Hotel Rooms

Hotel and motel rooms always seem to hold a certain special atmosphere about them: an almost indescribable, but no less undeniable aura of sex. The kinds of sex that permeate these plastic, manicured, temporary lodgings varies as widely as the colours of the spectrum: there is forbidden sex, illicit sex, bad sex, mediocre sex, good sex, great sex, amazing sex, marital sex, extra-marital sex, awkward sex, first-time sex, last-time sex, grudge sex, gentle sex, drunken sex, unwilling sex, ravaging sex, guilt sex, revenge sex, straight sex, gay sex, thrill sex, kinky sex, make-up sex, rough sex, farewell sex, and base, raw, lustful sex.

For her and him, their hotel room always filled itself with the hue of passionate sex, which if it had a flavour would be something akin to a mixture of strawberries and champagne, and although they always parted company deeply fulfilled and sated with what they shared with each other, the colours of their passion for each other were at quite different ends of the sex-spectrum.

For her, the driving force that kept her coming to him was never made clear to him beyond her missing a certain degree of deeper passion and intimacy in her life. It had been agreed to from the start that certain aspects of her life would not change regardless of how their relationship blossomed. Their time shared together was the opposite side of the coin that was her day-to-day regular world. It filled a gap for her, a burning need that she normally kept under control, always smoldering but never allowed to uncontrollably burst into flame, yet when she knew he was waiting for her, she ran to be with him because of what he gave her and what he shared with her.

He was the handful of missing pieces in the mosaic picture of her life, and regardless of the point that they were rich, boldly coloured tiles that fit so well and completed the gaps in the design of her life, they were pieces that would never allowed to be permanently cemented into place -- only destined to be placed in the picture every now and then, lovingly arranged and enjoyed, then removed and kept safely and secretly out of sight until the next time they were together.

For him, she too, filled a hugely empty place in his life, and when they had finished their secret time together and she was going back to the other side of her 'coin', he often thought he felt like he knew how a crystal vase might feel when the water it contained to feed the roses had been slowly poured out. She was the 'one' that fulfilled him. Had time and fate and circumstance been different, perhaps she would have been his mate from the beginning to the end of always. Ever the realist, he knew that she would never be able to come and stand beside him permanently, so he contented himself as best possible knowing that she could only be all his for a few hours at a time, and then only when it seemed the stars permitted. Still, he was grateful and flattered for whatever she could give.

Like today...

The hotel room was dark and cool, with that oh so typical 'sanitized for your protection' scent. Soft brown and green pastel paint and wall-paper, with the expected furnishings: faux plush carpeting, a single king-size bed with a hideously coloured comforter, screwed-to-the-wall pictures (that no one in their right mind would want to own, let alone steal), a low nine-drawer dresser with a bolted-down TV and the usually array of hotel literature, menus and tourist junk littered across it's top, a wooden writing/dining table, four plush upholstered matching chairs, lamps, hookless coat hangers, drapes that looked like they were from a funeral home, several non-descript ashtrays (even though it was a smoking-free room), a plastic-linered shower enclosure, a collection of various sized white towels sporting the hotel's logo, a 'hospitality bar fridge', a bedside alarm clock and a hotel-service push-button telephone. Oh yes...and the ever present Gideon's Bible in the dresser's top drawer.

He waited for her in the darkened room, impatiently lounging on the bed. He had called her nearly twenty minutes previously to confirm the room number so she could come straight up without having to contend with the Front Desk. There was about five minutes left before her expected arrival. He checked his wristwatch again cursing that the minute hand was moving so slowly.

The room door was unlocked and left slightly ajar for her. She simply need push the door, and once again, she would be in his eyes, in his arms ... in his life.

It was always a magical moment for him when he saw her -- each time was like the first time, like a NEW first time. She thrilled him just by her desire to be with him, and the flood of sensuality that she washed over him whenever his eyes fell on her. Even though it was really not allowed, he loved her. He did not care that she might not be able to return such feelings to him beyond the time they spent together. Anytime together was good time together.

