Catfish Hooked

By Eve St. Albert

from "Perversions and Infidelities"

"You're married?"

I looked down at the man I straddled. My heart was dropping through my stomach. This awful, horrible sinking feeling. I felt adrift, unmoored, like I'd been sitting on top of a house of cards tumbling down.

I climbed off him, standing, wobbling on black thigh high fetish boots, I'd bought specially four our rendezvous. I pushed my spandex miniskirt as low as it would go, which wasn't much, regretting not wearing panties.

"Come on Kate," Jay protested. His face was smeared with my glossy red lipstick. "No! I'm not married."

"Bullshit!" I snapped. I was angry, this beautiful sexy fantasy, had gone to shit, and now I was stuffing my breasts back into a tiny bustier, while his exposed cock wilted.

My face burned, I felt so stupid. Weeks of texting back and forth, the phone calls, the endless flirting, the dirty talk, the excitement I'd felt every time I saw his name, all of it turned out to be a stupid joke. I was humiliated.

"How did you know?" he asked, his face a mask of panic, as he was pulling up his trousers.

And just like that, it got worse.

I could have been wrong, I wanted to be wrong. I wanted him to deny and explain and we could get back on track. I'd apologize for my psychotic episode, and then we'd carry on.

"Jesus Christ!"

"I don't... it's not a big deal. Look, it's complicated."

I wasn't buying it. Mainly, I was kicking myself. Months of flirting and sexting, long distance calls, heartfelt conversations, phone sex, opening up to each other. We had shared fantasies. I had exposed myself, sending naughty pictures, telling him things I'd never shared with anyone. I felt so betrayed.

"Not a big deal?" I snapped. I had dressed up for him! I'd bought lingerie, and hooker boots. We'd planned this... this adventure. The fucker! "But you never mentioned it? You wear a fucking wedding ring."

Unconsciously he moved his hand to cover it, feeling its absence.

"Tan line, Jay!" I snapped. It had been perfect. I'd been straddling him, his pulling his hands onto me. I'd looked down, and noticed something odd, and then it all snapped into place. "I can see the tan line. If you've got a tan line for your wedding ring, that tells me you're pretty committed."

"All right," he admitted. "But it's complicated. It has nothing to do with this..."

Sure, it's always complicated.

I felt stupid, which was what made me angry. If I'd have known, maybe it would have been different. I'm not a slut or anything. But peoples lives are complicated, and maybe it would have been all right, maybe it would have been normal, or acceptable. Maybe the marriage was dead and I wouldn't have been treading on the wrong side. Or maybe I'd be up for a little fling that harmed no one. But he hadn't told me. He hadn't been honest.

I'd been looking forward to him coming to town for weeks, we'd been talking about it, planning it. I'd shopped carefully, building my outfit, building towards this night. The thigh high fetish boots, all shiny and black had been the final touch. I'd showed up at his hotel door, looking like sex incarnate. When he opened it, when we finally met in person, I could see the wonderful astonishment on his face, the way his heart skipped a beat, his jaw dropped.

We'd made it to the couch, kissing passionately. I'd straddled him, miniskirt up around my hips, his cock out pulled out of my pants hard and hot in my hands, our bare genitals lightly brushing each other, his hands on my boobs...and I'd noticed the tan line.

I wouldn't have even noticed, but I'd read about it the day before at the hair stylist, "Tips on spotting a married player."

And the bottom dropped out of my world.

Played for a fool.

That's what hurts.

You think you've got something, something real, a connection. Then you realize, you were just stupid. He played you because you were stupid. He played you because he thought you were stupid. And you fell for it.

How do you trust someone after that?

"Look," he said desperately, "it's not a big deal. We're not really together. And it's far away. Come on, we've had all this... we have a connection. Real chemistry."

How do you fuck someone who thinks you're stupid?

"Jay," I said, "if that's your name -"

"It is!"

"You catfished me. I'm sorry, we're done."

I was trembling, shaking with humiliation and embarrassment. I could still feel wetness between my legs, the sense of lightness and excitement I'd had riding the elevator, walking down the hall. But now it had turned wrong, and I had this weight in my stomach. Shame. I was blushing, my face was hot.

With as much dignity as I could muster, I turned around, grabbed my purse and walked out the door.

"Goodbye Jay," I said frostily, with as much dignity as I could muster, "it wasn't fun."

The door closed, I was in the hallway.

It was over.

