London

This is the first in a series on the joys a traveling. The stories do not need to be read in any particular order, though the character develops a bit over the episodes.

*****

She was beautiful. I was in London doing some research at the British Library, which possessed the largest archive of financial records in the world. I was staying at a posh hotel in Mayfair. Each morning, as I was enjoying my traditional English breakfast, I stared at her across the room. She was maybe 40, ten years younger than me. This vision of loveliness was moderately tall, thin yet with curves in all the right places, and impeccably dressed with perfect makeup to highlight her features. Absorbed in her morning paper, she kept to herself, nodding only politely to the waiter who hovered around her refilling her tea whenever she took a sip.

I am, I am told, reasonably good looking for a man my age. Mostly bald, I nonetheless have kept myself in shape by eating well and exercising more. Married for more than 20 years, with two kids still at home, I have never cheated on my wife. As a professor at a large West Coast university, I am surrounded by nubile undergraduates, which has created frequent opportunities to stray, but I have confined my sexual wanderings to my fertile brain. Frequent trips abroad created additional opportunities, but my commitment to my family was steadfast and, I thought, unshakeable.

On the third day, my morning started again with the stunning sight across the breakfast room. I tried not to stare too obviously, but my eyes kept betraying me. Still, she seemed oblivious to my lusty admiration. As I lingered over my third cup of coffee, she collected herself, walked delicately across the room, and without so much of a sideways glance dropped a note on my table as she exited the room. Stunned, I unfolded the paper and read it:

I've noticed you noticing me.

Meet me this evening at 7 at Oasis, the bar across the street.

Sandra

My mind reeled. A crisis of confidence ensued. Could I, would I meet her? Was this a lonely woman wanting only a little company? A beautiful woman wanting something more? Could I break my vows? Did I want to? A thousand questions and even more doubts swept through my mind as I, too, left breakfast and readied myself for a long day of research.

I was horribly distracted all day. The idea that one of the most beautiful woman I'd ever laid eyes on wanted to meet me for a drink seemed hard to believe. What I would do if an opportunity arose kept intruding on my thoughts. Far from home, I was useless that day and simply stared blankly at the old ledger books in front of me.

As the Library started to close for the evening, I hurried back to the hotel still unsure of what opportunities might lay ahead and what I would do if they presented themselves. I took a quick shower to freshen up - can't hurt, I told myself, and it didn't commit me to one course of action over another. I dressed casually but smartly, still undecided. Pacing my hotel room, I decided that I would join her at the bar. This still did not commit me, I told myself, to anything other than, perhaps, a few minutes of conversation with another lonely traveler.

Stepping into the elevator, I first saw a striking pair of female feet in heels. Slowly looking up, I noticed legs encased in stocking - my particular turn-on. Continuing further, I saw a tight skirt, then a well filled out blouse. In what felt like minutes in which I lingered on and devoured each part of the magnificent woman before me, I finally looked at her face. Breaking into a smile that achieved the impossible of making her even more beautiful, this amazing creature reached out her hand as the elevator door closed behind me.

"Hi, I'm Sandra," she said in a lilting voice with a wonderful British accent. Completely taken aback, I managed a smile of my own - a rather sheepish one, I must admit - and grasped her hand in mine.

"Charles," was all I managed to croak out, though I think it came out more "Ch-Ch-Ch-Charles." Letting go, I pushed the button to the lobby - though I quickly gathered that Sandra had already done so from her floor. Talking in elevators is always a bit awkward, even when no one else is aboard. Talking to a beautiful woman who you have just met after obscenely devouring her with your eyes and imagination is ever harder.

"What brings you to this hotel," I stammered inanely, or something to that effect.

Completely composed, she replied "I come her often for, um, shopping. You?"

"Research, some lectures," I replied, sounding more stupid by the moment. Thankfully, the elevator dinged open and I could escape its confines and, I hoped, my uninspiring conversational skills.

"After you," I declared, holding the elevator door open. She brushed by me as she exited. I smelled an intoxicating perfume as she slipped through the narrow opening. I immediately followed, staring at her perfectly formed ass as she shimmied across the lobby and out to the appropriately named Oasis. Despite our having "officially" met in the elevator, and our common destination, she did not walk next to me until we were out of the hotel - which I thought odd, but didn't mind as it afforded me a magnificent view of her posterior.

We sat at a small table in the corner of the Oasis. The waiter appeared almost magically at our side. It is amazing what the presence of a truly beautiful woman does for service. We ordered - her, a glass of champagne, me, a glass of red wine - and the need for conversation ensued. Fortunately, she was apparently trained in all the skills of a diplomat. She asked leading questions about my visit, not about home. She asked about my favorite sites in the city, not about work. All were inspired efforts to draw me out without trespassing onto personal grounds. I gained confidence, and sought to engage her as well by asking about her favorite shows in London, her favorite restaurants, and so on. We were soon taken up in a pleasant conversation that actually revealed little or, I should say, revealed little beyond ourselves as we were at that moment in time and place.