She was all he could have desired in a woman: soft, petite, warm, loving, sensual. Full of life and laughter, of candlelight and lace, of whimsy and wantonness. She revealed once that she needed the passion he gave her when they were together, much like a flower needs sunlight.

He was addicted to her passion -- there really was no other way to explain it for him: she stirred him to the soul with just her touch.

She burned hotly when she was with him, she became the 'other woman' she so loved to be in "this life" that her "other life" would not let her show. She allowed herself to dive into him with wild sensual abandon: to freely be a totally wanton sensual creature, bringing to life her own fantasies while also bringing to life his. He was the cool, shaded lagoon for her sun-dried day-to-day life. Nothing was too much to ask of him, to share with him, to offer him. She gave it all freely and without resistance. What made it so fulfilling for her was that she knew he gave it all back to her equally and without any hesitation. Whatever she wanted, desired, dreamed of, he would make happen, (often over and over.....)

"NO" was not a word often heard between them when they were together.

There was what sounded like a timid tap at the door, and his heart jumped. His lady had arrived. In moments, she would again be embracing him, her kisses demanding and wet, her body pressed tightly against him.

The door opened and then bumped closed with a momentary flash of light intruding from the hall. Then the darkness was restored and he could hear her lock the door.

He heard her footsteps on the carpet and her sweet voice give greeting, by which time, he was up, across the room and sweeping her up in his arms, kissing her madly, still amazed that this wonderful woman wanted to be with him -- to share herself with him to completely.

"I have so missed you", "God, it is wonderful to have you in my arms again." "Hold me tightly" "Kiss me again... and again..." "You smell delicious" "You are so beautiful" "You feel so good" "God, how I have needed you to do this"

...clipped statements that only true lovers both share and understand, statements that have a depth and a meaning that goes beyond the mere words themselves.

Still locked in each other's embrace, they caress each other, seeking to find the places that they love to touch and explore on each other. Both still dressed and in the passion of reuniting in the doorway, it is almost clumsy groping, but they both know that once they are naked and in each others arms, all the groping will turn to sensual and erotic touches, practiced and gentle, teasing and arousing.

She had arrived straight from her office and a morning full of painfully boring meetings, all the while trying to keep her thoughts from drifting to when she would be with him again. She was professionally attired, as always, with a well-cut, charcoal grey, lady's business suit consisting of a hip length jacket and slightly longer than mid-thigh skirt, finished with an ice white blouse, all covering delicate white lace French cut panties and matching bra, black four inch high-heels. The one thing she wore that suggested 'office inappropriate', yet properly completed the ensemble was the seamed stockings he loved to see her in. For him, he was clad in a more casual look of washed out olive-drab Dockers with a safari-cut linen shirt in washed out khaki, and dark brown, well polished leather loafers, which at the moment, were kicked casually on the floor beside the bed.

They struggle to open each other's clothes and what can easily be removed finds itself being thrown with abandon on the floor while they never let go of each other. Keeping in tactile contact is paramount, as they do not wish to miss a moment of touching while they are together...a moment missed is a moment never relived.

She gasps softly in thanks and her breathing quickens as each garment disappears. Her body is warm, almost hot to the touch, all of it alive and soft in his hands. His hands roam freely and insistently all over her. She pushes herself into his hands, making sure he does not miss a spot.

His skin against hers...Her skin against his...

He always found himself mildly frustrated that he couldn't touch her enough all at one time. She is radiant and her heat is a like a hot fire to a near-frozen man. Her skin is scented, smooth, warm and alive -- a nearly indescribable richness. Hands move, bodies touch, lips kiss, teeth gently nibble, tongues lick, finger grasp and probe. They own each other, possess each other, and as owner's, they do as they please, knowing that it is mutually pleasing.

