London Cumming

Date: May 9, 2020

Location: London, UK

Dear PrestigeSuites,

We only know each other by the anonymous confessions we've typed in a chatroom. My name is Cleo. My parents named me after Cleopatra. Your name is Drew—short for Andrew. It started as a childhood nickname and it stuck.

You told me you work in hotel marketing. You're 40 years old and Caucasian American. You're 5'9." You're 170 pounds with muscular legs. You have brown eyes, slight dimples in your cheeks, and you part your straight brown hair to the side. Your skin is tan "like a waffle or pancake that's been cooked just right" (lol).

I told you that I'm an international real estate agent. I'm 25 years old and also Caucasian American. I have fair skin and almond-shaped hazel eyes. My light brown hair is wavy. I part it in the center and keep it just below my collarbones. I'm not quite 5'4." I purposely didn't tell you my weight. Instead, I told you that I'm a D-cup and I have a little curve in my waist. People compliment my legs the most.

You liked my physical description.

I liked your honesty and surprisingly crude sense of humor.

We're both single; we constantly travel for work. We love our jobs and don't plan to settle down, but we spend a lot of time alone—at night in hotel rooms and in single first-class seats. We're interested in intimacy, not love. We've found that in each other.

We're always friendly, but sometimes we're flirty. Lately for me, that's inspired erotic fantasies of the two of us. I thought I could keep them to myself, but now I can't concentrate. I forget to eat. I can't sleep. For my own sanity, I can't hide how I feel anymore.

To be clear, I don't want our relationship to change. No photos. No calls. Absolutely no video chats. I only want to know you through my keyboard and my imagination.

I wrote a story about how we might meet in another life. If you feel the same way I feel, please respond.

Hesitantly yours,

Cleo

//////////

I'm in London this week showing a chic penthouse on Northumberland Avenue. It has a gorgeous open concept design, but the view is by far the best part of it. Sunlight pours through the window in the master suite. You can see the Thames and London Eye from the king-sized bed.

That's where this story takes place.

//

Despite the busy city, the master suite is quiet. The afternoon sun shines through the expansive window, and a mild floral aroma hangs in the air. The bedding is crisp and fresh, but I'm a complete wreck. You'll be here any minute. It'll be the first time we meet face-to-face.

I anxiously comb my fingers through my hair in the vanity mirror. I fluff and then comb again. Applying minimal makeup seemed like a great idea fifteen minutes ago, but now my complexion looks plain. Is the floral kimono too bold? It's short. But is it too short? Maybe it's too long. I'm barefoot. Should I put on heels? But I didn't bring heels that match this outfit. I wanted to look cute—the perfect balance of playful and sexy, youthful but still sophisticated.

"Stop," I tell myself.

I brace myself against the vanity. Time for a Cleo Call to Action. I stare at myself straight in the mirror.

"You can do this, Cleo. He's just a guy. Well, he owns a very successful luxury hotel chain. But you've sold property to people richer than him—to the one percent of the one percent. You can handle him. You will handle him. You'll handle him so well that he'll never want to be handled by anyone else."

I knock my knuckles on the vanity in affirmation. Yep. I totally got this.

I peacefully sigh and sit on the edge of the bed. While I run my hand across the plush comforter, memories of our little conversations flutter through my mind. At this point in our virtual relationship, even our mundane chitchatting makes my sex tingle. It's the little things—your kindness, your composure, your choice of emoji. But there's one thing that's been setting me off. It's a simple fact that complicates the situation...you're fifteen years older than me.

I've been told that I'm mature for my age, an "old soul," even precocious. I've always known that I'd be comfortable with someone older than me. But my magic number was eight years older, not nearly double that.

I squeeze my sticky thighs together and grip the comforter. My lungs fill with every calendar year that separates us. Just counting to fifteen makes me hot. I don't know why. I don't hate my dad. I don't want your money. Maybe it's an ego thing. Maybe if I can relate to someone so much older than me, then that means I'm special. Or maybe it's about your experience. Fifteen years is a lot of time to learn about sex and all the ways to have it.

My nipples pucker and my toes curl. Maybe that's it.

