Little Ronnie

"Yes." His voice was a rumble in a wash of warm breath across my thigh. "You do agree," and then that last syllable drowned in a ragged moan from me, his hands slithering up under my skirt, quickly along my thighs to the stubborn elastic where my panties stretched to my hips. "Stand up, Ronnie."

Like a marionette I popped to my feet, swaying a bit once I got there but recovering once my hand groped blindly at Mr Bourne's head. He was still lingering along my thighs, his tongue flitting out now, and I could hardly believe what was happening as his confident fingers probed the inside of my skirt, burrowing under the waistband just far enough for them to curl down and claw at my panties. "Ohh, fuck," I sighed, overwhelmed by the sudden relief as his hands left my wet pussy free. I hadn't realized how the elastic gripped me. "Shit, Mr Bourne."

"Brett." He was giving me a patronizing smile now, looking up the front of my body as his experienced fingers slipped my panties down my legs. "Please, Ronnie. Get over it." He tapped briskly at my calf, and I stirred; he wanted me to step out of my underwear, of course, and I obeyed without even thinking. "I'm Brett."

"You're... shit." I swallowed, my fingers tightening in his hair as I watched my panties sail dreamily into the gloom near the bathroom. "You're fucking dangerous," I blurted.

He laughed at that, his hands busy again at the back of my legs this time, playing slowly up toward my butt beneath the skirt. "Now, Ronnie!" he chided, his eyes glinting. "I'm just trying to show you how I appreciate all you've done for me. That's all." I stifled another moan as I felt hands on my ass, gripping boldly, weighing my flesh. He paused, his face gone feral again. "You can sit back down, if you want," he murmured, "though the floor might work too." He tutted. "Bed's a mess."

I laughed at that, strained and breathy. "See? Dangerous." I glanced to the floor, seeing our art-deco carpet, the dust fringing the bed (Tony was forever yelling at the maids, whose motivation to vacuum was questionable), and finally the lump of his hand moving surely underneath my skirt, drifting from my ass across my hip, heading for... holy shit! my mind screeched. Mr Bourne's about to fingerfuck me! and in that moment, his face tightening in self-assured pride, that lump in my skirt came around front, diving along the top of my leg, his fingers twining themselves in my pubic hair.

"You really should take a seat," he murmured, my hand on his shoulder now and gripping lobsterlike as he found my slit. To be fair, it wasn't difficult to find: I was gushing, an opened faucet leaking down my inner thighs, and he smiled greedily as he slid a single finger slowly into my pussy. I flexed my knees like a whore, driving down, craving the penetration, my mouth gusting out a long loose whimper once he was wedged deep. "Why Ronnie," he chuckled, his voice a distant pound in my ears, "you're an eager one, aren't you?"

"Shut up," I gasped, straightening my legs convulsively; his finger left soupy emptiness behind it, but I wasn't backing off because I didn't want him in me. I was backing off because I needed to feel him slip back in. He knew it, too, gauging me, his second finger flicking out now that he knew I needed it. "Oh yes," I groaned as I settled back into his hand, his thumb now prodding at the top of my slit, at my clit behind. It brought an electric spasm that left my whole body on fire. His shoulder would be bruised by my hand, I realized distantly. "Fuck."

"You like that?" It was a low, hissed taunt, and he already knew the answer. His hand fit me perfectly as I hunched down onto it once more. "That's it, Ronnie. Let me make you feel good."

"Fuck!" I gasped again, wild eyes rolling in my face, finding him baring his teeth as he looked up at me, and then suddenly there was no more time: I needed more. I brought both hands behind his head and dragged his face against the front of my skirt, smearing my mound against his nose, showing off my need. "Damn you!"

"Damn me?" He lashed his face back off me, his other hand already squeezing my bare ass, arching his body back as I tried desperately to hump his face. His fingers twirled inside me. "I'm just here, a guest in your hotel," he cackled. "Don't blame me because you can't get enough." I was nodding, wild, the breath whistling past my teeth. "Lie down, Ronnie." It was a command, my brain desperate to obey, and I crumpled down to the floor on jellied legs. "That's it..." He hissed it, grinning, arching his body over my legs. He ripped the Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt from his body, the bedside lamp gleaming off his smooth chest.

