it's so small and the vibrations are so strong, that it works best as a clit stimulator. Which is exactly how I use it now. I run it up and down my cleft, pausing at my entrance, so recently vacated by Charlie's cock that it's still slightly ajar. I let the vibration spread warmth through me, watch my nipples getting harder, watch Charlie's eyes narrow, his nostrils flare. I seat myself more comfortably on the vanity, use my other hand to spread myself open a bit, widen the distance between my knees, and lean back, running the tiny blue head directly over my clit, first across one side, then the other, then, briefly, sparingly, the very center, where it's most sensitive.

Usually, I use the vibrator for its expediency, and, to be honest, I rarely use it on any but the highest setting. I use it for tension relief, like stretching till you feel your joints pop. I tend to come in under a minute, rarely even get particularly wet, and then go on with my day.

This time, I play with the settings a bit, turning it higher, then lower, running it over myself slowly, and then using it to flick my clit around. Sliding the tip right into my cunt, and letting it buzz there, sending little rumbles all through my thighs.

"Jesus Christ," I hear Charlie hiss. My eyes are closed, but the next sound I hear is coming from right between my legs - he must be looking right at my cunt as he says, "Make yourself come, now."

Obediently, I turn up the vibration and point it directly at my clit. Almost immediately, I can feel the waves start approaching. This is when I often reflexively clench my thighs closed, but he is keeping them open with his hands, he's got his face on my inner thighs, and just as my pussy starts to convulse and I moan with pleasure, I feel a sharp, exquisite pain, and I know I'll have a purple hickey on the inside of my thigh by evening.

I'm relaxing in the afterglow, laughing a little at the show I've just put on, when I hear Charlie's voice, urgent and rough, "Fuck this, I've got to have you now, now, come here, bend over," and he manhandles me off the vanity and into my previous position. My legs are unsteady and my hands aren't terribly coordinated yet, but at this point, I barely even need to brace myself - he is holding me up with one arm wrapped around my breasts, the other around my waist, and his cock finds its way inside me, where it begins to thrust against the reverse side of my still-sensitive clit. I groan - it almost hurts - and find a more comfortable position, bracing my arms on the vanity again.

"Don't move," he rasps into my ear, and I hear the familiar buzzing, as he holds my vibrator, on its lowest setting, against my clit. He is still fucking me, slow and steady,, and my legs are turning to jelly. He turns it up a notch. I almost want him to stop, it's too much - I reach one hand down to push him away, but "Don't fucking MOVE!" he snaps, and turns it up to the highest setting and presses it harder against me.

I come again, again, and it seems like I can't stop coming - he is holding me up somehow, and his cock keeps pounding inside me, even as the orgasms that rock through me clutch it so hard that I wonder if this is how people get stuck together. Every time I think I'm done, another explosion rockets through me, and I'm fully screaming, fully porn-scene screaming by the time he hisses "Fuck, yes" and fills me with his come, finally letting the vibrator fall to the floor.

We are slumped on the bath mat, some measure of time passes, we are breathing like dying animals, the vibrator is still buzzing away on the tiles, when an entirely different sound penetrates my consciousness. Someone is knocking on the room door. Someone is knocking on the door with a cadence that suggests they've been knocking for a while.

Tap tap. Tap tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap tap.

"Shit! The room service!"

The look he gives me is horrified and hilarious, but he is enough of a gentleman to volunteer to be the one to throw on a robe and let in the beleaguered server. I collect myself on the bathroom floor, listening to the civilized clatter of trays and silverware, Charlie's smooth apology and explanation about having been in the shower and not heard the knocking. I smile to myself; he is such a good liar.

He is such a good liar.

Good enough to feign something like love on audio recordings he made alone. Not even acting in a scene with someone. Good enough - almost clairvoyant - to know exactly when a completely imaginary partner would respond most strongly to the sound of a slap. Good enough to know exactly what women want - what women really want, not some nonsense about a controlling billionaire, or a pirate, or a mafia don with emotional troubles and artful facial hair. He knows what women want. He knows exactly how to be that thing.

I wrap a robe around myself, and start combing my hair. He opens the door a crack. "Coast is clear. That one was interesting."

I smile, come out of the bathroom, start picking through the breakfast order. "Do you think they heard us?"

"I'm pretty sure most of downtown heard us, baby, the only good thing is, they don't know who's to blame for all the racket."

I laugh, find a slice of whole wheat toast and a miniature pot of strawberry jam. "Thank goodness for that, huh?"

"Baby?"

I look up at him. He looks puzzled, maybe a little concerned. That boyish look from this morning is starting to slide off his face. He looks like he is either concerned, or like he is... reading me. Analyzing possibilities. Evaluating ROI.

Charlie from Procurement. Anonyfun35.

"Are you ok?" he asks.

I look him right in the eyes, tilt my eyebrows up, smile sweetly. "Of course I am. I'm great. I'm starving, is what I am!"

If he notices that I stare excessively at my breakfast that morning, he doesn't say anything about it.

We take separate Ubers to the office, of course. He assures me that he keeps a full suit in his office, which is smart. He leaves my room, and ten minutes later, I head downstairs to check out. As I take a last look at the room, the remnants of breakfast, the rumpled sheets, the twisted bath mat visible through the open door of the bathroom, I almost find it hard to believe that any of it happened.

I get to the office, meet Bill in the lobby. It is exactly as it always is. I smile my bright smile at Scott and Jared and the executives, and hope no one notices that I am being unusually perfunctory toward Charlie. They don't. We give our presentation. I demonstrate the product. I answer their questions. I do it perfectly. They are smiling, nodding, buying in. I am a woman who says all the right things for a living.

The executives are enthusiastic, and they praise Jared and Charlie for raising this initiative. It looks like the ducks are in a row. This has been a come-to-Jesus moment, and our product would definitely be a value-add. A point person is assigned. A plan to loop somebody in is made. Low-hanging fruit is identified. Lots of handshakes happen. Someone pats Bill on the back, always a strong indicator of success. He gives me the thumbs up sign behind the back of the others.

The plan is for Bill to stick around and meet with a few more people, but I have a plane to catch in a couple hours. I say my goodbyes, my bright earnest smile, my perfect recall of everyone's name, and callbacks to comments they've made that show I was listening. Charlie says almost nothing, only looks at me with the same blandly friendly smile he shows everyone. I take a chances and say a soft goodbye especially to him, and he nods absently, and starts talking to Scott about GDPR compliance. I turn my back and leave, rolling my overnight case behind me.

Outside, the Uber pulls up quickly, and I am on my way in under two minutes. It has begun to rain lightly. The blue Chicago light has turned grey and unfriendly. The driver confirms the terminal for my departure, and is driving away when my phone buzzes, twice. Charlie.

"Ask him to circle back to the entrance."

"Please."

The driver looks at me suspiciously when I make my request, but circles a couple of blocks to get back to the entrance of the building. Charlie is standing on the curb, getting a little wet in the drizzle. I wave at him, and he climbs into the backseat with me. I ask the driver to head on to the airport.

I don't know what I expect. I suppose he might have slid a hand up my skirt, or unzipped his fly and slipped my hand inside. I suppose he could have, at the very least, engaged in some backseat kissing. But he doesn't do any of that.

He makes himself comfortable next to me, threads his hand through mine, and hardly says a word as we roll toward O'Hare. The silverscape of the city is muted by the mist, and the drizzle is gathering into fatter drops on the car windows. I watch them slide sideways, sideways, and finally disappear, only to be replaced by more droplets, which also slide sideways and disappear.