Chicago Hotel Adventure Ch. 02byLothario the Great©
Chicago Hotel Adventure: Night 2
The alarm was too loud when it went off. Wes had already been awake, but he jumped at the sound anyway. Roger shouted the word “Fuck!” without lifting his head from the pillow. Wes knew this outburst was a request to hit the snooze button, and he did so. Soon Roger was snoring contently once more.
Wes felt pretty damn content himself, and for the same reason Roger did. They both spent the evening making love to beautiful women in secluded hotel rooms. But Wes suspected he got the better end of the deal.
Only two hours ago, he had been sleeping soundly with Sylvia Anderson in his arms, she nestled against his side, her wet hair wrapped in a towel, her head resting on Wes’s shoulder. Neither of them expected anything remotely romantic to happen between them, let alone the best sex either had ever imagined and/or seen on European bootlegged sex tapes. So of course, neither remembered to expect Faith’s inevitable return to the room. Wes could have held Sylvia in his arms for another hundred years, but they would have to wait until the next encounter.
The NEXT encounter. It was all Wes thought about from the time he returned to his own room until the alarm went off at 7:00 a.m., the current time. Would they have the chance to sleep together again? Could it turn into something more? Would they have to wait until they got back to New England to take it to the next level? Questions assaulted Wes’s mind the way the early morning sunlight assaulted his eyes.
He shuffled his feet toward the bathroom. As the shower water fell on his head, he continued to fantasize about Sylvia. Was she thinking about him at this moment? Did she want to keep their affair a secret from the other students on the trip? He knew they’d made a profound connection, but did the girl have regrets? Regret could be a powerful obstacle to happiness.
Wes could not stop the blood from filling his penis as he remembered the highlights. She had been beautiful in the lamp light, her olive skin glowing, the curls of her hair floating like black cotton around her perfect shoulders. When she got close to her orgasm, her aroused nipples became obscured as the areolas turned puffy and light pink. Wes could not stop running his fingertips over those nipples, and she moaned her pleasure when he did.
“Wes! Hurry up, you fucker. We’re gonna be late.”
Fine Roger fine, Wes thought to himself. Be an irredeemable ass. I’m very grateful for last night, and I have your insensitivity to thank.
Wes pumped his cock at a rapid pace, eager to finish. When he came, his knees almost buckled. He didn’t realize how tired he was from the night before; perhaps the adrenaline was beginning to wear off. He finished his shower, got out and dried off. Roger was in the bathroom almost before Wes was done unlocking the door.
“‘Bout time, Wes. You jerking off in here or what?”
“Don’t be a punk,” Wes said as he worked gel into his short hair.
“I’ll kick your ass,” Roger said with a grin. “I’m gonna win today.”
And he probably would. Roger was the most sensitive, accomplished actor on campus. Even his tough guy routine was a façade. How could he have seduced so many women with only that dumb jock exterior to get him by? Wes knew why he liked being friends with Roger, but sometimes he wished he could have a break from the rowdiness.
Wes dressed in his Armani suit and walked briskly to the elevator. The car stopped on Sylvia’s floor, and he hoped desperately that she’d get on, but it was just some girls from the English department. They smiled at Wes but didn’t say anything. At first Wes wondered if they could sense something different about him. He was at least certain he looked damn good in the Armani.
The college had instructed all students to go down to the banquet hall and grab breakfast from the buffet line. Wes filled a plate with fruit and eggs – he wasn’t a big breakfast eater – then sat down near the window where he could look out at the Chicago street and all the people on their way to work.
Into the hall walked Sylvia, in a body-hugging floor-length black dress with spaghetti straps on the shoulders. Her magnificent hair sat perched on top with a dozen pink rollers holding everything in place. Most of the girls in the room had gotten dressed in the reverse order, perfecting their makeup and hair while still wearing t-shirts, sleeping shorts and house slippers.
College students in all levels of readiness mulled around the room like cattle, trying to overcome the festivities of the night before. So many of them had gotten wasted on drugs and alcohol, even though their performances today could determine whether they spent the rest of their lives making art or making refrigerator cooling coils. How did any of them survive life in an ivy league college without someone to hold their hands? Of course, none of it would matter once they came home with trophies from the event. Rich, good-looking kids with artistic talent to propel them – why bother with social graces? But he was no better, really. A huge performance ahead of him, and he’s stayed up until two fucking Sylvia. He was worn out.
Sylvia looked worn out, too. Random philosophical thoughts buzzing around in his head like electrons, and all he could truly concentrate on was the girl with pink rollers in her hair. He wanted to stand and shout, “Hey! Sylvia! I’m in love with you! Let’s tell everyone how crazy we are about each other!”
