The Catfish Chronicles - Ch 01 - Exposed

“You’re married,” I asked, my heart was dropping through my stomach. This awful, horrible sinking feeling. I felt adrift, unmoored, like I’d been sitting on top of a house of cards tumbling down.

I climbed off him, standing, wobbling on black thigh high fetish boots, I’d bought specially four our rendez vous. I pushed my spandex miniskirt as low as it would go, which wasn’t much, regretting not wearing panties.

“No!” Jay said. His face was smeared with my glossy red lipstick. “I’m not married.”

“Bullshit!” I snapped. I was angry, this beautiful sexy fantasy, had gone tits up, and now I was stuffing mine back into a tiny bustier, while his exposed cock wilted.

“How did you know?” he asked, his face a mask of panic, as he was pulling up his trousers.

And just like that, it got worse. I could have been wrong, I wanted to be wrong. I wanted him to deny and explain and we could get back on track. I’d apologize for my psychotic episode, and then we’d carry on.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Come on, it’s not a big deal. Look, it’s complicated.”

I wasn’t buying it. Mainly, I was kicking myself. Months of flirting and sexting, long distance calls, heartfelt conversations, phone sex, opening up to each other.

“Not a big deal?” I snapped. “But you never mentioned it? You wear a frigging wedding ring.”

Unconsciously he moved his hand to cover it, feeling it’s absence.

“Tan line, Jay!” I snapped. “I can see the tan line. If you’ve got a tan line for your wedding ring, that tells me you’re pretty committed.”

“All right,” he admitted. “But it’s complicated. It has nothing to do with this...”

Sure, it’s always complicated.

I felt stupid, which was what made me angry. If I’d have known, maybe it would have been different. I’m not a slut or anything. But peoples lives are complicated, and maybe it would have been all right, maybe it would have been normal, or acceptable. Maybe the marriage was dead and I wouldn’t have been treading. Or maybe I’d be up for a little fling that harmed no one. But he hadn’t told me.

I’d been looking forward to him coming to town for weeks, we’d been talking about it, planning it. I’d shopped carefully, building my outfit, building towards this night. The thigh high fetish boots, all shiny and black had been the final touch. I’d showed up at his hotel door, looking like a hooker, looking like sex incarnate. When he opened it, when we finally met in person, I could see the wonderful astonishment on his face, the way his heart skipped a beat, his jaw dropped.

We’d made it to the couch, kissing passionately. I’d straddled him, miniskirt up around my hips, his cock out, our bare genitals lightly brushing each other, his hands on my boobs...and I’d noticed the tan line.

I wouldn’t have even noticed, but I’d read about it the day before at the stylist, tips on spotting a married player. And the bottom dropped out of my world.

Played for a fool.

That’s what hurts.

You think you’ve got something, something real, a connection. Then you realize, you were just stupid. He played you because you were stupid. He played you because he thought you were stupid. And you fell for it.

How do you trust someone after that?

“Look,” he said desperately, “it’s not a big deal. We’re not really together. And it’s far away. Come on, we’ve had all this... we have a connection. Real chemistry.”

How do you fuck someone who thinks you’re stupid?

“Jay,” I said, “if that’s your name -”

“It is!”

“You catfished me. I’m sorry, we’re done.”

I was trembling, shaking with humiliation and embarrassment. I could still feel wetness between my legs, the sense of lightness and excitement I’d had riding the elevator, walking down the hall. But now it had turned wrong, and I had this weight in my stomach. Shame. I was blushing, my face was hot.

With as much dignity as I could muster, I turned around, grabbed my purse and walked out the door.

“Goodbye Jay,” I said frostily, with as much dignity as I could muster, “it wasn’t fun.”

The door closed, I was in the hallway.

It was over.

I sighed. I still felt stupid and angry. I pulled my smartphone out of my purse and I deleted his contact. Another tap on the screen, months of increasingly hot text messages vanished out of the world. Fuck him.

