I’m in Dallas, up in my hotel room; alone. Everyone else is in a meeting, but I’ve been given a “pass” due to having to work on a project while I’m here at the conference. So I came up here to work.
…I find myself pulling my skirt and panties off and laying down on the bed.
Such a wide, soft bed. The comforter is white white white, like the light here in Dallas. Blinding. And yet, in the room, the white is cool and bright, not searing as it is outside.
I wish one of the guys were here. I can imagine W making use of this bed, this room. I have seen pictures of things he has done to women in hotel rooms. I want him here, using me, hurting me, taking pictures of me.
I remember a particular hotel room with Ad, a long time ago. A five hour drive to get there. Me reading erotica to him, my head in his lap as he drove, all the way to Hot Springs, rubbing my mouth and face against the bulge in his jeans. I wanted to suck his cock as he drove, but we were brand new then, maybe only had sex three or four times, and he was still reserved about it with me. So I teased him. Breathed on him through his jeans, letting my breath heat him. Stroked and rubbed and put my mouth over him through his jeans. Given a little more time, I might have even made him come through his jeans, but we arrived just in time. And I had barely begun to undress before he was on me in the room, fucking me against the side of the bed in a frenzy.
Now, here, this room is lonely. Or it is until I start to fill it with my mind.
I start to touch myself, softly at first, feather-light strokes against my clit, gentle tugs on my rings. My mind drifts to a particular fantasy W spun for me one day as he and I and Ad lay in bed one morning. W with his fingers inside me, his palm grinding against my clit. Ad’s big hand on my thigh, holding me open, while W whispered the story in the quiet room. It may have been the first time Ad had ever heard one of W’s stories, though he certainly knows of them. They are not Ad’s type of fantasy, at least as far as I know (Ad doesn’t share such things.) But as my breathing quickened, as I began to tense up, I felt Ad’s fingers tighten on my inner thigh, betraying his excitement.
The next day there was the imprint of his fingers on my flesh.
I think about W’s story now as I lie on the bed, letting my hotel room fill with the bodies of strange men, with the smell of their arousal, with the sounds of their breathing. Their presence becomes as real to me as the white, white light outside, as the comforter beneath me, as the still emptiness of the room. I can feel W’s hand on my face, holding it tight as he tells me what to do. I can hear his voice in my ear, telling me what he is going to let these men do to me, what I am going to let them do to me, because he has said so.
My fingers grind faster and faster against my clit as I both watch the scene in my mind’s eye and live it, seeing the girl–myself–on the bed, and being the girl on the bed, in that other hotel room that lives in W’s–and now my–mind. I both feel W’s hand on my face and watch as he holds me still, not permitting me to look around as the first man positions himself behind me. I experience it all vicariously, even as I live it out in my mind. And as I feel the stranger’s cock against me, as I feel and watch his first, hard thrust into me and watch him fuck me while W holds my face still so that I can’t see who it is behind me, I moan, the beginnings of an orgasm tightening my belly. It spreads outward from my center, rising up and up until I have to press my hand down onto my cunt to keep myself pinned to the bed.
And as my breathing slows, the light swirls and shatters around me, falling into shards of broken colors: the sun, setting outside the window. I blink; alone once again.