I was lost, my thighs spreading hopelessly wide while the skirt rode up above my waist, opening myself completely. He was smirking as he crouched there, his eyes riveted to my swollen wet pussy lips, watching as I arched my ass off the carpet for him. "Little slut," he snickered, still watching me, still gauging me, deciding how far I needed him to go. His hand snaked out, blindingly fast, Gina-fast, his palm crashing squarely against my mound with a sharp slap. I yelped. "I knew you'd be like this," he crowed, smacking my slit again, hard and fast, three times. "You're going to be fun."

My mouth was panting, the tingling buzz all over me now. I was already nearly orgasmic, and he didn't even have anything in me. This was unreal. I'd never had a man smack my pussy before, never even thought about it, but he'd known. He'd known I'd like it, love it even, my voice a gasping sob as I begged for more. "Harder!" I whined, the room filling with the staccato sound of flesh on flesh, and then before I even had a chance to cope with the red lust overwhelming me he was diving between my legs, his mouth colliding with the swollen scarlet mess he'd made down there. "Oh god," I wailed, giving up, my brain exploding when his teeth, wasting no more time, clamped onto my clit.

He drank at me like a shipwrecked sailor, my mind swimming far away in some other universe, and then when I thought I was done he pulled more out of me with his lips and his tongue, his hands on my ass pulling my weepy hole up into his eager face, his whole head shaking with the urgency of making me scream his name. My hands scrabbled at anything, powerless, needing an anchor and finding it in his hair, both of us pressing his mouth to my pussy with a scary energy, the force of it leaving me shuddery as I ground my hips shamelessly over his face.

I have no idea how long we stayed that way, my legs jacked wide, using his nose as a wand, endlessly climactic while my lungs heaved and my eyes saw stars. I felt all of him, everything he did icily clear, his lips and tongue and teeth carving into my soul. And just as I was starting to get a grip on my brain he added his thumb, thick and busy at the bottom of my slit while his fingers fluttered against the outside of my asshole. So I lost it again, the orgasm rattling back through me, every muscle taut. My arched body strained upward as I cried out in a cracked, tired moan and then sagged back, gasping, with my twitchy pussy ruined and his thumb plucking once more at my labia as he yanked it out.

When I flickered my eyes open, staring blearily down past my tits shaking in the prison of my shirt, I caught Mr Bourne on his knees. He towered over me, his eyes hungry and his hand starting to dig his cock out of his boxers. "Fuck," I blurted, panting, feeling sweat stab at my armpits. I desperately wanted out of my clothes. I felt like a long, hot bath, though from the way his hand was busy, Mr Bourne had another idea. I was sure I wanted to fuck him, but something told me I should make him shower first. I'd never had another woman's seconds. "Mr Bourne," I began, but then my phone started going crazy from where it had fallen on the carpet by my hip.

"What?" His face was soaked, shiny with the muck I'd smeared all over his chin, and half his cock was showing dark and hard where he was pulling at his waistband. I stared at it, the meaty velvet-looking head looming smooth and tempting, but my phone was jabbing at my sense of duty. Only one person could be calling me right now.

"Just a sec," I muttered, my hand groping near my bunched skirt. I found my phone right next to the slicked, stretched condom he and Gina had presumably flung aside earlier, and snatched the phone to my ear while I fought to control my breathing. Yep. It was Jeff. "What is it?" I snapped, hoping like hell I sounded like a manager.

Mr Bourne knelt, still and ominous, tugging softly at his half-exposed meat. It looked thick, tasty. I gulped hard, staring at it, very conscious now of my spread legs and the puddle I'd undoubtedly left on the rug under my puffed pussy. He watched me calmly as I talked.

Poor Jeff. He was beside himself, wondering where the hell I was. "Dude. Calm down," I told both him and myself. I battled my disordered, post-orgasmic brain to remember the lie I'd told him. "Uh, ice machine. Remember?" His agitated voice warbled in my ear, driving my bolt upright toward Bourne's waiting cock. "Wait. What? The police? The fucking police?"

911, it seemed, had been called.

"Goddammit! I'll be right down," I barked into the phone, already groping around for my long-lost panties. They'd sailed into the darkness, I remembered, my mind already fuzzy on the details of what I'd just experienced. All I was thinking was bliss, my pussy still fluttering, hoping for more. "Just tell them to wait for me, dammit!" I flung the phone down, then arched my face toward the popcorn ceiling. "Fuck!"

Mr Bourne still knelt there with his dick in my face. "A problem?" Smug fucker, and I glared at him as I willed my twitchy legs to close, my totaled skirt crumpled in my lap.

