My head's still throbbing as a ceaseless reminder of last night. Why do I seem to forget, every time, that drinking heavily the night before work is a bad idea? I'm stood here, behind the reception desk of the Aregarna Hotel, in this horrendously tight, although wonderfully sexy -- which is why I bought it of course --, figure-hugging red pencil skirt and jacket; all smiles to the faceless guests that amble by in their shorts and gaudy short-sleeved shirts. My pristine blonde hair is partially draped over the front of my dress, make-up accentuating my "perfect jaw-line" and the fingernails of a porn star; they're almost more work than they're worth, perhaps I should consider fakes? It's for the guests, of course. They like to see a pretty thing behind the desk when booking in, it's good for business. I don't mind it so much; a little flirt, a sly smile, my hand stroking that pen, door knob or key fob for just a teasingly split-second too long. Maybe I just like the power my good looks have over men? I don't mind it so much, apart from these wicked stilettos making my feet feel like they're in an ever-tightening vice all day! The sound of them clacking as I walk on the sand-brown marble floor draws attention to my legs though, my lovely lovely legs. I work hard for these girls, look at them boys, appreciate the work these cost me. Heel-toe heel-toe; one leg directly in front of the other, shoulders back, ensnare them with my walk.
Maybe if I weren't such a tease and actually started looking for a man, rather than reasserting the power I have to myself every now and then with a quick fling, maybe then I'd have a partner, a husband potential, that dreamy tall, dark and handsome millionaire! Oh, but then there's Mr. Atkinson. Such a dull name for such a hunky specimen. He's so perfectly shaped with those cheekbones chiselled by God and shoulders that could carry the world, my world. Why are all the good ones always married? I want him, yet that admittedly-beautiful bitch of his secured the prize long before I even met their family for the first time. Our eyes met though, the last time they checked in here. The children were giving their mother some trouble with the suitcases which enabled that briefest of non-verbal connections between us; I could have melted. This hangover's going to last the whole damn day!
It's evening now, six forty-five. Still, my hangover's faded and almost gone now but not after spending a day with an empty bin can under the desk in case of emergency vomiting. It's typical that Diane needed to take her shift off the day I feel so awful. But oh how fate loves me. In through those large white entrance arches walks the perfect form of Mr. Atkinson. My body is brought to attention in an instant as my desire to impress shoots a sexy-posture forming jolt through me; is that a reflex? Boobs out, weight slightly over to one foot, curved sexy smile, head down slightly and a lustful stare as he approaches. Got him! He walks straight to me with a recognising smile. I beam at him; what hangover? 'Mr. Atkinson, welcome back' I say. Is showing that I remember him a weakness? His retuned welcome using my name stops me from caring. 'One of our family suites; a double connecting to a twin room again, sir?' I ask. The question of whether he's alone or not laced between the lines. "No thanks" is his reply - it's just him tonight. I feel so suddenly washed with nervous excitement at the possibility of stealing him, that I fail to notice I'm still holding the pen I've offered as he tries to take it from me. I snap out of my daze to see him notice my loss of focus. The edges of that wonderful mouth turn up ever so slightly to indicate his knowing. It arouses me.
'May I show you to your room, Mr. Atkinson?' I ask with desperate hope for a positive reply. "Please" is his simple one-word response. The subtle tap-tap of my heels guides the way to the elevator; my red pencil skirt is so tight around my buttocks that he can't
help
but look as he follows behind. We take the elevator up several floors and walk down the corridor to his room. The whirring of the wheels on his case assure me that he's close behind as I lead. I unlock the door and walk in, leaving it open for him to follow.
'This is one of our best double suites, Mr. Atkinson' I state with my back to him, knowing he's inside. I hear the door close behind as he says in that deep manly voice "call me Michael." I turn around and he's stood right before me, half a foot taller even while I'm in my heels. He looks into my eyes as I look directly back at him; wanting, my enlarged pupils saying 'yes' to his unasked question. The silent moment lasts long enough to reassure him that I want what he does. He begins to unbutton his shirt still staring into my eyes. He says nothing as he removes the light garment, tossing it onto a chair to his side. His body is muscular and well-maintained. His chest is a little hairy but I like that on a man. I stand there transfixed; my desire for him being realised has me lost in a moment of surreal disbelief. His left arm wraps around my waist as his right comes up to my face, a palm resting on my left side. It's warm and powerful and he pulls me towards him. Our mouths slowly meet and we kiss.