I jump when there's a knock downstairs. My legs wobble when I stand. I resist the urge to comb my hair as I rush down the staircase and through the living room.

At the front door, my pulse races. The pieces of your appearance that I know sound great separately, but it all depends on how they're put together. Too late to back out now. I take a deep breath and then open the door.

The pieces fit well together—incredibly well. And it seems like they'd fit well with mine. If I just raised onto my tippy toes, I bet my lips would touch yours. I could nuzzle against your chest and feel your arms comfortably wrap around me. Your soft t-shirt and thick sweatpants would warm my cold skin—there's quite a draft under the kimono.

My chest locks.

Oh no.

You smile. "Hi."

T-shirt. Sweatpants. Your shoes don't even have laces. You were not planning to have sex this afternoon.

I sheepishly smile. "Hi." I take a nervous step backward, and then I squeak, "Come on in!"

I clear my throat as you tilt your head. "Everything okay?"

"Yep!" I squeak again. I slip behind you and close the door.

While I lead you to the living room, I subtly pull at the hem of my kimono. It suddenly feels like my ass is on full display.

Unable to look you in the eye, I wave toward one of the oversized couches. "Can you sit and wait for a minute?"—I shuffle toward the staircase—"I'm going to get changed."

"Why? You look great."

"Thank you!" I shout too loudly as my foot touches the first step. "I'll be right back."

"Cleo." Hearing you say my name hits me like a tranquilizer dart. Your voice is like warm maple syrup. "What's going on?"

After a deep breath, I brace my hand on the railing and finally face you. I regret it immediately. God, you look yummy. Your skin and hair glow from the sunlight. Even in your relaxed loungewear, I can see your trim physique. And the way you look at me...I want to sit in your lap and tell you all of my secrets.

I feel absolutely filthy between my legs, but I innocently smile. Touching my silk garment, I say, "I feel overdressed—or rather, underdressed. Heh. Um. I thought we were going to...do things today. But it seems like you have something more casual in mind."

"I want to have sex with you."

Holy railing, give me strength. "Excuse me?"

"I wore this because it's easy to take off."

My elbow quivers while I desperately grip onto the railing, trying to look unaffected. Even though my knees can barely keep me upright, I stand tall. "Fine. Let's have sex."

With a mischievous twinkle in your eye, you shift your gaze to the couch next to me. "Let's do it there—right by the window."

My poise wavers. "I-I'd prefer to do it upstairs." It's much easier to change dirty sheets than scrub out a stain before a prospective buyer arrives.

When you sharpen your attention onto me, panic strikes. What's going on? This has never happened before. I'm a seductress. I excite and captivate. I architect every idea, every sensation, every moment of arousal in a situation. I don't squeak and run away.

You take a step forward. "I'll come over there and convince you."

I do squeak.

You dash toward me.

I do run away.

My kimono and my hair billow behind me while I scurry up the stairs. I sprint down the hallway, dart into the master bedroom, and then stop at the edge of the bed. What am I doing? This is what I wanted.

In one cinematic motion, you turn me around and kiss me. I deeply inhale in surprise. My body stiffens with anxious desire, but then it easily calms when your scent surrounds me. Fresh and undeniably masculine, it relaxes me like incense.

My mouth opens with yours as you place your hand on the back of my head. The other rests on my cheek. I sigh. My fingers grasp your t-shirt when your tongue touches mine; I have to grip harder when it glides farther into my mouth.

You lead the kiss. It's slow and sensual—intentionally restrained. It weakens me until I lose my will to stand on my own. Your arms find my waist when mine find your neck. I whimper when you pull me to you, and my sex pulses when it presses against your erection.

You won't let me go, and I don't want you to. Even when you tease me with lingering pecks or light touches of your fingers, I want you to keep me entranced in your arms.

My moist lips fall against your cheek when you gently turn away. With lust-lazy eyes, I see you slyly smile. You brush your fingers along the edge of my kimono by my chest. "What are you wearing under here? Something fun?"

I breathe, "I'm not wearing anything."