I felt a little better. I stalked down the hotel hallway, the high heels of the fetish boots giving my stride a slightly martial quality, like I was marching instead of walking. Stomping. How do hookers walk sexy in these things? Whatever. Fuck Jay.

He didn’t even have the decency to come after me. The phone didn’t ring, no texts appeared, he didn’t follow me out into the hallway, didn’t try to explain or beg or apologise. Fuck him.

At the Elevator, I turned around and marched back angrily. Suddenly, I was standing in front of his hotel door again. Was he watching me through the peephole? Should I knock. I didn’t want to see him, but I sort of wanted to see him. It didn’t feel right like this, there should be something more. But here I was dressed like a hooker, standing in front of the door of a man who had played me, angry and horny and without any idea of what to do.

“You’re an asshole!” I shouted at the door.

No response. I kicked it a couple of times.

“Fuck you,” I shouted. “Just fuck you, okay.”

Then I marched off. Did I feel any better? Maybe. Sort of.

No one was in the hallway, or the elevator. I punched parkade level. Hopefully no one would get on and I’d avoid further humiliation. I fished my compact from my purse, to check my make up, and used a wet wipe to clean up a lipstick smear.

Go home, throw all this hooker looking crap into the rubbish. No, burn it! How? I’d figure that out. Get a box of wine, drink the whole thing and just blot this stupid night out.

The doors opened onto the parkade. And a cold breeze swept around me, up under my skirt, across bare midriff and shoulders, hardening my nipples and tickling, and I realized, I’d been wearing my good trenchcoat. After all, I wouldn’t drive through the city looking like a hooker. I’d forgotten it up there.

I’d have to go back and get it. My face reddened and went hot. Fuck!

Back into the elevator, back to the floor, march down the hallway. Should I knock? Fuck that. There was no way out of this without looking stupid. I didn’t want to look like I’d come crawling back.

I kicked at the door. No response. I kicked harder.

“Hey asshole,” I yelled at the door. “I want my coat back.”

Nothing. I waited, counting off fifteen seconds.

“Hey!” I kicked the door again.

He was ignoring me. The fucking coward! God, I was so stupid, I should have known he was a cowardly passive aggressive weasel from the start. I should have known.

I kicked it hard, leaving scuff marks.

“Hey,” I yelled loudly. “Stop being a dick. I want my coat. Just give it to me, so I can fuck off out of here.”

No response.

“You coward! You passive aggressive dick! Give me back my fucking coat.”

The door swung open.

A complete stranger looked out at me. Some fat middle aged guy with a comb-over and an undershirt loosely tucked in his pants, bare feet.

For a moment, we stared at each other with mute incomprehension.

This wasn’t Jay. Had Jay invited him over after I left? Were they together? Where was Jay? Was this a gay thing? Then it hit me.

“Oh,” I said weakly. “Wrong room.”

“Right,” said the man.

“Yeah,” I said, I could feel myself shrinking by the moment, folding in on myself, a bigger and bigger idiot. “Yeah. My ... uh... my boyfriend, he left. I left I mean. I left my coat in his room... just now, not like yesterday, but you know, just a moment ago and I wanted to get it...”

He was staring, but not in a good way.

“We kind of had an argument. So I forgot.”

“It’s not here.”

“I can see that. Sorry... did I wake you?”

The door slammed shut. The number was right. The floor was wrong. What floor was Jay on? I couldn’t remember.

I pulled my phone out to check the text message with his room number.

Deleted.

Of course.

This night just kept getting better and better.

That was an expensive coat. I’d paid top dollar for it, and it was practically new.

Fuck me.

Time to quit while I was ahead. Go home. Maybe Jay would text me and we’d make arrangements to have it returned. Or maybe he’d leave it behind, and I could get it from the hotel. But mainly, go home, forget this whole Catfish episode never happened.

As I approached the elevator again, the door opened. A heavy-set, middle-aged, balding man stepped out. He flashed a badge.