But two obstacles stood firmly in that path: His shyness, and hers. Just the idea of calling out to the crowd made his toes hurt. (Why his toes? But yes, his toes.) It was different behind the piano, no speaking to do, no need to articulate any thought beyond what the music said. He suspected Sylvia felt the same way about her cello. He’d seen her play a recital, the way she closed her eyes and swayed to the music. Why hadn’t he fallen in love with her long ago, just watching her passion for the instrument? Her playing had been intense, precise, inventive, aggressive -- all the things he would like in a best friend, and all the things he wished he himself could be.
He watched as she sat down with Faith and a few of the silly sopranos that made up their crowd. She must not have seen him, because she never looked at him. Or maybe she was embarrassed. That would suck. So much they had confessed, and now she was ashamed to see him. But wait. Sylvia looked up at Wes, then quickly back to her cereal bowl. She spooned some flakes into her mouth, then suddenly stole another glance. Again she turned away, this time to listen to whatever Faith had to say. Then slowly, much too slowly, she looked at Wes again.
A miniscule smile crossed her lips. Then a wink. Wes felt lighter than air. Suddenly, she looked away again, turned somber. Had Wes smiled too large? Then he realized what Sylvia had seen over Wes’s shoulder.
“Wes! Long time no see, pal.” Roger plunked himself down at Wes’s table. “Jesus, is that all you’re having for breakfast? You’re gonna pass out during your performance.”
“Don’t worry about me, Rog. I’m not the one who banged Faith all night.”
“No, you’re not! So who could that have been? Oh yeah! It was me! Fucking-A, I THOUGHT I remembered squeezing the cream out of someone last night, but I couldn’t for the life of me think whom.” Roger crammed an entire sausage patty into his mouth. “So, did you and Sylvia Anderson fool around?”
Wes laughed a little too hard. “Shit, whatever.”
“Come on. She’s hot, you’re desperate. Don’t tell me you didn’t at least talk about who you’d both fucked.”
“Roger, you’re a pervert of the highest order.”
“That’s what my therapist says. I’m thinking of putting that on a t-shirt. Maybe I can wear it to clubs and shit. I’ll have two made up, one for Sylvia. She can wear it on your first date.”
“Cut it out,” Wes hissed.
“Whoa! Chill out, Tundra. I’m just messing with you. So what the hell happened last night? You two have a falling out or what?”
Wes rolled his eyes. The conversation was making him immensely uncomfortable. “It was fine. We talked for a while then went to bed.”
“Yeah baby!” Roger hollered. “Oh come on, I’m kidding you. Lighten up, fuck.” He shoveled more food into his mouth. “Aren’t you gonna ask me how it went with Faith?”
Wes’s fork stopped short of his mouth. “You… want to discuss it?”
“Hell yeah! There’s no one else here to tell.” Roger leaned in. “She brought some jelly, told me she wanted to try it up her poop-chute. Goddamn, she’s an anal fiend for life. I’ve never felt anything so tight, I thought I was going to cum up her throat from the other end.”
“Holy crap, Roger, I’m trying to eat.” But what he was really thinking of was Sylvia sitting on his cock in the armchair, squirming with his finger up her ass, eyes open but seeing nothing through an ecstasy haze. Wes ate his hash browns, contemplating the previous night as Roger droned on about the same thing. Apparently Faith liked to have her ass smacked. She and Roger had fucked off and on for about two hours, then they fell asleep. Faith kicked Roger in the ribs while she slept, and Wes wondered how the story of anal sex exploits had veered so far off track.
The buses arrived at 9:30 to pick everyone up for the event. Wes watched as Sylvia stepped onto a different bus. He caught her eye, but she had to keep moving and they communicated nothing. Once on the bus, Terrance and James sat near Wes to discuss pianist shit. Every time Terrance would mention “fingering,” his boyfriend James would snicker. The term made Wes think of the same thing, but he did not snicker. He missed Sylvia.
Once the buses arrived at the college campus hosting the event, all the students filed like cows toward their respective competitions. Wes sat alone in a large dining room filled with instrumentalists, in a folding chair by the window. He looked for Sylvia, but the strings had been corralled in another building. When a page called his name, he took his turn in the practice room. Today’s selection would be straight Chopin, nothing fancy, just a beautiful, not-too-famous piece perfectly executed to ensure entry to the next round. The dining room would be several hundred students fewer tomorrow.
