Car Show Slut Ch. 14

It felt so wicked as I worked my finger along my swollen clit, with the maybe hundred or so other passengers completely ignorant of the fact. Ooh, yes, it felt so good! I soon realized I wasn't going to make myself cum, I felt just too exposed to really let myself go, but it was lovely all the same. A couple of times the hostess came past me in the isle. She smiled as she went. She knew, she knew exactly what I was doing... And I didn't even mind. I just smiled back at her. It felt good to do that. Really good. Empowering, somehow. I felt, well, not exactly like a slut, but kind of liberated, liberated to act like a slut, or something like that. I wondered what she thought of me: did she think I was a slut? Did she think it was sexy, me playing with myself in front of her? I was pretty sure she enjoyed it.

Soon enough we landed. I smoothed down my skirt and got up, grabbing my bag from the overhead compartment. I saw the hostess again at the front of the aircraft as we disembarked.

"I hope you had a pleasant flight," she smiled, ignoring the other passengers. "Please come again soon."

Very funny, I thought to myself. "I plan to," I replied with a grin, doing my best to stop from laughing. She looked like she was about to burst out laughing too. "Yes," I said, "it was very pleasant fight, thank you for making it so."

I caught a taxi from O'Hare to the hotel. The conference would be taking place there in one of the convention rooms. It was quite a plush establishment. I checked in and was shown to my room. Yes, nice place indeed: very modern, beautifully appointed. It even had a spa.

I unpacked my computer. It was now early evening, but I still had a few hours' preparation to do for the morning meeting. I got to work. It was boring, tedious stuff, but I had to be fully across the brief. I was finding it hard to concentrate as my mind wandered back to the little episode on the aircraft. Wow, that had really been something. Soon enough I realized I was just getting nothing done, I wasn't concentrating. It was mostly done; I could finish this in the morning, just set the alarm for a little earlier. I was getting hungry, but before dinner I wanted to try out that spa bath. A nice spa bath, and then down to the hotel restaurant for a meal. Then off to bed.

I stripped off and slid into the spa. Mmm, nice. The bubbling water felt so wonderful, and soon I found myself rubbing my body, my hand straying between my legs. Ooh, yes, so luxurious... I lay there, water bubbling all around me, steam coming off my body as I finished off what I had started sitting on the plane...

Feeling wonderfully rejuvenated, I dried off and dressed for dinner. I just had my beige skirt and white blouse, basically what I'd be wearing tomorrow. I like to travel light. I did have my little black dress as well, but it wasn't as though I was going out on the town or anything. Maybe I might wear that tomorrow night, if there's time to go out and see the sights.

The restaurant was very nice. Good food, excellent wine, and great service. I tipped the waiter generously and he thanked me. It is nice to get good service, and I don't mind rewarding it. In any case, the company was paying...

I was going to head back up to my room but after the meal I felt like a little smoke. I know I shouldn't, but I do like the very occasional cigarette, and I was a long way from home. Why not? Down to the bar, a quick drink and a smoke, then off to bed.

I found a seat at the hotel bar and ordered a glass of wine. There was a woman sitting just across from me.

"Hi," she smiled. I greeted her back. She was dressed, well, a little sluttish, I thought: tiny little black dress, big heels. The dress was showing lots of cleavage. But she seemed nice enough.

"Working?" she said.

"Yeah," I replied.

"Me too."

I was about to ask her what was her line of work when a man came and sat down next to her. She turned to him and I watched them as they exchanged pleasantries. It seemed to me that they didn't know each other. I just sat there, with my glass of wine and cigarette, and listening into their conversation. Very soon they seemed to be getting real close. Gee, that was pretty smooth of him, I thought, just sidling up to her like that. But then look at what she's wearing -- she's practically asking for it dressed like that.

Another man walked up to the bar. He sat on the stool next to me, waiting to order his drink.

"Hi, I'm Bill," he said to me. He was dressed in a suit, your typical middle aged businessman, a tall man, rather fat around the middle, slightly weathered around the face.

"Hi," I replied. "Anne." We shook hands.

"Are you working?" he asked. Funny, it was the same thing the woman had said. Strange.

"Um, tomorrow I am," I said. He laughed, as if I'd told some really funny joke. I was beginning to think this guy was some kind of weirdo. Then his cell phone rang.