I sighed. I still felt stupid and angry. I pulled my smartphone out of my purse and I deleted his contact. Another tap on the screen, months of increasingly hot text messages vanished out of the world. Fuck him.

I felt a little better. I stalked down the hotel hallway, the high heels of the fetish boots giving my stride a slightly martial quality, like I was marching instead of walking. Stomping. How do hookers walk sexy in these things? Whatever. Fuck Jay.

He didn't even have the decency to come after me. The phone didn't ring, no texts appeared, he didn't follow me out into the hallway, didn't try to explain or beg or apologize. Fuck him.

At the Elevator, I turned around and marched back angrily. Suddenly, I was standing in front of his hotel door again. Was he watching me through the peephole? Should I knock. I didn't want to see him, but I sort of wanted to see him. It didn't feel right like this, there should be something more. But here I was dressed like a hooker, standing in front of the door of a man who had played me, angry and horny and without any idea of what to do.

"You're an asshole!" I shouted at the door.

No response. I kicked it a couple of times.

"Fuck you," I shouted. "Just fuck you, okay."

Then I marched off. Did I feel any better?

Maybe. Sort of.

No one was in the hallway, or the elevator. I punched parkade level. Hopefully no one would get on and I'd avoid further humiliation. I fished my compact from my purse, to check my make up, and used a wet wipe to clean up a lipstick smear.

Go home, throw all this hooker-looking crap into the rubbish.

No, burn it!

How?

I'd figure that out. Get a box of wine, drink the whole thing and just blot this stupid night out.

The doors opened onto the parkade. And a cold breeze swept around me, up under my skirt, across bare midriff and shoulders, hardening my nipples and tickling, and I realized, I'd been wearing my good trench coat.

After all this bullshit, I wouldn't drive through the city looking like a hooker. No way.

I'd forgotten it up there.

I'd have to go back and get it.

My face reddened and went hot. Fuck!

Back into the elevator, back to the floor, march down the hallway. Should I knock? Fuck that. There was no way out of this without looking stupid. I didn't want to look like I'd come crawling back.

I kicked at the door. No response. I kicked harder.

"Hey asshole," I yelled at the door. "I want my coat back."

Nothing. I waited, counting off fifteen seconds.

"Hey!" I kicked the door again.

He was ignoring me. The fucking coward! God, I was so stupid, I should have known he was a cowardly passive aggressive weasel from the start. I should have known.

I kicked it hard, leaving scuff marks.

"Hey," I yelled loudly. "Stop being a dick. I want my coat. Just give it to me, so I can fuck off out of here."

No response.

"You coward! You passive aggressive dick! Give me back my fucking coat."

The door swung open.

A complete stranger looked out at me. Some fat middle aged guy with a comb-over and an undershirt loosely tucked in his pants, bare feet.

For a moment, we stared at each other with mute incomprehension.

This wasn't Jay. Had Jay invited him over after I left? Were they together? Where was Jay? Was this a gay thing? Then it hit me.

"Oh," I said weakly. "Wrong room."

"Right," said the man.

"Yeah," I said, I could feel myself shrinking by the moment, folding in on myself, a bigger and bigger idiot. "Yeah. My... uh... my boyfriend, he left. I left I mean. I left my coat in his room... just now, not like yesterday, but you know, just a moment ago and I wanted to get it..."

He was staring, but not in a good way.

"We kind of had an argument. So I forgot."

"It's not here."

"I can see that. Sorry... did I wake you?"

The door slammed shut. The number was right. The floor was wrong. What floor was Jay on? I couldn't remember.

I pulled my phone out to check the text message with his room number.

Deleted.

Of course.

This night just kept getting better and better.

That was an expensive coat. I'd paid top dollar for it, and it was practically new.

Fuck me.

Time to quit while I was ahead. Go home. Maybe Jay would text me and we'd make arrangements to have it returned. Or maybe he'd leave it behind, and I could get it from the hotel. But mainly, go home, forget this whole Catfish episode never happened.

As I approached the elevator again, the door opened. A heavy-set, dark haired young man stepped out. He flashed a badge.

"Hotel Detective," he said. "Ma'am I'd like you to come with me."

Fuck me.

&&&

This was my first visit to the security office. I wasn't thrilled. I kept tugging at my spandex miniskirt and wishing I'd worn panties, even a thong. We were on the third floor, which seemed to be the service floor - it had that unfinished utilitarian look, laundry carts along the sides of the hallways waiting to go into action, light fixtures without their plastic sheaths.