“Hotel Detective,” he said. “Ma’am I’d like you to come with me.”

Fuck me.

***

This was my first visit to the security office. I wasn’t thrilled. I kept tugging at my spandex miniskirt and wishing I’d worn panties, even a thong. We were on the third floor, which seemed to be the service floor - it had that unfinished utilitarian look, laundry carts along the sides of the hallways waiting to go into action, light fixtures without their plastic sheaths.

Security was a windowless room. On one wall a bank of monitors showed shifting displays of the lobby, of hallways with people waking down them, of the parkade. Not a lot of empty hallways.

“Not a lot of empty hallways,” I said conversationally.

He looked up from a form he was filling out beside me, I noticed he let his eyes travel across my body like I was oiled head to toe, before he looked me in the face. Well, why not, I sighed mentally, I was dressed the part.

“Motion sensors,” he said. “The security cameras cycle through on a random program, but if there’s motion, that activates them. Mostly it’s just people going to and from their rooms.”

Oh right. Or demented hookers going from floor to floor, kicking doors and screaming at guests. I was grateful he left that part out.

So there was a video record of my humiliation.

This just got better and better.

“I’m not a hooker,” I said.

He gave me another sliding look, from kinky fetish heels, to latex thigh high boots, all the way up again.

“I know what it looks like. But I’m not a hooker. Really.”

“Okay,” he said. I could tell he didn’t believe me. “Ma’am, I don’t really care. I’m just doing my job.”

“No really. I was seeing this guy.”

“Uh huh.”

“And we were having this thing, this really intense thing. So I dressed up. But then I found out he catfished me and I got mad...”

“Catfished?” Careful, neutral, indifferent.

“Never mind.”

I sighed. I could see it now. Crazed hooker harasses guests. The police would haul me away. I’d be stuck in jail overnight with real hookers. Then I’d be in front of some Judge who wouldn’t believe me. Jay would be back wherever he’d come from, I couldn’t even contact him to get him to explain. And he probably wouldn’t even admit anything even if I could contact him, because that would screw up his marriage. My picture would be in the papers, probably with video stills of me kicking down a door. The hotel would sue me. I’d lose my job.

Fuck me.

How do real hookers get out of these things? Promise of sex? I eyed the Hotel Detective speculatively. His name tag read ‘Mark.” Would that work? Maybe I should? He’d probably say no.

What a life. Fuck me.

“So when do the police come?”

“Police?” he looked up more quickly this time.

Sure, I thought. Police.

“To take me to the station, and process my charge.”

“You’re not under arrest.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” he said, “I just fill out a trespass notice barring you from the premises, take your picture for future reference, and escort you from the building. That’s all. Then I go to the rooms you harassed, and fill out incident reports.”

“Oh!”

Suddenly, this sense of relief flushed through me. I could literally feel tension washing out of me. I felt lighter, suddenly happier. I looked at Mark with a warmer light.

“If you try to return, we’ll call the police.”

“I don’t plan on coming back here for the rest of my life,” I said sincerely.

“No problem then.”

“I’m parked here.”

“I just escort you from the building, if your car is in the parkade, you’ll have to get someone to come get it for you. Or it will be towed.”

“Oh,” that wasn’t so great. But still, a lot better off. But then again, I was going to have my picture taken, and I’d be in their files as crazy hooker girl, and they’d probably keep the footage of me kicking doors. So that kind of sucked.

Then an idea crept back in my mind, one that had emerged in fear and futility when I’d been scared and thought I was going to jail. It had felt stupid and desperate. But now that the stakes were lower... it almost seemed plausible.

I looked him over. Not bad looking, not great. Ordinary, attentive. One of these regular, unexceptional men, but not bad. Maybe I could flirt my way out. I smiled at him, not huge, that would be fake. But just a little smile. Parted my knees an inch or two. Leaned forward a little closer to him.

“Mark,” I said. “Do we have to do all this. I’ve had a really shitty night, my boyfriend turned out to be married. I promise you, I never want to come here again. Let’s just let me get my car and go home.”