"Excuse me a moment," he said as he took the call. I couldn't help but listen in as he discussed some kind of business. Meanwhile the couple next to me seemed to be getting rather intimate indeed. His hand was on her leg. He was asking her a question, but I couldn't quite hear what he had said. But I did hear her reply.

"Honey," she said to him, "I'll blow you for $50. Double it and you can fuck me."

Oh my God, she is a hooker! I almost choked on my wine. And then I suddenly realized -- that must have been what she meant when she asked me was I 'working'! She assumed I was a hooker, too! I saw the man pay the tab, and then they left the bar together. But then, as the other man continued with his phone call, I suddenly understood why he had laughed, why he'd found my reply so funny -- he had said exactly the same thing to me: he said 'are you working!' He thinks I'm a hooker too!

I felt so embarrassed. Time to get out of here. I downed my drink and got to my feet. The man was still on the phone. When he realized I was leaving, he held his hand over the phone and said: "Hang on babe, don't go -- I'll be finished this call in a minute."

But I was going. "No, I'm sorry, I have to go now," I said, and I walked briskly out of the bar, not looking back, and headed for the elevator in the lobby.

My mind was spinning as I took the elevator to my floor. What kind of place was this? I thought it was an expensive high-class hotel. Is that the way things run in this town? What, is this a pickup joint for hookers?

I found my way to my room. God, if I'd waited any longer at the bar that guy would have offered me money for sex! I was shocked. I felt agitated, though not really knowing why -- I mean, really, it was almost funny, what had just happened. I thought I maybe should now sit down and finish my work, and yet my mind felt kind of overheated. I was aware of my heart pounding in my chest. There was no point opening the computer, I wouldn't be able to concentrate on work; I was too worked up. Instead I switched on the TV and ordered a bottle of wine from room service.

But I couldn't get the little bar scene out of my mind. Right now, I thought to myself, at this very minute I could have been in that guy's room, accepting his money and spreading my legs for him! Me - a hooker!

But then, I remembered, hadn't I once already actually done just that? Been a whore? The time at the Buck's Night? Oh yes, I had more or less accepted money to suck the barman's cock. Wasn't that the same as being a hooker? How was that really any different? That had been a strange night. But the memory of it was still clear, even if I had been drunk at the time. But I wasn't that drunk. I remembered it all. He put the money in my purse, and then put his cock in my mouth. I still have the $200 -- it's on a vase on the refrigerator back home. I decided to keep it there, separate. Dirty money.

I had often looked at the money in the vase and pondered the fiscal absurdity of it - as distinct from the simple shocking, disgusting fact that I accepted his money to suck him - of how I came to 'earn' that two hundred. Because for what was a matter of 10 minutes' 'work', I was paid far, far more than I could ever hope to earn in my profession. In a free market economy such as ours, the simple mathematical reality was that my body was worth more -- a lot more, in fact -- than my brain. And I'm no lowly factory worker -- I'm very well paid, occupying a position of status and clout. It was an incongruous notion.

Yes, I remembered that night well. I remembered how disgusting I felt, but I remembered that even while his cock slid in and out of my mouth, my own hand was between my legs. What a dirty little slut he must have thought I was as I slid my finger inside me while his cock was in my mouth. I was only of value as a plaything for his pleasure. I remember him telling me what a slut I was as I fingered myself in front of him, and I remember how great it felt to be just so, so bad. Yes, at some point I had actually enjoyed being bought and paid for, at least at the time it was happening. For a moment I was not a high-paid consultant, but just a cheap and shameful slut with a cock in her mouth.

It was strange. I had to admit it; it had been an exciting experience, in some ways, on some level, how ever embarrassing, and how ever degrading. But it was almost the idea of being a slut that was more exciting than the actual reality of doing it. The reality carried a sense of deep shame, and yet I felt ashamed now. Ashamed that all of this was making me wet. I was sitting on the couch, feet up on the coffee table. I reached between my legs. I thought of how that barman's cock felt in my mouth. I couldn't even remember his name. My nipples were straining against the material of my bra. I undid my blouse and tossed it on the floor. I took off my bra. I took my breasts in my hands, squeezing them hard, tweaking my nipples with my fingers. They were rock hard. They almost ached. God, I was so horny!