Security was a windowless room. On one wall a bank of monitors showed shifting displays of the lobby, of hallways with people waking down them, of the parkade. Not a lot of empty hallways.

"Not a lot of empty hallways," I said conversationally.

He looked up from a form he was filling out beside me, I noticed he let his eyes travel across my body like I was oiled head to toe, before he looked me in the face. Well, why not, I sighed mentally, I was dressed the part.

"Motion sensors," he said. "The security cameras cycle through on a random program, but if there's motion, that activates them. Mostly it's just people going to and from their rooms."

Oh right. Or demented hookers going from floor to floor, kicking doors and screaming at guests. I was grateful he left that part out.

So there was a video record of my humiliation.

This just got better and better.

"I'm not a hooker," I said.

He gave me another sliding look, from kinky fetish heels, to latex thigh high boots, all the way up again.

"I know what it looks like. But I'm not a hooker. Really."

"Okay," he said. I could tell he didn't believe me. "Ma'am, I don't really care. I'm just doing my job."

"No really. I was seeing this guy."

"Uh huh."

"And we were having this thing, this really intense thing. So I dressed up. But then I found out he catfished me and I got mad..."

"Catfished?" Careful, neutral, indifferent.

"Never mind."

I sighed. I could see it now. Crazed hooker harasses guests. The police would haul me away. I'd be stuck in jail overnight with real hookers. Then I'd be in front of some Judge who wouldn't believe me. Jay would be back wherever he'd come from, I couldn't even contact him to get him to explain. And he probably wouldn't even admit anything even if I could contact him, because that would screw up his marriage. My picture would be in the papers, probably with video stills of me kicking down a door. The hotel would sue me. I'd lose my job.

Fuck me.

How do real hookers get out of these things? Promise of sex? I eyed the Hotel Detective speculatively. His name tag read 'Mike." Would that work? Maybe I should? He'd probably say no.

What a life.

Fuck me.

"So when do the police come?"

"Police?" he looked up more quickly this time.

Sure, I thought. Police.

"To take me to the station, and process my charge."

"You're not under arrest."

"I'm not?"

"No," he said, "I just fill out a trespass notice barring you from the premises, take your picture for future reference, and escort you from the building. That's all. Then I go to the rooms you harassed, and fill out incident reports."

"Oh!"

Suddenly, this sense of relief flushed through me. I could literally feel tension washing out of me. I felt lighter, suddenly happier. I looked at Mike with a warmer light.

"If you try to return, we'll call the police."

"I don't plan on coming back here for the rest of my life," I said sincerely.

"No problem then."

"I'm parked here."

"I just escort you from the building, if your car is in the parkade, you'll have to get someone to come get it for you. Or it will be towed."

"Oh," that wasn't so great. But still, a lot better off. But then again, I was going to have my picture taken, and I'd be in their files as crazy hooker girl, and they'd probably keep the footage of me kicking doors. So that kind of sucked.

Then an idea crept back in my mind, one that had emerged in fear and futility when I'd been scared and thought I was going to jail. It had felt stupid and desperate. But now that the stakes were lower... it almost seemed plausible.

I looked him over. Not bad looking, not great. Ordinary, attentive. One of these regular, unexceptional men, but not bad. Maybe I could flirt my way out. I smiled at him, not huge, that would be fake. But just a little smile. Parted my knees an inch or two. Leaned forward a little closer to him.

"Mike," I said. "Do we have to do all this. I've had a really shitty night, my boyfriend turned out to be married. I promise you, I never want to come here again. Let's just let me get my car and go home."

"I'd like to do that," he said. "But I have to follow policy."

He wouldn't look at me.

"Really? I just want to go home and forget this all ever happened."

"We'll wrap up the paperwork and have you on your way."

I leaned in a little further, just emphasizing my cleavage. Okay, maybe flirting wasn't enough. How much further? A blow job? Blow jobs were almost casual, I'd done them in high school and university, I'd done them just to get out of boring dates, or on drunken impulse. Quick, simple, done. Nothing really, for all that men were so wild about them. Barely more than a handshake to a stranger.

And with embarrassment, I remembered how I'd been willing, even wildly eager to do so much more to a different stranger who had turned out to be a total asshole.

The more I thought about it, it just seemed that this was the quickest way out.

Why not?

I leaned a little further. Scooted my chair closer to his, moving to the edge of my seat. Our knees touched.