On our second drink, I broached the question of dinner. "Would you like to join me tonight for dinner?" I croaked out, once again feeling like a tongue-tied schoolboy. She reached across the table and put her hand on mine.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I already have plans with friends here in town." Looking at her watch, she continued "In fact, I'm already a bit late and must be going." As she rose, she smiled and said "Thank you, Charles, for a pleasant drink." With a slight lift of her right eyebrow, she continued "I'm sure we will see each other tomorrow at breakfast," the first and only time my staring and her response was even implicitly acknowledged. Assuming that I would, of course, pay the bill, she walked out, leaving me only with the image of her backside as she floated out of the bar.

...

I slept fitfully. Conflicting thoughts and emotions swirled through my brain and I tossed and turned that night. I was relieved that I had not had to choose between my wife and Sandra; I was equally disappointed that the choice had not been offered. My dick was hard and engorged all night; no matter how I tried to lay in bed, it seemed in the way - and only reminded me of my plight.

Unable to sleep, I went down to breakfast earlier than usual. Sandra was not there. As I was sipping my third coffee, she finally arrived, sat at her usual table, and then nodded discretely in my direction. I smiled back. Disappointed that we were not to pick-up where we left off the previous evening, I was once again relieved that my vows were not to be strained. It was, I decided, nothing more than a passing evening spent with a charming and exceptionally attractive woman. Why she would want anything more with me, I wondered? I kicked myself for imagining that there was ever the slightest possibility. I was a balding man ten years her senior. My male ego had gotten out of hand.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid" I repeated to myself as I got up from my table, nodded goodbye to Sandra across what now seemed an unusually large gulf, and left for my day.

...

When I returned to the hotel after a now productive day in the Library and retrieved my key at the front desk, the clerk handed me a note.

"Charles," it read. "Sorry for skipping out last night. Would you join me for dinner tonight in my suite, Room 1308, at 8? I will be out until shortly before then, but please leave a response with the desk clerk. Sandra."

I panicked. What was this invitation for? Another night of polite conversation? Her suite? Why? Why? What should I do? I felt like a helpless teenager invited to the Sadie Hawkins dance by the prettiest girl in school who I barely knew. Was this a cosmic joke? Why me?

I must have looked the fool to the clerk as these thoughts flooded through my mind. I grasped a pen and wrote "I would be delighted" on the note. I asked the clerk to give this to Sandra in 1308 - realizing that I did not know her last name, and she did not know mine.

...

At precisely 8:05, not even fashionably late, I knocked on the door of suite 1308. It opened to reveal a striking Sandra in a long white nightdress, thigh high stockings that showed through the somewhat sheer material of her gown, and high heeled shoes. The sight nearly caused me to shoot a load right there in my pants.

"I'm sorry," she immediately said. "It has been a long day and I wanted to change into something more comfortable. I hope you don't mind if I'm informal." Mind, I thought? Mind? At the same time, though, panic struck. What was I going to do?

"You look wonderful," I replied, trying to hide my rising anxiety.

"I thought we might just order in tonight, if you don't object," she said as she put out her arm and invited me into the suite. "I know the chef downstairs," she continued, "I suggest we just ask him to prepare something delicious. Do you have any food restrictions he might need to know about" she asked sweetly?

"That sounds wonderful," I replied. "I eat most everything," I continued, staring into her eyes with what I hoped was a look of amusement that also carried a leading offer. I then looked around the suite, agog at the luxury surrounding me. The living room was tastefully decorated and large enough to sit eight or so guests. There was a dining table for same number. Through a set of double doors, I could see the large and richly appointed room with a king bed in the center. My room on the lower floor looked like a dungeon by comparison. My curiosity about this woman - and why she was suddenly befriending me - suddenly became more pressing.

After speaking on the phone to the chef, I presume, Sandra opened the bottle of champagne on ice and the bottle of red wine next to it. "I hope this is OK," she said as she handed me the glass. "This is similar to what you ordered last night, but a much better vintage than what they serve in the bar. I hope you like it," she finished with a tender smile that took my breath away.

"Let's sit," she said, directing me to the couch. "It will be 30 minutes or so before dinner arrives."

Curiosity getting the better of me, I inquired "How often do you come to London? Do you usually stay at this same hotel?"

Somewhat sheepishly, she glanced down, took what a sip of champagne, and explained "Well, if you must know, my family owns this hotel, and many others in Europe." Taking another significant sip, she continued "I come to London once every four or six weeks to get away from our house in the country," she continued with downcast eyes. "Its suffocating out there. Between my doddering old father, and Frank, my husband, who has taken over the company, I'm expected to be the 'good girl' or 'good wife,' to care about the flower gardens, oversee the servants and dinner parties, it's just too much - and not enough at the same time."