Now both almost nude, her clad now only in stockings, unbuttoned blouse and lace bra, he naked, he gently turns her around so she has her back to him and he pulls her in closely -- spooning standing up. His arms encircle her under her gaping blouse, and she in turn, wraps her arms around his while resting her head on his chest and snuggling her now naked derriere into his groin against his cock, stoking his fires. As coy as she likes to pretend to be, she knows that what she is doing is like waving a red cloth in front of a raging bull. The last items of hers to disappear are her blouse and bra, and she is suddenly aware of the coolness of the room on her now freed breasts.

Her amazingly soft and pendulant breasts are but prisoners in his hands. He can feel the hot weightiness of each full mound and the growing hardness of each nipple under his fingers. He cups each breast in his hand, gently caressing and squeezing, massaging and milking, rolling and manipulating the pliant flesh in all directions as she groans and sighs in ecstatic surrender. She sighs at his ministrations. He gently pulls and tweaks and torments each stiffening tip until it is hard and proud. She laughingly yelps and stamps her foot in mock protest, but then sags slightly at the burning feeling he ignites in her. Her ass continues to press back against him, her rolling, pumping, grinding movements now erotic to the point of pornographic. He continues his gentle assault of her breasts all the while nibbling at her neck and her ears, lost in her scented hair.

His prick is now fully aroused by the motion and the heat of her ass against him, and she feels the obscenity of it having wormed itself in the moist cleft of her ass. "One day", she thinks, while allowing herself a lustful smile, "I am going to tease him too much, and he is going to take me anally regardless of my protests. But God, just the feel of his cock nestled where it is feels so amazing and yet so wicked..... I could stay here, just like this, forever...".

Anal sex was a line that she resisted crossing because of an incident in her 'other life': the man in that life had decided to sodomize her on their marital bed years before, an episode that ended as a brutal, painful and tearful event. She recalled that one experience in a sudden flash: there had been little in the way of building up to the act -- first he was in her vaginally, while she was facedown on the bed. Five minutes of doggy-style intercourse, withdrawal and then she remembered the feeling of being spread apart and the coldness of the Vaseline on her anus. Before she could tell him that maybe Vaseline was too sticky and there might be a better lube, he was already setting course for the event, and had no intention of stopping his momentum of buggering her just to change to cold cream. Locker room lore had long endorsed petroleum jelly as the ideal lube and that was good enough for him, even though it was probably the worst thing to use.

The entire act was impersonal and without any romantic flavour. She remembered the moment he began to force himself into her after roughly pushing her face down with her ass hiked high, legs spread -- one hand supporting himself on the bed, the other placing his dick against her.

The promise of what was about to happen scared her, but then, she was in no position to refuse him... afterall, he was the man in her life -- she tried to convince herself that it would be alright and that he would make it all good. Then, there was the lightening flash of pain as he just managed to partly enter her in one shove. In reality, very little of him actually got past her sphincter in his attempt, but she felt like something huge and unyielding was being jammed into her. It felt like a baseball bat being rammed up her. She recalled the pain, the crying and the hurt of realizing that she was simply reduced to being nothing more but a vessel for his pleasure. As soon as he had breeched her, he turned into a stranger -- someone that did notice or did not care that he was hurting her. She remembered thinking that she was not involved in the act beyond being the receiptical for his idea of 'intimate' lovemaking (in this case, an act that had about as much tenderness as a rape), and there certainly was no love in it. It was brutal and impersonal. It was all him and she was just something he got to use because he blindly believed he was entitled to do so.

Thankfully (if there was such a thing) he never did get more than his dick's head into her, and he came in just seconds. That seemed to make her buggered ass burn even more, but at least he was slick enough (and flaccid enough) to slip out easily.

She often shuddered when reflecting on this episode of how much damage he might have caused had he buried himself to the hilt in her unwilling ass. When he did cum inside her, there was no part for her, just him enjoying the pleasure and her enduring the pain.