“I’d like to do that,” he said. “But I have to follow policy.”

He wouldn’t look at me.

“Really? I just want to go home and forget this all ever happened.”

“We’ll wrap up the paperwork and have you on your way.”

I leaned in a little further, just emphasizing my cleavage. Okay, maybe flirting wasn’t enough. How much further? A blow job? Blow jobs were almost casual, I’d done them in high school and university, I’d done them just to get out of boring dates, or on drunken impulse. Quick, simple, done. Nothing really, for all that men were so wild about them. Barely more than a handshake to a stranger.

And with embarrassment, I remembered how I’d been willing, even wildly eager to do so much more to a different stranger who had turned out to be a total asshole.

The more I thought about it, it just seemed that this was the quickest way out.

Why not.

I leaned a little further. Scooted my chair closer to his, moving to the edge of my seat. Our knees touched.

“We don’t really need paperwork, do we?” I husked.

He coloured slightly, not quite willing to look at me.

“It’s the job.”

“Really?” I whispered. “Can’t we just work it out?”

I put two fingertips on his knee, moving forward a bit, the insides of our knees brushing against each other. He stopped writing, frozen.

Carefully, watching him, I walked my two fingers up his thigh, smiling gently at him, marching them slowly towards his crotch. Unsteadily, he reached down to stop me, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he let me catch his hand and guide it between the inside of my thighs, where I laid it against the vinyl of my fetish boot. I allowed my legs to part slowly, opening.

It was as if he was hypnotized, unable to move, letting me take command. I liked the feeling, it was empowering. I let my fingers walk step by step across his upper thigh, down towards his crotch pressing at the folds of fabric, where I could feel his cock swelling rapidly.

I felt his hand moving along the inside of the boot, the pressure on my clad thigh giving way to the touch of skin on skin. I felt a tingle of excitement, and eased my ass forward just a little more on the chair, opening as it did.

My hand cupped his crotch, I could feel his cock, like a live thing, swelling and stiffening as it fought against his underwear, to rise up. I helped guide it to its new position. It felt thick. I could feel it hardening more and more with each passing moment as a squeezed it gently.

His fingers touched my lips, bringing a little gasp from me. His eyes widened a little at the touch, the unexpected softness of my folds. My secret was out, no panties, I was completely accessible to him. I could feel him tremble with excitement, feel his blush, his sensual arousal and it excited me too. I could feel my lips part, the wetness coming back, as he probed gently, as his fingertips fluttered between my legs.

With my free hand, I pulled at my bustier, exposing my nipples. He was utterly fascinated, enraptured. I had completely captured him. There was a sensation of elation, of arousal.

“Let’s just forget the paperwork,” I whispered, squeezing his cock. “The picture, the notice, all of it. I promise I won’t come back, ever. Just let it go... and I’ll make it worth it. Deal?”

“Deal,” his voice husked, as his fingertips stroked my clit, slid down between but not quite inside my lips. His hand was shaking.

“Okay,”

Victory. A weird little victory, but yes, there was this tiny feeling of triumph, of validation, of being in some weird way, in control.

“I have to lock the door,” he rasped.

“Okay.”

He stood up rapidly, too rapidly, slightly awkwardly, as his erection tented his trousers. I moved back in my chair to let him past, feeling him brush against my knees. He locked the door with clumsy, frantic motions, and then came back with that weird trying to be casual but also too hasty way that men have when they’re super-horney, almost falling over themselves.

“Let’s do a blow job, okay?” I offered. I didn’t especially want him in me after all. I hoped he didn’t want more. But I wanted to get it out there, set the terms of engagement. “You’ll love it.”

“All right.”

Good, acceptance.