He allowed his hands to hover over the keys but did not touch them. There was no point playing even a single key until he could drive Sylvia to the back of his mind. His blood pumped to all the wrong extremities when he thought of her. Three deep breaths later, he saw nothing but Chopin flowing through his frontal lobe. Moments later, he created the sound with his hands. When the knock came on the door, he was ready.
Down the hall to a large classroom with a grand piano on a stage. The judges sat on the front row, and about fifty students lounged around the back rows, whispering until he sat down at the bench, when they turned still.
“What piece will you play for us today?” asked the center judge, a younger man with a face like a bird.
“Ballade number 1 in G Minor.”
“Oh good, Opus 23 again. You can never hear a good selection too many times in one competition.”
“Never mind him,” said another judge, an older woman in glasses. “No one’s played it today, so you’re the first. Tell us, Wesley, one interesting thing about yourself, if you please.”
Wes hated speaking. It had been hard enough to name the piece. “I like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain.”
Bird-face was not amused. “Do you take your work seriously?”
More seriously than half-hearted attempts to put me at ease, Wes thought. “Yessir,” he said.
Bird-face sighed. “Begin.”
Ten minutes later, Wes felt convinced he’d completed a flawless performance. Not a single misphrased note in any of the arpeggios. The students gave him a standing ovation, which he certainly had not expected.
“Thank you,” said the woman in glasses. “We’ll see you in round two.” The students cheered again, and Wes exited the stage while waving his thanks to them.
Back in his folding chair, he kept telling himself the easy part was over. Tomorrow he’d play the Schumann, and then the pressure would really be on. He closed his eyes and practiced his fingering on his thighs, fighting to perfect a tricky phrase toward the end. Sunlight warmed his face, and then suddenly it disappeared. He opened his eyes to find a blonde girl in a velvet purple dress blocking the sun. She had a porcelain complexion and a matching ribbon in her hair.
“Hi, I’m Sarah,” she said. “Am I interrupting?”
“No,” Wes said. Why the hell did he have to blush? He had no reason to be nervous talking to a stranger. Perhaps she just wanted to borrow a dollar or something.
“I thought you aced the Chopin,” she said. “Really aced it. I was biting my lip when you got to the finale. It was just really good. I’m glad you’re going to the next round. You deserve it.” She bowed her head, smiling shyly. Wes was always amazed by the way non-shy people tried to make themselves seem shy. True embarrassment looked much more uncomfortable. But there was no denying how cute she was.
“I’m Wes,” he said, holding out his hand. They shook. “Are you playing piano?”
“Yeah, I’m doing Stenhammar. My teacher says I need to dazzle in the first round with something hard. I told her I should go for a slam dunk with something a little less risky. Like you did.” She smiled wide. Her full red lips captivated Wes’s attention. “Will you come hear me play? It should be just before lunch.”
“Sure,” Wes said. “I think I’ll be around.”
“Well, in case you aren’t…” Sarah held up a piece of paper. “I dunno. Whatever. Do you ever get out to California?”
Wes opened the scrap. The girl had given him a phone number, along with her name and the words, “Great job!!!” A deep blush set in. He hoped it would not be too visible in the full sunlight. He struggled to find the words.
Sarah smiled. “I get it. Strong silent type. Don’t worry, I don’t bite.” She shrugged. “Unless you’re into that.” She gave a little wave, then left the hall to return to the performance room.
Wes followed her to the room but did not sit near her. They exchanged glances, but mostly Wes watched the pianists. One girl played Grieg so poorly that the judges stopped her in the middle of her piece. She had mangled every chord. Wes hated to see it happen, but he was glad the murderous sound had stopped.
For no reason he could explain, Wes began to grow anxious. Mostly he was restless to find a practice room and concentrate on his piece for the following day, but all of them were taken by current performers. That wasn’t all of it, though. Sylvia, sweet Sylvia, sexy Sylvia.
Finally, the doors in the hall opened for business, and students began to file in for lunch. Many of them dashed off campus on foot to find fast food joints, but Wes stayed and regretted it -- the mashed potatoes had obviously been made from flakes.
Then Sylvia entered the room. Gone was the giggling girl gang she usually hung around with. As soon as her eyes found Wes, she dashed toward him as quickly as her high heels would carry her. She glided across the hall like a light breeze, despite the huge cello case she dragged alongside her, capturing the sunlight like an aura around her. The curlers had removed the tiny ringlet curls from her hair and replaced them with sweeping, elegant waves. She wore a half-jacket over her shoulders, buttoned at the neck.
