(Formerly "One Night at the Borderline Hotel")
EDITED BY:
Miriam Belle
Author's Note:
"The story was originally titled "One Night at the Borderline Hotel," but since it is a Tucker Fuller story I'm reposting it as such. It's not to be taken seriously, just as a piece of escapist eroticism..."
***
(This story is inspired by true events, though no names have been changed because no one was innocent...)
My name is Tucker Fuller.
It's an improbable name given to me by my parents, whose affinity for the awkward christening of a lifelong title knew not the boundaries of common sense. I'm going on 25 now, still not married and have no plans to in the future. I'd like to tell you that I'm a strikingly good-looking man with smoldering eyes and Clark Kent-ish sex appeal. I could tell you that my body is muscled to a tantalizing perfection and that my cock is a trouser snake any woman's mongoose would love to tangle with.
But that would be a lie.
I'm a tall guy. I stand about six-foot-even and I'm built so that my overall body fat is dispersed enough to make me look deceptively muscular. Small rolls of chub have staked a claim along my waistline and remind me everyday that the metabolism I enjoyed as young man has gone the way of the dinosaur. In my favor though, my body is sparsely covered with golden blonde hair on my arms, pits and in a well trimmed hedge around the base my cock. Speaking of which, my cock falls in the average range of eight inches.
I do wear glasses. And now that I think about it, perhaps that is the only way I can compare myself to Clark Kent. We both wear dorky glasses. It's not a fashion statement, but more a financial decision. My eyes are an icy blue and my hair is straight and blonde. Unfortunately, my hair is also receding and jumping ship faster that the first class passengers on the Titanic. I dress nicely (I think I do anyway) and I work in a bank, FUCKU (Financial Union Credit and Kansas United), Basshole Branch.
Believe it or not, I live in a town called Basshole, Kansas.
You think the guy who founded this little burg was a comedian or just a guy who hated it so much he decided to curse it for life?
No one really knows for sure.
Working for FUCKU, Basshole has been the highlight to my career as a teller. I realize that being a bank teller may not be the most glorious job on the planet, and I have certainly had days where I spent more time on my computer trying to find ways around the company firewalls to download porn. Still, the job pays well and keeps food on my table and a healthy supply of Budweiser in my fridge.
The end of my first month working for FUCKU, Basshole I got invited to a seminar in the neighboring city of Theass. I was surprised that Mr. Jennings, the president of the bank, had hand picked me to join the three other representatives of the bank to attend. I didn't even think the old fart had noticed me, let alone knew my name. Nevertheless, he pulled me aside one day as I counted my drawer and told me the good news.
"Tucker," Jennings smiled and pulled me aside, "A word?"
"Sir?" I frowned and joined him.
"Son, we have a very important seminar coming up this weekend in Theass."
"Theass?" I repeated, "Never heard of it."
"That doesn't matter boy," Jennings smiled, his white mustache and spectacles apprproately lending his appearance to the Monopoly guy. Some how, it seemed to fit him, being a banker and all. He said, "I want you there with our team."
"Me?"
"Yes you," Jennings tapped my shoulder, "A fresh face on the FUCKU team of associates."
"Sir, I'm honored," I smiled. I couldn't believe it, but I also knew I couldn't afford more than a free trip. I hesitated, "But I don't really have the money to go."
"All expenses paid, Tucker," he waved his hand dismissively, "I want you to show FUCKU in Theass the way it is meant to be shown. I have every confident in you."
I was flattered. I pushed my thick glasses up my nose and shook his hand, "Well okay. Sounds great."
Jennings smiled broadly. "Excellent. Be ready on Friday afternoon for the company car."
"Yes sir," I nodded, and then asked, "Uh, sir? Who is going with me?"
"Carla Moore, Denise Childs and Mariah Bloom."
"Oh," I said. I was going to be the only guy going?
Jennings must have read my face because he cocked a brow and asked me quietly, "Is that okay?"
"Yeah," I shrugged, "I just didn't think I'd be the only guy going."
Jennings laughed conspiratorially and nudged my shoulder with his fist, "They don't bite, Tucker."
I laughed, "Of course sir."
"Not hard anyway," he said thoughtfully and then winked.
I smiled and watched him leave, pondering the weekend ahead and the decidedly feminine nature of my travel mates.
Carla Moore was probably the one out of the bunch I knew best. She was a talkative and infectiously happy woman who had just turned 35 last month. She was recently divorced from some guy named "Big Tony" (his name does seem to imply mob ties, but I can't prove anything... apparently neither could the police) a few years back and moved to Basshole shortly thereafter. She's actually very attractive with bobbed brown hair and a full, voluptuous body. I suppose one might even call her a little thick, kinda like this porn star I saw one time named Audra Miller. She always dressed in dark colored business attire, jackets and skirts with a brilliant white blouse that exuded her authority and yet hugged her curves so dangerously I think that half the bank's checking accounts were opened solely for the pleasure of Carla's company.