He leaned back against his desk. I reached out, to undo his belt. Men’s belts are tricky, they’re always so tightly cinched and folded into loops. As I worked it, he reached down and finished undoing it with trembling hands. I unzipped him, and a second later, he was pushing his pants and boxers down his thighs. I barely had a sense of pinstriped boxers and pink cock peeking out, before it was down, and then his full erection was springing out, and hot and throbbing in my hand.

I leaned forward in the chair, but my fetish heels made the position awkward, so I slid forward, down to one knee in front of him, looking for a comfortable posture. I steadied myself, one hand against his thigh, the other wrapped around his cock, and hoped he wouldn’t notice my awkwardness.

“You’re going to love this,” I whispered up at him, mostly to distract him.

His cock was thick, extraordinarily thick, my fingers barely wrapped around it, but oddly, the head was small and circumcized, a small cap on a wide shaft, that arched slightly. For some reason, it made me think of a musical instrument, a horn.

I thought suddenly that was where the word horney came from, because of cocks like this that looked like horns. I almost wanted to press my lips to it and try to blow air down the urethra. What sound would that make? But I thought it might hurt him.

Instead, I pressed my lips against the head, already glistening with precum, and let them spread, enfolding the glans and widening to encompass the first inches of the shaft.

He groaned, and I felt this wave of pleasure and weakness ripple through his body, his struggle to hold himself up as he leaned back against the desk. I glanced up at him, with his cock in my mouth, making brief I contact. I could taste the saltiness of his precum, and rolled my tongue around the glans, making him shiver and gasp again. I loved the feel of his responses, the transparency of them, the way I could make his whole body react with just a movement of my lips, a dart of a tongue this way or that.

I kept my hand on his shaft, stroking back and forth, wary of him reaching down and trying to push my head further down. My jaws were distended with just couple of inches, and there was no way I could take that thick monster deeper without gagging. Instead, I teased the head, lifting my mouth around it, then clamping down, lapping or stroking with my tongue, trying to time it with the movement of my hand. When I felt I had my balance all right, I dared to released his thigh and cradle and tease his balls with my freed hand.

My blow jobs had always been hasty things, preludes to real sex, or warm ups, or just drunken encounters, or casual ‘finish this and go away’ things. But oddly, here in the moment, there was something exciting about it. Maybe it was his responsiveness, the way his body shivered and quaked with every touch, as if I was plucking a musical instrument, the sense of power it gave me. Maybe it was the transgressiveness of it all, the naughtiness, the fact that he thought I was some hooker. I felt a kind of wild weightlessness, an elation, an erotic charge, that left me wet. I could feel my clit throb, my lips art and dilate, could feel the arousal in my own body.

I expected him to come right away, prepared to seal my lips around, and swallow. But he didn’t, and after moments, I didn’t want him to come. When his quaking grew too intense, I’d squeeze the base of his cock tightly, pulling his balls, lifting my mouth and breathing hotly, as the desperate spasms eased off from the edge of ejaculation. It had become exciting, and I didn’t want to let him go just yet, denying his orgasm was another frisson of power of excitement.

I wobbled on one knee, and grabbed his thigh to steady myself, covering it by letting my palm slide up his shirt, across his hairy belly, making it sensuous. Just slightly off balance my mouth slid down just a little too far on his shaft, I felt a slight tickle that could become a gag, and pushed off, lifting until my lips wrapped tighly around his head. There was another fleeting taste of pre-cum. The thick curving shaft throbbed hot and urgent in my hand.

Suddenly, I wanted it. I wanted it in me. I wanted to feel the head of his cock between my legs. I wanted the thickness in me. I had these image flashes of his hands on my breasts, wrapping my thighs around that thick muscular ass. I wanted to be fucked good and hard, real, raw passionate, uninhibited sex. No romance, no excitement, no dancing around, none of the bullshit, just fucking.

I lifted my mouth off his cock, still maintaining my death grip on his shaft.

“Are you ready to fuck?” I asked huskily, as if that had been the plan all along.

“Oh yeah,” he grunted.

I thought of something.

“Do you have a condom?” I asked.

“No,” do you.