Sylvia did not slow down as she passed Wes’s table. She simply smiled at him and jerked her head for him to follow. Wes wiped his mouth, stood, and followed her into the hall. They passed no other students from their own school, but they still never touched or spoke or gave any other indication that they were together. At the end of the hall, Sylvia opened a door to the stairwell, and they went down the stairs. Once on the basement floor, they were alone. Sylvia still did not speak. She took Wes’s hand and led him to another door, this one leading into a concrete-covered area with steam pipes hissing and air-conditioning motor whirring. They walked down a long corridor with no windows. A single yellow light bulb far down the tunnel-like hall was the only illumination.
Wes pushed Sylvia against the concrete and kissed her mouth. They collided like automobiles, hands searching and pressing. Sylvia wrapped her arms around Wes’s waist and hugged him tightly. The kissing became more intense as it slowed. Their tongues touched lightly at the tips, moving in small circles, making promises, telling secrets. Finally they held each other against the wall, catching their breaths.
Wes whispered, “How did you find this place?”
“I didn’t,” Sylvia answered. “I just grabbed you and started walking.”
Wes smiled. “You’re magnificent.”
“I missed you.”
“I didn’t know if you would.”
“I didn’t know if YOU would.”
“I did.” Wes kissed Sylvia’s forehead (which was level with his; she had been only an inch shorter even before the high heels).
Sylvia licked her lips. “I guess it’s okay I did this.” She played with Wes’s necktie.
“Better than okay,” Wes assured her. “I was getting really anxious without you.”
“Me too!” Sylvia confessed, relieved. “God, I hope I don’t sound needy.”
“It’s okay to need someone,” Wes said. He hadn’t meant to sound so maudlin.
Sylvia smiled. Lust hovered dangerous and hungry behind her eyes, but she changed the subject. “How did your performance go?”
“Good. They told me they’d see me in round two.”
“Wonderful! Oh Wes, I knew you’d move forward.” Sylvia put her hands on Wes’s sides, and Wes did the same. Her satin dress was smooth and sensual. Wes felt it would crumble in his hands. Sylvia asked, “So, were there any hot pianists that you wanted to take home to mother?”
“Hey, don’t mess around.”
“What, I bet there were some cuties. Besides, you look fantastic in this suit.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, Sylvia. Did you get hit on? Is that why you’ve got a guilty conscience?”
Sylvia looked away. For the first time since the previous night began, she looked truly shy. “I know we’re just playing around, but there was this guy who gave me his number. I don’t want to freak you out or anything, but I felt like I was cheating on you. I didn’t want to talk to him, I was just being nice and I took his number. That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“I hope so,” Wes said.
“Hope so? What’s that mean?”
It was Wes’s turn to be shy. “Because a girl gave me her number.”
“Shut up,” Sylvia said. She thought she was being teased.
“Seriously. I’ve never had that happen before.”
“Shut up!” This time Sylvia smiled in astonishment. “Never?”
“No. She heard me play.”
“Mmmmmmmm,” Sylvia said. “That explains it.” She leaned in and kissed him again. This time, her tongue went as far down Wes’s throat as she could shove it. Wes allowed his hands to wander up to Sylvia’s breasts. There was something about the way she filled the dress that made him want to fondle her all over, and this he did, from her ass to her thighs and up over her shoulders.
“I’m going to ruin your dress against this concrete,” Wes said.
“Can’t let that happen.” She pushed Wes away with one hand. Then she unbuttoned the jacket and slipped it off her shoulders, then draped it over a tree of valves and pipes against the wall. She slowly slipped one spaghetti strap off her shoulder, then the other. “That suit will have to go as well,” she said.
Wes looked down the corridor in both directions. “Sylvia, damn… do you think we can do this here?”
Sylvia pulled the dress down, exposing her chest. She wore no bra under her cup-lined dress, and her nipples became instantly hard. “We’re going to, if that’s what you mean.”
No command could have been more clear. Wes tugged at the slipknot in his tie, unbuttoned his dress shirt and removed everything above the waist in one smooth tug over his head. Sylvia continued to snake out of her tight black dress, revealing a black string thong around her loins. Wes unbuckled his pants and removed them, kicking off his shoes and socks as well. At last the two young lovers stood in their underwear, with all their dress clothes hanging from valves and their shoes kicked to the side. Sylvia pressed her body back against the concrete as Wes pulled off his white boxers. Then he knelt down and kissed Sylvia’s tummy as he hooked his thumbs inside the strings and pulled down. He moved his kisses down to her pubic region, where he was shocked to see that she had shaved herself bald.