Then the door bell chimed. Shit -- it's room service with the wine!

"Be there in a minute!" I yelled as I jumped up, smoothed down my skirt and threw on my blouse, fastening the buttons as I went to the door. The room service person was a young guy, probably early 20s. As soon as the door opened his eyes went straight to my tits. I let him in.

"Just there on the table," I said, and he placed down the tray. "Thank you."

He just stood there for a moment, still staring at my tits. He seemed unable to direct his gaze anywhere else. Then he said, with a nervous tone in his voice: "Anything else, ma'am?"

"No, that will be all."

He was still staring.

"If you need anything else, anything at all, just ring room service and ask for David."

"OK, thank you."

And then he was gone. I looked down my body. Damn it -- this blouse is practically sheer with no bra! He must have been able to see right through it! No wonder he kept staring. I should have been offended, mortified, but instead I found myself wondering what he must have been thinking as he ogled my tits: yes, he was probably thinking, 'God, look at those tits, she's practically naked - I can see everything. I'd love to get my hands on those, lick those nipples'. I went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Oh yes, there was nothing left to the imagination. He would have seen everything.

I rubbed my tits through the blouse, watching myself in the mirror. Yes, I bet he wanted to do something like this: touch my tits, feel them, lick them. That's why he said was there 'anything else' he could do for me -- here I am, displaying myself in front of him: I bet he was hoping I'd invite him in to fuck me! I know his name. God, I'm so horny -- maybe I could call him up here again?

No! Anne, you can't fuck the room service guy! But why couldn't I? I couldn't answer that. But I just couldn't. And no, I didn't want to fuck him. But I thought about him looking at me; God, yes, that's what I wanted - I wanted him to see me again, only with me aware of what he was seeing. I wanted to show myself, let him see, watch the reaction on his face, feel his lustful gaze on my body, knowing that he just wants to fuck me. I was just feeling so frustrated now; I felt as if cooped up in a cage. I needed to get out of this room. I wanted to be around people; I wanted there to people who might notice me, talk to me, look at me, want me.

Maybe I could go back down to the bar? What, and have people think I'm a hooker again? Well, I thought, people can think what they liked. And as I thought more on this, it occurred to me what a shockingly titillating notion that was -- that people might think I was a whore. If I got dressed up, went down there and ordered a drink, in this place people would think I was a whore. The very idea sent a shiver down my spine. People would think I was a whore. And who would these people be? I am hundreds of miles from home. No one here knows me. They would be people I don't know. I could do whatever I liked here, and no one I know back home would ever know about it. I could pretend to be a whore and who would ever know? Sitting there, dressed like a slut, guys looking at me like I'm a cheap whore, imagining shoving their cocks in my mouth, fucking me... How would that make me feel...?

I took my clothes off. Yes, I'm going to dress up, get out of this room and go for a drink. What's wrong with that? I slipped on my little black dress. I didn't bother with a bra. I grabbed my black pumps. I looked in the mirror. Yes, I looked hot. I put some lipstick on, bright red. Like a slut wears her lipstick For a moment it crossed my mind that the dress wasn't short enough, but I quickly admonished myself for such an absurd thought. The dress is plenty short, only about five inches below my ass. And my tits looked good in it without a bra. The material was a light synthetic, and my erect nipples were clearly visible. It opened at the front in a v-shape, so it showed plenty of cleavage. It felt good on my body, too. The dress was rather tight fighting, hugging my every curve. I turned to the side. Yes, there was a visible panty line. Take them off. No one will ever know. Yes, that's better.

I downed my glass of wine, grabbed my handbag and left the room. I pulled the door closed behind me and headed for the elevator. I pressed the ground floor button and the elevator started going down. It stopped a few floors from the end, and two guys in suits got in. Straight away I noticed them looking at my tits. I looked down at my body. My nipples were hard, poking luridly against the thin material of my dress, utterly unmistakable Yes, they were ogling me, not making it look obvious, but they were. I just stood there silently, pretending to ignore them. But I knew they were checking me out, and knowing they were almost filled me with a sense of pride. Yes, guys, look at me, look at my tits, look at my nipples!