I felt a tiny wince.

“In my purse,” I said.

Terrific. Now he’d be absolutely sure I was a hooker. Who else carries condoms in their purse. But at the same time, I didn’t care, because I just wanted that cock. As he turned to grab my purse from the desk and hand it to me, I slid my mouth over his cock quickly, one more time, lashing the head with my tongue and feeling a gratifying shiver of weakness run through him.

My hands shook slightly, as I fished through my purse from a kneeling position, found a condom, tore it open and wrapped him. In the sheen of the latex, it was oddly disappointing, muted, and I had this weird fleeting regret at covering its beauty. I’d never thought of a cock as beautiful before, it had just never occurred to me to think that way, and the notion suprised me.

There was an awkward moment as I climbed to my feet, pushing my miniskirt up, and we shifted positions around, pushing papers and phone back to the other side of the desk. Then my ass was perching rough against the desk, propping myself up on elbows. I lifted my knees up. He was between my legs, one hand on his cock, attention fixed on it, the other on my hip. I wanted it so bad, I could taste it. With one hand, I reached down, brushing fingertips against his erection, drawing it to me, spreading my lips apart as I felt the touch of his head.

Then he plunged into me, the girth and thickness spreading me open wide as it surged in. I gasped loudly in sheer pleasure at feeling him, feeling the thickness of his shaft, its throbbing rigity, the way it curved up inside me as it thrust and filed me.

I wanted to savour the feeling of him inside me, wanted to drench myself in the sensation of being filled so completely. But he didn’t wait, as soon as he bottomed in me, his cock pressing deep, his balls and pubes slapping against me, he pulled back and thrust had again, drawing another gasp from me.

He fucked hard and relentless, holding me pinned like a butterly on the desk. I wrapped my legs around his ass again and again, and he’d buck, fucking himself free, my shiny black boots and heels kicking wildly in ecstasy. My back arched to meet each thrust, trying to work him a little deeper with each lunge, to be opened by a little more girth. His hands were like vises against my hips holding them in place as he fucked with everything he had.

I gasped and grunted, our bodies smashing together again and again. I could feel sweat breaking out all over my body, smell the sex in the air, I could hear the sound of his cock plunging into my drenched pussy, and over it, the sound of our breathing, our gasping, my heartbeat. I wanted it all, and I wanted more. Fucking filled my mind, it was everything, I couldn’t think, it was all there was, and I wanted more. I arched my back, pressing my breasts together, offering them up again and again. Finally, I reached down and grabbed his hands rom my hips, wrapping my legs tight around him, I pulled his hands to my breasts, feeling their hot weight, the pressure as his fingers clenched squeezing them tightly. My boots kicked again as I ground my clit against his body.

The hands on my breasts, the almost painful clenching was ecstatic, but my hips were too free. There wasn’t the intensity of pounding, even as I tried to hold him in place. Above me, his sweat dripped from his brow, his face was contorted. He saw me and yet didn’t see me, wrapped in his own sexual haze. I had an impulse, I didn’t want to look at his face.

“Turn me over,” I said. “I want to be fucked bent over the desk.”

Hands off my breasts. Cock pulled out, there was a feeling of absence, of loss. I wanted to reach down, grab it, yank it back where it belonged. We parted, again awkwardly and hastily. For a second, I was off the desk, and standing, his hands guiding unnecessarily. Then I was bending forward onto my elbows, arching my back. I could feel his vise grip hands on my hips, on my ass. I pushed back, seeking him.

His cock couldn’t find me. It thrust against my thigh, my belly. I moaned with frustration, suddenly worried that we couldn’t do it in this position, that it wouldn’t work. He pushed down on my ass, trying to change the angle. I understood, spreading my legs wider, to lower. As my legs spread, I could feel my lips parting, opening in wet anticipation. Almost there, I could feel the head of his cock seeking purchase. I bent my knees a little.

