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Story: Trusting the Moment

posted 6/12/2009 1:48:25 PM |
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tagged: oral, anal, fiction, story

Greetings fellow passionistas. Thought I’d share a story I wrote a little while ago to introduce myself. All constructive criticism encouraged, as well as the random compliment. It’s gratifying, to say the least, to have someone enjoy what you happen to write.

Trusting The Moment

It had all started with mutual double-takes. There I was in a swanky hotel hallway in downtown Chicago, fumbling to put my key card in the door, when SLAM! I snapped my head around. A very attractive woman had emerged from the room opposite mine and closed her door con brio. Her eyes had met mine, we had both resumed what we were doing for a moment, then looked back at each other in a classic double-take.

Recalling that day, I can say that some kind of magic had happened: there was something in the way our eyes met that second time, held each other's gaze for a few moments more than really necessary, followed by each of us self-consciously looking away.

Recalling the events of that day still makes my willy stand up and salute, a full nine years later.

After those double-takes, I remember thinking, now what? I am often at a loss for words in such a situation and was just about to say, 'Quite a solid door you've got there,' or something equally inane, when she giggled, 'Sorry, didn't mean to startle you, luv,' in the most lilting British accent.

'No problem,' I said. 'I'm just a bit frazzled after a too-long flight from Phoenix.'

'I can top that,' she said. 'I just flew over the pole from London, and we had to circle O'Hare for 55 minutes. Talk about beat.'

Her words came out in some mildly upper class English diction. I would guess she was Oxbridge educated, had climbed some corporate or PR ladder, and was quite comfortable with herself, at what seemed to be her late 40s. That guess put her just a couple of years older than me.

'Where ya headed this evening?' I blurted out, immediately fearing my forwardness. I needn't have worried.

'I need a stiff drink, though that bar off the lobby looked more like a laddy pub than a place to relax,' she said, with a distinct twinkle in her eye. Was this an invitation of sorts, or was I just imagining things? She had used the word 'stiff.' A Freudian slip? Control yourself. It's so easy to misinterpret what another person is feeling, particularly a stranger, but I somehow found the courage to continue the repartee in what I thought was the same very encouraging vein. If I was wrong, so be it. I would apologize, compliment her on her striking looks, and bid adieu.

Somehow the words came flowing off my tongue, surprising me: 'You need a drink, I need a shower, how about coming in, ordering up some half-decent champagne, letting me jump in the shower, and by the time I'm finished, the bubbly will have arrived to soothe us both?' How I got all that out in one stutterless stream still baffles me.

She paused ever so briefly, pondering the offer, then said, 'Why not, you look like an upstanding fellow, and I can switch on Oprah or some such Yank talk show, probably not first choice down in the bar. By the way, my name's Mary.'

'I'm David,' I replied.

I pushed open the door, switched on the lights, let Mary precede me, then threw my bag on the stand. I couldn't help but notice her almost too long legs, which the pants suit she was wearing emphasized all the more. There was also a subtle whiff of floral perfume as she walked. That alone is usually enough to start me up. Her mid-length black hair framed an exquisite face of alabaster skin, olive eyes and luscious lips clad in dark maroon lipstick. She had smallish breasts, but I swear I could see some delicious brown nipples poking through the sheer blouse under her very prim jacket. I'll take sensitive, sexy nipples over huge breasts anytime.

'What kind of view do you have?' she asked, walking over to the windows and throwing open the curtains. A lot better than mine. I get to look at office blocks, up close and personal.' There was a calm Lake Michigan in the distance, with the Art Institute off to one side. '

I picked up the phone, hit the room service button and ordered up some Roderer and munchies, then unzipped my suitcase, took out the essentials, and said 'Give me 15 minutes,' and ducked in the bathroom.

I turned on the shower. Hot water came instantly, and I doffed my clothes and jumped in. I could just barely hear the familiar voice of Oprah from the TV set. I looked down and my cock was already at half mast: that perfume, and the expectations, the culprit. I was tempted to give it some extra lathering but decided not to. Even so, I must have spent more time than I had realized in the shower because suddenly there was a knock on the bathroom door. It was Mary: 'David, room service needs your signature, mind if I come in?'

'No, not at all,' I said. Before I knew what was happening, a hand holding a pen and receipt book poked in one end of the shower. I signed the receipt and was about to stick my arm outside, when, with a whoosh, Mary threw the curtain to one side. She just stood there with that innocent giggle and said, 'Forgive me David, I just couldn't help myself. Not bad, not bad at all.' I handed her back the receipt book with a dumbfounded grin on my face, and she closed the bathroom door behind her. I heard some words exchanged and then silence. Minutes passed as I finished showering. I noticed that the TV had been turned off. Utter silence.

To say I had mixed feelings right then, even a big wave of foreboding, would be understatement: the shower had washed away the fatigue of the day, and certainly Mary's gambit with the shower curtain had aroused me even more, but now what was happening? Was she some sort of scam artist who had just stolen my valuables and exited? No, no, she occupies the room right across from mine, and I could call down to the lobby and tell them what had happened.

I stepped out of the tub, cock now deflated, dried myself quickly, wrapped on a towel and slowly opened the bathroom door. A small shaft of light came through the window curtains, which had been drawn nearly closed.

It was then that I heard the first moan. I slowly peeked around the corner of the bathroom wall, and there on the bed, covers thrown back, was Mary, ever so gently touching herself with one hand and pinching one of her luscious nipples with the other. She seemed so blissfully lost in self-pleasuring. Would someone please pinch me, I thought to myself. This does not happen except in hack-written erotic stories. Although dear willy was now beginning once more to reach for the ceiling, I was still a bit paranoid. Was she a pro on tour? Would she ask for money after this was all over? Better banish those thoughts.

I had barely sat down on the bed beside her when she shoved fingers dripping with pussy juice in my mouth. I took her hand in both of mine and lovingly licked, as if in slow motion, to savor this very unexpected gift

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Blogs by NewYkr:
Story: Trusting the Moment (second half)
Story: Trusting the Moment


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Jun 12 @ 3:30PM  
welcome to blogland

Jun 12 @ 7:11PM  
I'm surprised no has read your story, but then not everyone is a reader. Also, even though there are readers on AMD, some of them do not read erotica for a myriad of reasons.

I can't help but wonder how often this kind of thing really occurs. It's a good story and I'm slippin' ya a greenie... it takes time and effort to write something interesting and/or entertaining. Thanks!

Jun 12 @ 11:33PM  
Seems like the story got clipped, so look for second half, which I just posted. Apologies.

And thanks Featherone for welcome and to Dione for kind comments, though I'm clicking away trying to translate "slipping ya a greenie." I'm sure it's something good.

Jun 13 @ 1:17AM  
A greenie is a kudo. Look at the line below the title of your post... it looks like the: posted 6/12/2009 1:48:25 PM 1 kudo To the right of the "1 kudo" there is a green icon with a face on it. That is the "greenie." Some people call them hockey pucks, others call the cookies and sometimes I refer to them as the green alien. It's a compliment!

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Story: Trusting the Moment