Fucking Gillian Anderson

I was staying at the swankiest hotel in London. Wanted to treat myself to a nice week in one of my favorite cities. See some art exhibits, walk around. It had been too long, at least two years. But for some reason the weather gods decided to rain on my parade. It wasn't just a shower now and then; it was heavy rain coming from a dark, merciless sky. I was going stir crazy and decided to go downstairs to eat instead of ordering room service and watching TV; too depressing. When the elevator doors opened to the lobby, I was going to turn right to the restaurant/bar area, but something caught my eye. Wasn't that Gillian Anderson sitting there in the lobby? I'd always cringed whenever someone gawked at celebs, but here I was, dangerously close to doing just that. So I walked to the bar, cool as ever, not even looking in her direction, sat down and ordered a glass of orange juice.

"You probably think I'm in AA?"

The bartender had probably heard that one a million times before, but he managed a smile.

I sipped my baby booze and closed my eyes. Fucking Gillian Anderson. I chuckled at my Freudian slip and corrected myself under my breath. Gillian Fucking Anderson. What were the odds? Granted, apparently she spent as much time in London as she did in L.A. these days. Still, this was a one in a billion kind of thing.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

Some investment banker or lawyer, not bad looking, but right now he was the wrong gender, plus he had an annoying smirk on his face.

"Thanks, but no thanks."

Thankfully, he wasn't the stalker type and backed off. I didn't have the patience to deal with any bozos right now. I was busy thinking about Gillian Anderson, maybe still sitting right out there in the lobby. I'd taken a long time to warm up to her, never watched the X-Files -- shocker. It wasn't until I saw her in "The Fall" on Netflix in a hotel room one night in New York about three months ago that I discovered how insanely sexy and beautiful she is. It was like falling in love with someone you'd heard of, but had not yet met. And then, boom! Her voice, her mouth, her skin, her eyes, her cheekbones, her hair, her body, the way she moves, the way she looks at the person she's speaking to. Hitchcock would have gone gaga over her, the ice queen, very Grace Kelly but multiplied by a zillion.

"Drinking alone?"

I was thinking it was another guy wanting to buy me a drink when I realized that it was a woman asking the question. And that I recognized the voice. I somehow was able to turn on my bar stool without falling off.

"Yes, and it's as depressing as it looks."

She smiled.

"I have some orange juice in my room. 1005."

And with that she turned on her heel and walked to the elevator, leaving me to wonder if I had heard right. That was the top floor, one of the big suites.

I tapped on her door; she opened it a crack before opening it all the way.

"Don't look so star struck."

Her room could fit five of mine, at least. There was champagne in a bucket, a piano, killer city views. She turned off the only lamp that was on and we watched London by night. And that's when I decided I wasn't going to be star struck anymore. I walked behind her, moved her hair to the side to expose her neck and kissed her neck. She sighed. I ran my finger tips under her breasts, through the silk fabric and she sighed again, this time louder. She turned around and we kissed hungrily, exploring each other's mouths and lips, stepping backwards to the bed, unbuttoning, unfastening. When she was down to her panties, I stopped her, kneeled down before her like the goddess that she is and tongued her until her knees almost buckled. She took one more step and lay down on the huge, luxurious four-poster, spreading her legs as she moved towards the head board, smiling as she watched me climb onto the bed with a wicked look on my face.

"Close your eyes."

She complied; she seemed to enjoy letting me take control. I took her panties off and faced her beautiful bush, full but trimmed, with plenty of room to move around. Her scent and taste was sweet and salty. My lips were soon coated with her juices. I was soaking wet myself and had to keep from reaching down to touch myself; I wanted to postpone our first orgasm for as long as it was possible. It was difficult though: the combination of her moaning and the sound of my tongue in her pussy almost brought me over the edge. But I held back and moved up to kiss her so she could taste herself while I fingered her gently, teasing her clit a little. She pressed her small but full breasts against mine and I broke away from her delicious mouth, played with her nipples, biting them gently, sucking on them. She wanted to cum I could tell.

"Not yet."

I slid down her tummy and began eating her pussy again like there was no tomorrow, fucking her with my tongue, sucking on her hard clit, licking her all around. She was close now, pulling my face closer, bucking, trying not to scream out loud. When she came, I held tight until her orgasm had subsided and every drop of pussy juice was on me.

"Sit on my face."

I was almost delirious but managed to climb on top of her and position myself on her mouth, cumming in seconds. We collapsed in each other's arms, sweaty, satisfied for now, and dozed off. Later, I woke her up by kissing her pussy and she happily spread her legs and let me get her off again. We continued like that off and on throughout the night. In the morning she ordered room service while I showered.

"Stay."

I smiled.

"Wild horses couldn't make me leave."

We drank our orange juice, lay down on the bed, and began touching. I fingered her and she came while we kissed. I brought my fingers up to her mouth and she licked them.

"Fuck me."

And I did. Again and again and again. I never tired of hearing her moan in that soft, husky voice of hers.