“Yes!” I shouted in joy, as his thick cock rammed up in me in one wild thrust, mine once again, back where it belonged. Again, I wanted to savour it, but again he thrust relentlessly. In this angle, in this position, I could push into him with ever arch of my back, every thrust of his hips, and the feeling was glorious. It was as if with ever thrust, his cock reared out deliciously inside of me, sending wave after wave of ecstacy.

“Not so loud,” he grunted. I had half awareness, that we were in the the maintenance floor, in a security office. Who knew who was passing by outside, what they might think, who they might tell, or who might have keys to walk in on us. Part of me didn’t care at all, just cared about this cock rearing up in me with every thrust, the rapid waves. Part of me knew we were transgressing, breaking rules, and that made it wilder, more intense, as if we were racing against some enemy. And some part understood it would be bad.

“I’ll try,” I grunted. “But it’s just so good.”

Stroke his ego, I thought. But I struggled to stifle my moans. He leaned over me. I could feel his weight on my back as he pushed up into me. His vise-grip hands found my breasts again, the almost painful grips bringing hisses of pressure. Pinned now to the desk by his weight, pulled into position, my legs felt like jelly. Only the rampant thrusting of his cock hold me up and in place. Then I felt it.

“Oh god,” I tried to whisper. “Oh god, it’s close, it’s coming, I can feel it building.”

“Just do it quietly.”

“I’ll try!”

My orgasm felt like a boulder rolling down a hill, it felt huge and unstoppable, an immense force coming over me. In my mind’s eye, I visualized myself tied down at the base of the hill, spread eagled wide, my pussy elevated and centered to meet this overpowering, onrushing force.

Then it hit. My body went white, I could feel my muscles going stiff and spastic, I was hot and cold, I couldn’t breathe. I could feel a hand clamped across my mouth, stifling an unending scream, and pressed both of my hands against it, pushing hard, sealing it tighter. I sucked air through my nostrils, but there wasn’t enough of it. Black spots, swirled around the edge of my vision, the scream flattening against his palm.

Then it was over. I tore the palm from my mouth, clutching his hand in mind, sucking in great lung fulls of air. His relentless thrusting paused, and finally, my trembling body, sweat drenched, shaking like a leaf, all my muscles turned to water, could just enjoy the feel of his cock inside me, my possession, my property. Mine, I thought with aimless delirium, I should keep it, he just walks around with it, he could never appreciate it like I do.

“Holy shit,” I grunted softly.

“You okay?”

“Oh yeah, that was just intense,” I replied, I was still panting, and lightheaded.

Gently, he began to move inside me, it first just a little, but each movement became more pronounced, the rocking became thrusting, this time even fiercer and more urgent. Again, I felt the waves of pleasure from his cock rearing up savagely within me, full of fury and wildness. His hands moved from my breasts to my shoulders to my hips and back, always seeking purchase, exploring, pushing my now boneless form onto his manhood.

The orgasm had left me feeling like jelly, but now I felt it starting up again, building. The boneless lassitude giving it a new feeling, a sense of the dam having broken, and pleasure building in new easier ways. By contrast, I felt the urgency in the way his body crashed against mine, the fierceness and rigidity of his touch. I realized he was trying to reach his own orgasm, trying to come, or simply finally driving towards it. Perhaps not struggling, but now on some kind of threshold, he’d become the boulder rolling down the hill towards shattering impact.

The feeling of it, my boneless, jelly bliss, and the wildness of his fucking, the decay of his rigid control as the energy spilled and the arousal crept up his spine set me off again, in a faster, more fluid orgasm. My legs kicked, pushing all my weight onto his cock. I grabbed one of his hands, biting into the meat of his palm to suppress another scream. This one was like floating, breathless, free fall. And then I could breath again.

But the feeling, the come down didn’t quite happen, there was no trough, just a valley, because now he was fucking with everything he had his cock pistoning rapidly inside me, shaking me, my whole body almost flopping. I was no longer standing bent over the desk, my legs had failed completely, and his hands gripped my hips holding me in place as he thrust with every inch of power in hims, and my weight fell onto his cock.