My balance wavers as you untie my kimono. I gasp when your warm hand slides up my waist, and I whine after your thumb flicks my hard nipple. Your other hand glides over my hip and then squeezes my ass. I whimper and grip your shoulders to steady myself. I almost collapse when you sneak two fingers between my legs.

I can't stop watching you slip your fingers along my drooling lips. Based on the tone of your voice, I imagine you're smiling. "Is all of this for me?"

Oh, fuck.

I nearly cry, "Yes."

You lift my chin and then slide your sticky index finger into my mouth. I suck my sweet juices from your knuckles while I stare into your eyes. Next, you suck them from your middle finger with a devious smirk. My cheeks blush while my heart throbs.

When you slip off my kimono, I drop onto the bed—unable to stand any longer. I watch you take off your shirt while I clumsily climb up the bed. Desire steams from my skin while you toss it away. My head has just reached the pillows when your sweatpants and boxer briefs hit the floor.

I whine at the sight of your hard cock. My legs fall open. My pulse pounds in my chest. My clit urgently tenses. After all this time, I want it now. You lower your head toward my sex, but I beg, "Just give it to me. Please."

I pant as you center yourself. When you slide inside me, I gasp and immediately shake. I helplessly whimper while my orgasm ripples through me. You fit perfectly.

After my body settles, you look pleasantly surprised. "Already?"

I reach for you and whine, "Daddy."

You're gliding in and out of me in a second. My fingers grip your hair. My legs clutch your hips. My sex accepts your rhythm—smooth, eager, and deep.

You exhale into my ear, "Oh god."

I can only whisper, "Daddy."

I gasp when you slide yourself deeper. Your hair brushes against my forehead while my lip quivers, and my clit tingles under your rocking pelvis. That tingling escalates to pulsing, which stops my breath and heats my sweaty skin.

I gasp, "It's happening again." My body jolts and I come beneath you—quivering between your arms.

Cool air wisps across my belly when you sit up. Goosebumps prick my body as you softly say, "Baby, turn over."

Somehow I'm on my hands and knees. There's a slight sensation between my legs before you plunge inside.

I cry out; the sensation is astonishing. The sound undoubtedly echoes through the penthouse. My head falls to the pillow when you make your first fluid thrust. I clutch the sheets while I wail your name into the pillow, over and over again until you shock me with a finger on my clit. With my mouth mute and thighs shaking, you hold my hips so I can clench around your incredible cock.

I regain enough of my senses to get you to sit on the bed. Then I express my gratitude with my lips, and tongue, and delicate hand. You groan when I take your dick into my mouth. It's already slick with my arousal, so I suck and slurp up and down in dramatic circles. Your thighs quiver. Your chest heaves. Your eyes gaze into mine while I suckle on your sensitive tip.

With doe eyes and swollen lips, I stroke your dick with light fingers. I take it out of my mouth. "Daddy."

Your jaw falls open—overwhelmed by my adoration. You breathe, "Fuck."

I whimper just before I slide your cock between my lips. Focusing fully on my task, I take it in farther until it touches the back of my throat.

"Cleo."

I whine as my sex throbs for you again. I stumble upright and then weakly kiss you. You cup my cheeks in your hands while I try to tell you how much I want you without words. But I'm too tired. My lips hang open against yours. I can only touch your tongue with the tip of mine. It doesn't feel like enough.

You encourage me, "Lay down."

I collapse on my back, and then you kiss my neck. You kiss down my quivering body. The farther you go, the more urgently I whine your name. I know where you're going. I want you there, but I don't know if I can take any more. Suddenly, you open my legs and press your mouth to my clit.

I fucking scream. Sharp, mind-blowing energy explodes inside me. I yank your hair while my body stuns in euphoria.

I quiver while you crawl on top of me. I whimper and dumbly nod my head as you center yourself. When you slide back inside, we both weakly gasp. You feel my soft center until you're quivering yourself. I breathe, "Come inside me," and then you release in exhausted spurts.

The bed bounces when you fall beside me. I don't know how long it takes us to recover. At some point, I clearly hear you say, "I never properly introduced myself. I'm Drew."