"We don't really need paperwork, do we?" I husked.

He colored slightly, not quite willing to look at me.

"It's the job."

"Really?" I whispered. "Can't we just work it out?"

I put two fingertips on his knee, moving forward a bit, the insides of our knees brushing against each other. He stopped writing, frozen.

Carefully, watching him, I walked my two fingers up his thigh, smiling gently at him, marching them slowly towards his crotch. Unsteadily, he reached down to stop me, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he let me catch his hand and guide it between the inside of my thighs, where I laid it against the vinyl of my fetish boot. I allowed my legs to part slowly, opening.

It was as if he was hypnotized, unable to move, letting me take command. I liked the feeling, it was empowering. I let my fingers walk step by step across his upper thigh, down towards his crotch pressing at the folds of fabric, where I could feel his cock swelling rapidly.

I felt his hand moving along the inside of the boot, the pressure on my clad thigh giving way to the touch of skin on skin. I felt a tingle of excitement, and eased my ass forward just a little more on the chair, opening as it did.

My hand cupped his crotch, I could feel his cock, like a live thing, swelling and stiffening as it fought against his underwear, to rise up. I helped guide it to its new position. It felt thick. I could feel it hardening more and more with each passing moment as a squeezed it gently.

His fingers touched my lips, bringing a little gasp from me. His eyes widened a little at the touch, the unexpected softness of my folds. My secret was out, no panties, I was completely accessible to him. I could feel him tremble with excitement, feel his blush, his sensual arousal and it excited me too. I could feel my lips part, the wetness coming back, as he probed gently, as his fingertips fluttered between my legs.

With my free hand, I pulled at my bustier, exposing my nipples. He was utterly fascinated, enraptured. I had completely captured him. There was a sensation of elation, of arousal.

"Let's just forget the paperwork," I whispered, squeezing his cock. "The picture, the notice, all of it. I promise I won't come back, ever. Just let it go... and I'll make it worth it. Deal?"

"Deal," his voice husked, as his fingertips stroked my clit, slid down between but not quite inside my lips. His hand was shaking.

"Okay,"

Victory. A weird little victory, but yes, there was this tiny feeling of triumph, of validation, of being in some weird way, in control.

"I have to lock the door," he rasped.

"Okay."

He stood up rapidly, too rapidly, slightly awkwardly, as his erection tented his trousers. I moved back in my chair to let him past, feeling him brush against my knees. He locked the door with clumsy, frantic motions, and then came back with that weird trying to be casual but also too hasty way that men have when they're super-horny, almost falling over themselves.

"Let's do a blow job, okay?" I offered. I didn't especially want him in me after all. I hoped he didn't want more. But I wanted to get it out there, set the terms of engagement. "You'll love it."

"All right."

Good, acceptance.

He leaned back against his desk. I reached out, to undo his belt. Men's belts are tricky, they're always so tightly cinched and folded into loops. As I worked it, he reached down and finished undoing it with trembling hands. I unzipped him, and a second later, he was pushing his pants and boxers down his thighs. I barely had a sense of pinstriped boxers and pink cock peeking out, before it was down, and then his full erection was springing out, and hot and throbbing in my hand.

I leaned forward in the chair, but my fetish heels made the position awkward, so I slid forward, down to one knee in front of him, looking for a comfortable posture. I steadied myself, one hand against his thigh, the other wrapped around his cock, and hoped he wouldn't notice my awkwardness.

"You're going to love this," I whispered up at him, mostly to distract him.

His cock was thick, extraordinarily thick, my fingers barely wrapped around it, but oddly, the head was small and circumcised, a small cap on a wide shaft, that arched slightly. For some reason, it made me think of a musical instrument, a horn.

I thought suddenly that was where the word horny came from, because of cocks like this that looked like horns. I almost wanted to press my lips to it and try to blow air down the urethra. What sound would that make? But I thought it might hurt him.

Instead, I pressed my lips against the head, already glistening with pre-cum, and let them spread, enfolding the glans and widening to encompass the first inches of the shaft.

He groaned, and I felt this wave of pleasure and weakness ripple through his body, his struggle to hold himself up as he leaned back against the desk. I glanced up at him, with his cock in my mouth, making brief eye contact. I could taste the saltiness of his pre-cum, and rolled my tongue around the glans, making him shiver and gasp again. I loved the feel of his responses, the transparency of them, the way I could make his whole body react with just a movement of my lips, a dart of a tongue this way or that.