Then he went rigid, his breath coming in a strained whine. Even without looking, I could feel the tension boiling through his whole body, every fibre of his being taut and singing. I could imagine his cock swelling inside me, bursting like a balloon. I tried to focus on it, to feel how rigid it was to feel it throb extra hard, extra large. His agonized straining, the hiss of air escaping lasted for seconds.

Then he sucked in a huge breath of air and went limp. Lterally limp. He practically dropped on top of me. I could feel his hot breath panting against my ear. Feel his sweat drenched shirt against my back. He didn’t crush me, he must have held himself up on his elbows. But I could still feel weight, the presence of him, as the orgasm released him, leaving him wet and vulnerable.

Oddly, I liked it. Perhaps I shouldn’t have. Objectively, here was a sweat drenched, trembling stranger, a complete stranger who’d used my body like a rag doll, and was now laying on top of me, trying to catch his breath, his cock slowly deflating but still in me. But there was a strange feeling of intimacy in our mutual orgasms, in our mutual exhaustion.

Finally, after a few minutes, I grew restless. It was time to ruin the moment.

“I guess we have a deal,” I whispered under him.

He stiffened, not in a good way, but just in the manner of someone pulling himself together.

“Yeah,” he said.

He got off me, standing up to pull up his boxers and his pants. Turning around, and pushing my miniskirt down, smoothing it, I only had the briefest glimpse of him tidying himself. For a moment, I was seized with a weird longing. I wanted his cock in my hand again, even soft, even wet. I wanted to hold it, maybe put it in my mouth, to experience it in this state. But he was doing up his belt, and the fugitive impulse passed unfulfilled. I tucked my breasts into my bustier, they were tender, I wondered if they might bruise. I felt achey all over but in a good way.

In my thigh high fetish boots my feet were sweaty, and the heels felt awkward. I longed to just take them off and walk barefoot. That’s the thing with fetishy stuff, it looks hot, but underneath its awkward and sweaty. I couldn’t though. If it was just the hotel, I’d have taken them off. But I wasn’t walking barefoot in the parkade.

Besides, what would he say or think? I had an image to uphold. I certainly couldn’t ruin it now that I’d burned it into his brain.

“I promise,” I said, “I won’t ever come back here.”

“Good.” But I think there was a little regret about that. I think that there’s an inevitable sadness in a really great spontaneous fuck, that you’ll never see them again, never revisit that pleasure.

Or maybe exhaustion. Now that our coupling was over, I was sure some part of him was wondering how much of a pain in the ass I might turn out to be, what sort of trouble I could end up making.

Now that it was over, we were both strangers again, not really wanting anything to do with each other, each full of potential risks and headaches.

I watched as he ran the forms through the shredder.

“What about the guests, incident reports? You mentioned that.”

“I’ll take care of it. I’ll write something up.”

“And the video?”

“Deleted automatically after twenty-four hours, unless there’s a reason to keep it. There won’t be a reason.”

“Okay.”

He sounded tired now.

“Listen,” I asked. “Could you walk me to the Parkade? I just need to get to my car, and then I’m gone.”

He stared at me for a second, and I could tell he didn’t want to. He just wanted it all to be over, to move on. But he didn’t have it in him to say no. Honestly, I didn’t really want to ask, but I just felt so wobbly from the fucking, and the boots were uncomfortable. I felt worn out, and even if neither of us really wanted to be around the other, I didn’t quite want to be alone.

We didn’t talk much as he guided me to the elevator and walked me through the parkade. I suppose we said something, but words were purely perfunctory. I thought about my trenchcoat, but I didn’t mention it, we were miles past it. My flare up with Jay felt like it belonged on another world, kicking the strangers door was an awkward encounter on some other day.

I got in my car and drove home and flopped on the couch with a glass of wine. Sometime later, I took a shower, went to bed and fell right asleep.

The end...

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