I can't point any fingers. Before I applied to work for FUCKU, I opened an account with Carla just to get a good look at her cleavage. Her breasts are the subject of a great many quiet discussions amongst us guys here at the branch. We've all tried to hazard a guess at her actual measurements, and few have even claimed they know. Sadly, as with the ominous origins of the name of our town, no one knows for sure. Carla is a sexual mystery wrapped in an erotic conundrum.
And, she makes a wicked cup of Irish Cream coffee.
My second companion was to be Denise Childs. She, like Carla, was also a knockout but unlike Carla could not make a decent cup of coffee to save her life. I made the mistake of trying her brew one morning and damn near felt my throat seize up as coffee grounds coated my esophagus. She means well, but my God.
She always dresses conservatively and promotes the image of a very stern schoolmistress. And if you're like me, there's something universally sexy about schoolmistresses and beyond that, women in power. Her glasses are always shined and clean, her blonde hair pulled into a bun and her skirts are always ended just below the knee.
One time I joked she should carry a wooden yardstick around just to keep people in line. She gave me this funny look and then slapped my fingers with a wooden ruler she keeps behind her desk.
She kind of scares me a little.
Mariah "Bloomers" Bloom would be the office bicycle. It sounds harsh, I know but you have to understand that she literally has taken everyone in this bank for a ride, even some of the women from what I hear. Well, she's taken everyone for a ride except me. Her specific abstinence where I am concerned reminds me of my childhood a little bit. When I was twelve, Judy Parks got a brand new bike for Christmas one year, and that little shit let everyone but me take a ride on it. Such is Mariah Bloom.
And now, like in the old days, the guys brag and even taunt me over it. Some days I dread the water cooler, because I know someone is going to have scored with Mariah the night before and once I've heard all the sordid details, said braggart will look to me and innocently ask, "So, why haven't you closed the deal with Bloomers?" or comment "Tucker just doesn't know how to negotiate a successful merger..."
Mariah is a very stunning woman, slim, mocha-colored skin, athletic and very much in love with herself. She offers herself as a gift to her co-workers, a special thank-you for hard work and hard crotches. Armed with thick black curly hair, large green eyes and killer lips (that are only rivaled in terms of curve by her hips and ass) she is a force to be reckoned with. She's very aggressive and yet doesn't mind playing the submissive flirt. She's like a bi-polar sex addict.
Come to think of it, she scares me a little too.
***
The drive to Theass wasn't as long as I had imagined it being.
The company car was actually much smaller that I imagined as well. All four of us somehow managed to fit inside the Ford Escort that Mr. Jennings had provided. Mariah drove, while Denise slept in the passenger side seat and I sat in the back with Carla. It was pretty hot the day we left Basshole and as the car had no air conditioning, we were sweating and relying on the breeze off the freeway to cool us down. To make maters worse, for me anyway, Carla was wearing a tight black dress that not only form fitted her body but also revealed more cleavage than I knew I could handle right now.
"How hot is it today?" Carla asked as she rested her arm out the window, "Anyone know?"
"I heard it's supposed to hit a hundred today," Mariah said.
Carla whistled and pushed her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose.
I sat in silence as we drove. I wasn't really sure what to say about anything, let alone proper conversation topics with three women you really only knew in a professional capacity. So from behind the shield of my sunglasses, I gawked at Carla's breasts. I found myself mesmerized by how they jiggled and bounced with each bump and groove in the road. I made sure my duffle bag was firmly over my crotch as my cock happily rose to attention in honor of such perfect breasts.
We got into Theass around two that afternoon, and we checked into the Borderline Hotel. It was nice enough and seemed to be clean. The air had a distinct lemon scent to it and was carpeted in a pleasant green shade. But most importantly of all, it was air-conditioned. My clothes felt like they were glued to my body as we walked up to the front desk. I looked at my co-workers and noticed they hadn't broken a sweat at all. I wondered if woman actually had pores they could control or if there was just some secret anti-perspirant I didn't know about?
"I'm very sorry," the thin, skeletal man behind the counter said, "We have only two rooms available."
"Excuse me?" Mariah eyed him. I shrank back behind Carla and Denise. If Mariah was going to blow, I didn't want to get hit with shrapnel.
"Two rooms, ma'am," the manager sniffled with only the slightest hint of irritation.
"Do I look like a ma'am to you?" she asked.
"Two rooms... miss," he sarcastically corrected and rolled his eyes.
Mariah looked at us, her eyes wide and asking 'Can you believe this shit?'
I shrugged.
"We'll take our business elsewhere," Mariah said casually and made to leave, grabbing her bags and turning to walk to away.
"Everyone else is booked solid for the next three days," the manager smiled wickedly. His small black eyes lit up with satisfaction as Mariah sighed and came back to the desk.