"Shit. I've got to go." I was feeling frantic, almost hunted, and he didn't budge. He just knelt there, motionless other than his hand tugging gently at the taut bulging skin beneath that delicious-looking head... I shut my eyes tight. "Goddammit. Your little friend Gina called the cops. I need to get down there."

He surprised me by laughing. "Yeah," he drawled quietly, nodding, "guess I picked a loser there." He ran a finger over the slit at the tip of his penis, lifting a long strand of sticky precum off his skin and then wiping it casually on my thigh. "Good thing I found you when I did, then."

"Holy fucking shit," I snapped, his attitude making me pissed and horny in equal measure. "Don't, Mr Bourne. I need to focus." I ran a hand through my hair, grateful it was such a constant mess; it would make it easy to conceal my ravishment from Jeff. But I might have to do without my panties, now lost in some forgotten corner near the dusty end of the room. "Fuck. I've got to hurry." I had no time to hunt for them; I'd have to go commando and hope for the best under my wrinkled skirt.

"Don't be a stranger, Ronnie." I looked back at him, still feeling pursued, but he was still just hanging out on the floor with that complacent smile and that hard dick. "Thanks for coming up."

"Oh my god," I whispered, fleeing.

* * *

I was blinking the next morning, the sun drilling in through the huge glass façade, praying for two things: that Jeff would come back with my coffee in time for him to be manning the desk when Brett Bourne came down for checkout, and that I could pull off a successful changeover without Tony or Becca noticing the condition of my outfit. I'd thrown on a black skirt I'd found in the maids' laundry basket. It smelled of cleanser and sweat and I was disgusted that it was touching my nude ass, but there was nothing I could do other than brazen it out and pray for my shower; I'd found out that the back of my other skirt had my cream all over it, and that was even worse.

Bad enough that I had to sit at the concierge desk all the rest of that long night, wallowing in a sex haze and reeking of pussy.

A wave of relief shook me as Jeff texted that he was on his way back from Ahab's with the coffee, and I was just strolling back to the desk from checking in the guests for the airport shuttle when I stopped short by the breakfast bar, my whole body washed in panicky arousal: Mr Bourne was leaning casually against the desk with his little rolling suitcase beside him.

I glanced frantically around. No Jeff. No Tony. No Becca. Just me. I set my face into what I hoped was a pleasant, businesslike customer-service expression, then checked to make sure my nipple wasn't pushing out my nametag too much. "Good morning!" I called brightly, not feeling at all bright. Fake it til you make it. "I'll be right with you, sir."

"No rush." He was still leaning, insolent, his hair perfect from the shower. And he was wearing that Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt. "Take your time, Veronica."

I know my face was a scarlet mess as I came around the counter and took a deep breath behind the keyboard. I could smell his deodorant from here. I forced myself into one of my usual spiels: there were people around. "I hope you enjoyed your night?"

"Oh, very much so." He paused, but I kept my eyes squarely on the screen behind the counter. I couldn't cope with what I figured his face would show me: pride, conceit, maybe even a douchey smirk. And I knew all I'd show him was shame, for I'd never cum so hard or so fast for anyone. He had to think I was just some sort of a fumbling little prude, totally incapable of controlling myself.

And I feared he might be right about some of that.

"It'll just be a moment, sir."

"Sure. Oh! And, uh, I feel I should report that there's some sort of staining on the rug near the table. Your cleaning people might want to take a look at that."

"I'll make a note of it, sir." The tingle was creeping back from beneath my belly, hot and fuzzy, just from talking to him. Goddamn. The silence stretched after that, my fingers tapping, until he cleared his throat.

"Hey." I clamped my lip between my teeth and, slowly, looked up into his eyes. They gazed back at me with none of the gloaty sneer I was expecting, just warmth. Friendliness. I felt my body unclench without even realizing I'd been so tense. "I very much look forward to my next stay, Veronica," he said with quiet emphasis. "I'll be sure to let the manager know about your attentive and professional service during my time here."

I gasped quietly. "Fuck," I blurted, a whisper, and then he was looking around and reaching into his back pocket.

"Here." His fist was wrapped around my wadded panties as he passed them quickly across the counter. "I'd love to keep them. Maybe smell them every now and then." I felt my legs tremble suddenly. "But I figure you probably need them."

I cleared my throat, my eyes fluttering back down as he dropped my underwear beside the keyboard. "Um. Thank you, sir." I whisked them into my purse beside my unneeded wand.