Like a dam breaking, all of our built-up desire for one another crashes through our accepted barriers. My arms link around his neck and we kiss continually, pulling each other tightly close. 'Michael' I whisper seductively between lip contact. Our tongues meet and dance, or fight, I can't tell, but both want one another desperately. Our kissing quickly awakens him as I feel a large vertical mound form in the crotch of his trousers. It presses against me awkwardly but I know what it is and so don't mind. His kisses continue as I bring my hands down to unbuckle his belt, pulling it free from the rivets. We part.
"I've wanted you since our...since my first visit here" he declares; I ignore the corrected reference to his wife. I tell him I've wanted him too as his hands unbutton my jacket and blouse. My hands drop to his pants with a jingle of my golden bracelets and I forcibly unbutton and unzip them. He pulls open my loosened top to reveal my black silk bra and caresses me with firm hands. My head rolls back slightly as I push the rest of my body forward to give myself to him. He suddenly picks me up and throws me onto the bed. I scream slightly from the shock but am quickly silenced by his towering form above me, hands and knees either side of me as he lowers his head to kiss again. His taste is lovely. My hands stroke that muscular chest, nails drawing lines down it to his briefs. His bulging packet is clearly etched in the tight fabric as the elastic tries to contain him. Forbidding me access, he slides back and stands again at the foot of the bed; the head of his penis now poking up through the elastic strap of his underwear.
He kneels down on the foot of the bed and places his hands on the tops of my feet, my heels still strapped to them. His powerful warm hands then, with firm pressure, journey slowly up my naked legs to the base of my skirt at the knee line. His hands continue under the skirt, taking the material up with them as it folds over the top of my thick shiny black belt. My matching black lace panties are now in his sights. I don't even notice as my legs part for him; another reflex? His finger strokes the material of my panties - it's thin enough to allow me to feel his touch through them. As he strokes over my clitoris I let out a deep breath as I'm jolted from his first touch there. He quickly finds that I'm slightly wet already and bends down, inhaling deeply. I redden with embarrassment at his lewd act; 'who has the power now?' I ask myself. His tongue then strokes my underwear against my vulva with compensating pressure for the lace barrier. I moan softly with each lap. His hands then reach to the sides of my panties and he pulls them off me slowly, my legs tucking inward to allow him. He pulls them off over my heels and then sniffs them in his hand, looking up at me as he does so. My eyes narrow and my lips purse with a wanting smile, accentuating their fullness. My sexy expression begs him to come to me. My legs open again.
His warm tongue laps firmly at my now-naked clitoris. Every touch sends shivers through me; it's wonderful. My eyes are closed in ecstasy but I can still see him. I think he likes this, I think it's something he's not done with his wife, or it's long since been abandoned from their infrequent sexual affection. Oh God! Forget his wife, he's mine right now and I'm letting him do this, I want him to do this and it's wonderful. 'Don't stop Michael, oh please don't stop!' I say aloud and it spurs him on; he likes my begging. His middle finger strokes my body's natural lubricant around the supple pink flesh of my womanhood, teasing my entry. His tongue flicks me, strokes me, sucks me and penetrates me. His ceaseless oral stimulation seems to never end and I'm his slave while he works me. I moan with increased volume as the lewd noises of his tongue and saliva no longer sound embarrassing. Words cease to form, or even formulate in my mind. I can't take any more as my body gives up resisting. My breaths are heavy and my legs begin to tense and twinge. He notices my building climax and laps faster. This magnificent man knows just what to do. My hands pull tightly at the bed covers as if to rip them apart, my back arches, breasts out as the sensation comes, comes, cums! ........ahhhhhhh........... ohhhhhhh.....
Michael!!!
