Shouldn't Be

Author's note: This was written for the Literotica 750 Word Project 2021. It's supposed to be short. Hope you enjoy it anyway.

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"Pathetic, aren't they?"

She took the stool beside me, leaning back against the bar, studying the room with me.

It was a hotel "Manager's Reception"—two complimentary drinks and tepid finger foods offered each evening to business guests. I never went to them. My younger co-worker insisted.

She was chubby. Frumpy. But so was I. For the next hour we traded caustic quips about the crowd with their forced laughs and eagerness to get laid. When we ran out of insults, we made up stories.

"She was head cheerleader in high school and misses the adoration and savage railing she got from all the jocks."

"He only has a job because he's the brother of the CIO's mistress."

"That one blackmails the amputee intern in the mailroom for blowjobs."

By the time we'd downed our second drink, our insults and made-up backstories were so dark and ridiculous we were crying with laughter.

By accident, I caught her eye. Our gaze held.

"Truth is," I said, "I've never had a one-night stand."

"Yeah. Me neither."

She leaned back, again studying the collected middle managers slowly pairing off. My co-worker's hand was massaging the thigh of some over-accessorized cougar.

"Want to?" she asked.

"Oh, suuuure" I said. "I'm in 532. Bring scotch."

"Well, I'm in 511. Bring wine."

Later in my room I got bored flicking channels. The mini-bar held one mini-wine.

Turning the corner in the hall, we collided, her mini-bottles of scotch clattering to the carpet.

"I was coming to see you as a joke," she laughed.

"Me too."

We regarded each other carefully for a long moment, then grinned.

Closing her door, she said, "So how does this work?"

"Er, we strip, neck and grope, then have unsatisfying, fumbling sex we regret immediately after."

We stripped. She was chubby and unshaved; her past-prime boobs starting their droop. I only liked slim, waxed and perky. So why was I painfully erect?

Necking and groping, we moaned "oh, baby"—sarcastically at first, then for real. Her nakedness felt exquisite against mine—luxuriously soft, a heady feminine scent rising from her warm skin.

Our first kiss shouldn't have been so perfect.

I pushed her towards the bed the same moment she pulled me, and we toppled, giggling. Together we flung off the cover and groped and kissed, confused by our mounting excitement until I was poised between her thighs.

She positioned me then gasped, eyes widening, as I pushed, both of us sighing, eyes locked.

I withdrew then slowly hilted in her balls deep. She was heaven. She was home.

"You shouldn't feel this good," I breathed.

"Neither should you," she groaned, bucking, legs wrapping around me. "You're not my type. Too chubby."

"We can stop."

"Don't you dare."

I tried fucking her, using her body for my pleasure with no concern for hers. That's what a one-night stand is, right?

I couldn't. We were poetry. No—we were telepathic. I sensed when to go slow, when to pound, where to kiss her neck, when to tease her opening before surging inside, her every moan an exalting reward. She knew to rake her nails across my ass at the right time precisely the right way, to buck and wriggle when I needed it, caress my neck exactly right.

She rolled us over just as I was going to ask, then rode me ravenously—a luminous goddess of lust.

Her hoarse gasp and angelic expression when later she came had me flooding her with a delirious abandon so draining it felt like giving her my very soul. And truth is, I wanted to.

After, we stared at each other, rattled. She playfully nipped my nose like only my high school sweetheart had ever done.

"Was that... is that how one-night stands usually go?" she said, her lusty smirk rapidly resurrecting me inside her.

"If it is," I said, "people wouldn't do anything else. I was with a girl for seven years and the sex was never that good."

"I was with a guy for six, and likewise. How did you know to... I felt like... I wanted... we..."

"I know," I whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

Our next kiss was even more perfect.

"It was a fluke," I said. "A onetime thing. We were just horny."

"Right," she agreed. "We'd better do it some more. Better make sure."

We did. Until dawn. In every conceivable way. It only got better.

Now, ten years later, every time is better still.