"Don't mention it." He hesitated, his hand still on the counter, and I got the sudden urge to lean into it, maybe rest my tit there and let his fingers explore a new piece of me... but instead, glancing up to make sure there was no Tony present, I reached a hesitant hand to touch him, quick and soft, my fingers on his palm. His smile in reply was like the sun coming out. "Until next time, anyway."

"Oh. Shit." I sighed it, running his credit card with practiced fingers. The corner of my eye caught Jeff, hastening back through the lobby with my overcaffeinated sugar-bomb, and I had to clear my throat again already. "Uh, yeah. Next time." My legs were buckling, my pussy in a sudden spasm. "Jeff! Why don't you finish up with Mr Bourne?" My smile was huge and forced. "I've got to go tell the maids something. Nice seeing you again, sir," I stuttered, and then I was scrambling back toward the bathroom.

I was in need of those panties. Now.

* * *

The days came and went, punctuated by the usual stream of requests for extra towels, the endless visits from the guys fixing the pool, the frequent coarse comments about the dissatisfaction Becca was getting from her husband's inadequate penis, the occasional check by LaFratta or one of his fellow goons to see what was up, and for the most part I forgot about Brett Bourne's tongue in my vagina.

Which was to say I stopped craving it every hour on the hour.

I certainly didn't forget all about it, and every time I walked past that room or put on that pair of panties, I flushed and felt a twinge pluck at my pussy lips. I'd checked his name for further reservations and saw that he was checked in for our special Valentine's Day package, with the prime rib dinner and the breakfast in bed. That was going to be a bitch of a morning, I knew; Tony had called in extra staff to bring the food up, Jules was balls-deep in frozen croissants, and both me and Brandon were going to be on duty that morning.

"Fuck," I complained to Tony, shaking my head. "No way. That's my usual day off."

"I'll pay you time and a half." He shrugged. "It is Valentine's Day, Ronnie. We will sell out. All hands, you know, on the deck."

I glared at him, hesitant, unable to piss away time and a half for a whole shift. "But I'm working the night before..."

He tossed his hands as though he was shooing a fly. "No. On the thirteenth we will be empty, same every year."

I just stared at him. "Where?" I mocked, "in freakin' Belgium?"

His eyes narrowed, but of course he didn't lose his cool. "Ronnie, I have been working here in the States for almost five years, no? Everyplace, it is the same: full house on fourteenth, nobody on thirteenth. So." He smiled. "You will be working the night before, sure, but 'working.'" He made air quotes, a concept apparently still current in Europe. "Is an easy night. You and Lucy, maybe thirty percent occupancy. Yeah?"

"Yeah," I groused after a pause. He liked me; I was a good manager, meaning he didn't hear much from me. I'd even talked the cops out of making a report the night Gina had sent them out. I could afford to bitch at him. "Whatever." I was still sulking a few hours later, when in the still hours after midnight the phone jostled Lucy awake. She stared over her coffee at me in confusion, and I jerked my head at the blinking light on the phone. "Outside line. You gonna get that?"

"Sure." She licked her lips; I couldn't imagine what her mouth must taste like. Falling asleep after coffee and the yogurt she'd snacked on around 1 am had to have been making a bacterial stew of frightening proportions, and for a moment I thought about what her breath would do to the phone receiver. "Good evening. Thank you for calling the Back Bay Suites by Petrotel. This is Lucy speaking. How may I help you?" Her eyes strayed to the side while she listened, then they flipped straight onto me. "Um, sure. Hold on a second." She cupped the phone and raised her eyebrows at me. "He wants the manager."

"Of course he fucking does," I sighed. I contemplated her radioactive receiver. "Just schlep the call over here. I don't feel like getting up." She frowned down at the phone before choosing a button and mashing it, and I reflected sourly that there was an even chance she'd hung up. Transferring calls wasn't something I usually had Lucy do. The phone at my concierge desk chirped, though, so she must have guessed right. "Hi. My name is Veronica. What can I do for you?"

I felt the grin split my face, an uncontrollable reaction at the sound of Brett Bourne's low voice in my ear. "Funny you should ask that, Ronnie."

I creaked back in my chair and glanced at Lucy, who'd slumped straight back onto the counter with her head on her crossed arms. The grin was still twitching at my lips as I swung back around to face away from Reception. "Why's that funny, sir?" The whole lobby was deserted apart from Lucy in her stupor, but my voice dropped a few decibels anyway: I felt like I wanted to be alone. I hadn't heard Bourne's voice since the morning after he'd devoured me.