We all got off at the ground floor. They headed for the hotel exit as I made my way towards the bar. Yes, this was a good idea. I was feeling almost carefree, light. I was conscious of my breasts, free from the constraints of a bra, gently shifting up and down as I walked. It felt good, sexy.

And if anyone thought I was a hooker, well, that was their problem. I wasn't dressed like a hooker, really; I was just dressed sexy, stylish. And anyway, I had been wearing my work clothes before and people still thought I was a hooker! What a strange town this is!

I entered the bar. There was almost no one there. But over in the corner, sitting at a table, there was one man. Oh God, it was the same guy as before, the guy with the phone! He was on the phone even now. He didn't notice me come in. I took a stool at the bar and ordered a glass of wine. I lit up a smoke. After about five minutes and there was still only myself, the barman and the man on the phone, I was starting to feel this had all been a bit of an anticlimax, a stupid waste of time. But what had I really been expecting? I think I must have imagined coming down here and being amongst a crowd of noisy, happy drinkers, but instead it was more like a ghost town. Maybe I should go out somewhere? But I didn't know where to go, and in any case, it was already quite late. I didn't want to make a long night of it before my presentation tomorrow, and it was already after 10pm. And I didn't really like the idea of being out alone in a strange city, especially dressed like this.

I noticed the man look up at me once or twice. He was still talking on the phone. I wondered what he must be thinking, if anything, about me. If he remembered me from before, he would be aware that I had changed clothes. Probably makes him even more certain I'm a hooker, I thought to myself.

What if he came up to me again? What would I do? If he propositioned me? There didn't seem much prospect of that, though: he was engrossed in his call. He was basically ignoring me. But what really was I doing here? Was I just here for a drink, or was I here masquerading as a hooker? This was ridiculous. I was beginning to feel very foolish indeed.

I took another sip of wine. The glass was nearly empty. I'd been there a good fifteen minutes now. I was starting to get restless, bored. The man was still on the phone, and still no one else had come into the bar.

Why wasn't he looking at me? I was pretending to idly look around the deserted room, but I kept glancing at him, just to see if he was looking my way. But he wasn't. I actually felt disappointed. Maybe I could give him a little show? That would get his attention. Oh, what was I doing? I was feeling rather foolish indeed now; here I am, in a deserted bar, hoping that the only man here, a man I didn't even find attractive, would look at my body and admire me. I felt agitated. I finished my drink. This hadn't been a good idea. I thought it might be best if I just went back up to my room and called it a night. But first I just wanted to see if I could get his attention. Just once.

I shifted on my seat, and slid my body around so I was partly facing him. I took a deep breath as I uncrossed my legs. I let my legs open a little as I pretended to search through my bag for something. Still he wasn't looking. Damn. I put my bag back on the bar. I took another breath. With my elbows resting on the bar, I looked directly at him as I opened my legs and looked straight at him. Ooh, that felt good, such a wicked thing to do -- and I'm not wearing panties! And yes, that did it. He was looking straight at me now, his gazed fixed on my legs. Oh yes, now I had his full attention. I looked away, crossing my legs once more, as if nothing had happened. But God, what did I just do!

I saw him put the phone down. He stood up. He was coming towards me. I thought I'd better go now, but he was alongside me at the bar before I could get to my feet.

"Hi," he said. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Hmm, cliché pickup line time, I mused to myself. Must have heard that one a thousand times.

"No thanks, I was just leaving."

"That's a shame. Hey, weren't you here earlier? It's Anne, isn't it?"

"Um, Angie, it's Angie." Oh God, I thought, as the sobriquet somehow spilled out of my mouth; what was I thinking? Oh well, Angie, Anne, who cares? I'll just have a quick chat with him and then I'll be off.

"Nice dress," he said, looking me up and down. "I thought you said before that you weren't working tonight."

"That's right, I'm not working tonight."

"Hmm, that's a shame."

There it was -- he does think I'm a hooker! Here I am talking to a man and I know he thinks I'm a whore, and I'm basically playing along! I felt shameful, yet so deliciously naughty at the same time! And I had almost played the role -- I'm 'not working tonight'. Of course I'm not working -- work for me starts in the morning. But it actually gave me a little thrill to know that my innocent reply could be taken to mean something else, something else entirely. I hadn't actually come out and said, 'yes, I'm a hooker'.