She had wept when he tried to enter her, wept when he finally managed to breech her after several initially unsuccessful attempts , wept when she had left their bed to limp to the shelter of the bathroom (her ass burning like she had been reamed with a wire brush as opposed to a man's penis), wept as she had eased her bruised and violated derriere into in a warm bath, wept when she finally returned to the bed to find him asleep, snoring, and wept as she tried to fall asleep after the ordeal, still feeling his sperm ooze from her ravaged and wounded nether cavity. He never heard her sobs that stretched into the night -- sobs of the physical pain and the pain of her realizing that he was not even there to hold her, leaving her totally unsatisfied. To her, it was a vile episode. She was in pain for nearly three days, and never told him that she had bled for the first day...)

As an afterthought, she pondered lustfully: "Maybe trying soft sodomy one more time might not be so bad a thing after all...?", and shivered at the prospect of such surrender. Even just thinking of the word 'sodomy' sent a tiny stabbing thrill of forbidden lust through her. She does not stop her movements, or take any steps to remove him from her ass-cleft - he is just too warm and she is just too wet to want to stop. She already feels full and he has not even entered her yet.

Suddenly, he gone from her and she feels the coolness of where he had been against her as well as the missing wedge of stiff flesh that was crammed between her ass cheeks. Goose-bumps rose on her ass and breasts, (perhaps from the cold, perhaps from his nibbles on her neck....), and as she contends with this change, she suddenly feels his hands on her hips as she is being turned around and her ankles being insistently spread apart. She found herself standing before him, legs spread, breasts proud. She had spent as much time as possible over the summer at her family cottage and on the days that she was alone, she sunbathed nude. She also used the razor on herself, and her feminine mound was bald and smooth to the touch. This was the one thing that was not consistent with her other life, but she did for him because she knew he loved it. She was puffy from her state of arousal, with her nether lips slightly parted and swollen in anticipation of what was about to happen.

She even knew just how wet she had become, feeling her pussy start to dribble her female-nectar ever so slightly over her lips and down her legs. With him kneeling before her, she felt his hands running slowly up the inside of her thighs and then suddenly on the backs of them, moving inevitably upwards until they again, cupped the cheeks of her ass, pulling her groin forward towards his mouth. She nearly swooned and fell backwards only to have his hands break her fall the few inches to the wall of the room, She discovered that she had no place to retreat. Not that she would have wanted to....

She sagged slightly at the knees, standing flat footed and pushing her sex outwards towards him as if to dare him to touch her. A muscle in her calf twitched for a moment until she went up on the toes of her right foot.... She was now open to his whims and the dare has become a plea.

The little mewing sounds she heard came as a double surprise: first that she could hear them in the first place and then, when she realized that they were coming from her own mouth. She felt his lips on hers, just a gentle fleeting caress at first, followed by a rain-shower of kisses all up and down her womanhood. Each kiss was more insistent than the previous, and while 20 minutes had passed since his lips touched hers, he only satisfied himself with kisses. She was now coming to a slow boil -- her back against the wall, his hands were now supporting her ass while his fingers tortured her more intimate anal parts, slowly exploring her ass, not quite penetrating but ever insistent in their probing. The feeling alone was mind blowing, and her head had started to rock back and forth in trying to establish a rhythm. She has difficulty focusing on anything other than his mouth on her: she feels that she should be losing her balance, yet cannot think clearly enough as to where to place her hands, so they seem to take on a life of their own, waving in the air. He would not let her fall anyway.

Slowly she became aware that his kisses had now changed to his tongue probing in her recesses. He explores her slick inner lips with a hardened tongue, swirling around her nubbin of a clit and then sliding back down and into the mouth of her loins. She wondered if this was what it was like to be electrocuted. She clit sizzled with his ministrations and her pussy opened like a flower to him, lips swollen and engorged. The probing tongue tip changed now to something completely different -- a different sexual weapon: instead of the hard tip, he was using his tongue flat, taking agonizingly slow wide and wet laps all along the length of her sex, as far as he could reach.

The wetness was incredible for her -- her pussy literally drooled disgracefully dribbling faster than his waiting tongue could lap up her syrup. What he could not take in his mouth he wiped from her thighs and rubbed on his chest to accompany what was already smeared on his face: now he was wearing her scent, her mark.