Rage Against the Latrine Ch. 02

My body shivered - either through cold, fright or excitement - in the stairwell as I pondered my next move. Seconds ticked by. Guests entered and left the lobby, crossing the carpeted entrance to the lift, the bar, the dining room or the exit. I gulped. Sneaking out was not an option; there were too many people. I considered running across the atrium, but that would draw attention to me.

My hands shook as my stinking, sweaty body pushed open the door and I stepped out into the space. No-one spotted me at first; I was just another person traversing the reception area, and then I heard a squeal behind me. A cold rush of air whooshed past me as a concierge entered through the imposing gold and glass front door. Fear gripped me, and I sprinted into the Victorian entrance hall.

Shouts echoed as I crossed the space. Shocked yells as my legs powered across the atrium. The security guard hesitated, and I could see the look of confusion in his eyes as I ignored the shouts and flung myself out into the street. My wet boxers reeked of piss and the swirling wind enveloping the cold London road in December made my skin feel icy.

I never stopped and scurried down the middle of the pavement. Cries and wails around me as the half-naked, brightly haired man attracted attention. Illuminated by the streetlamps and garish lights on the front of the bars, cars whizzed past me as I hurried to the crossroads and entered the foyer of my budget hotel.

"Sir," the receptionist called as I crossed the reception to the stairs. The uniformed woman, in her early twenties, stared past a couple she was checking in and everyone glared at me. My insides burnt, my cheeks scorched, and my cock rose. "Can I help you?"

"I... I... I checked in earlier. Going back to my room." I gulped as the three adults scowled. I held my key card aloft, panting. "Sorry, the girl I was with? Her husband found out and barged in. I had to run for it." I don't know where the lie came from, but as the receptionist glowered at me. It seemed less perverse to admit to breaking up a marriage to what I had actually been engaged in.

"Aren't you the guy that dreadful woman peed over?" The wife asked as my hand touched the door to the stairwell. "We read in our newspaper."

I coughed. "That was just a trick," I lied. "She wouldn't really urinate over another person," I added, as the smell of the acrid urine from my body reached her nose and she sniffed. I pushed open the door to the stairs and ran to the third floor.

My hotel room. My sanctuary. And a place where I could masturbate in private.

Natasha had just added to my wank bank for life. What a fantastic woman she was.