The pieces started to fit together. The personal had been breeched. Ignored and controlled, she came to London for a bit of freedom, possibly excitement. Yet, even here she could not be too direct or obvious. Thus, the interest in a strange traveler who would move on in a matter of days, the discrete note at breakfast, the insistence on leaving the hotel for a drink, the invitation to dinner -in her suite. Decorum must be maintained. Word must not get out to the hotel staff or, worse, family. Obviously. I was a passing amusement. A pawn in her periodic game. I'm not interested, I told myself. I refuse to give up my family, my wife, to be a plaything in some rich woman's otherwise boring life.

As this wave of insight washed over me, I also realized that it would be difficult to extricate myself from dinner. The food is on its way, I told myself. I can shut down any overture at any time, I argued to my inner angel. So, I sat on the couch.

"That's too bad," I replied. "It must be hard to have so much and so little at the same time." She looked wistfully in my direction, with perhaps the hint of a tear in her eye.

Raising her glass toward mine, we clinked as she said, with a slightly forced smile, "To new friends."

"To new friends," I responded in kind. With that, she curled up on the couch - a bit too close for comfort - revealing her long stocking clad legs through the previously unnoticed slit in her nightdress. As I once again ran my eyes up her body, I noticed two large nipples protruding from her firm breasts as well as the absence of any panties, which should have otherwise shown through the thin material of her nightgown. As my resolve began to crack, my hard-on grew to embarrassing proportions - a fact that was quite hard to hide under the circumstances, and which I was sure that Sandra's observant eyes took in.

To acknowledge our toast, Sandra leaned in, kissed my cheek, and said "Thank you for understanding," though whether she grasped the depth of my insight or the rapidity with which my resolve was disintegrating was unclear. When I did not flinch, she kissed me again, on the lips. She was sweet, and not just from the champagne. She was tender and soft. Despite my best intentions, I was lost. Drawing her into my arms, we dissolved into one another.

Sandra soon straddled me, my now more than obvious erection pressed into her vulva. Wrapping her arms around my neck, we continued to kiss passionately as I rubbed my free hands over her back and cupped her bottom. The temperature in the room rose, or at least it felt that way. After a few minutes, Sandra slid to her knees, unzipped my pants, and freed me. A few firm strokes later, her mouth descended on my erection, taking me deep. My resolve, thoughts of wife and family, everything evaporated in a single rush as her lips met the very sensitive ridge just below my cockhead. As her head bobbed up and down, I reached for her tits, taking their considerable heft into my hands. I was in heaven, completely lost in the moment.

"Ring, ring" The doorbell sounded just about as I was to cum. The thought crossed my mind that she had held me at the brink just for this interruption. The vixen.

"I'll get it," Sandra said as she rose. "Why don't you put yourself together in the loo just over there," she pointed. I hobbled over. As I tried to get my erection back into my pants, I heard room service enter and plates clatter as the waiter set the table and put out the food. There was no doubt that I was being kept out of the "public" eye. After the door to the suite closed, I reentered the main room and looked anxiously for Sandra. Food was the last thing on my mind.

"Let's eat," she said. "I'm starved...but I won't leave you on edge forever," she promised with a sly smile.

I ate quickly, though I was not especially concerned with food at the moment. Dinner was quite good, I think, though I was not conscious of any particular dish. Sandra tried to make small talk, as civilized people should, I guess. But I was feeling far from civilized at the time. She sat there so demurely, though the mouth now receiving morsels of food had just so recently been wrapped around my cock. She looked slightly flushed, a look that became her, but she was obviously in no hurry. I, on the other hand, could not wait. After what I hoped was the minimally acceptable time, I pushed my plate aside, stood up, and pulled her to a standing position. I then swept her into my arms, carried her to the bedroom, and deposited her on her feet as gently as I could. Pulling her nightgown over her head, I laid her on the bed in nothing but a pair of white thigh high stockings and her high heels. I quickly undressed without taking my eyes from the vision before me. As I wrestled with my clothes, her hand dropped to her vagina and caressed her slit, dipping in for a dollop of lubrication as she ran a finger up and around her clit.

Once undressed, I leapt onto the bed, climbed between her open legs, and entered her in one full stroke. She was heavenly. I won't claim that she was tight. She was, after all, a mature woman who, I supposed, was far from a virgin. But she was startlingly wet, soft, silky, and so very warm.

"Fuck me," she demanded, once I was buried within her. And I did. I rammed in and out of her increasingly wet cunt like a man possessed. Her beauty, days of desire, an hour of teasing and stimulation, and her obvious willingness broke me. I pumped in and out, hammering her. Though she responded forcefully, matching me stroke-for-stroke, calling out loudly for me to fuck her, I didn't at that point much care about her needs. All I wanted was to pound away at her as long as possible and then, when I could hold back no longer, release myself into her willing body. As it happened, just as I finally peaked, so did she. As I slammed into her one final time, she shook all over and released as well.

I pulled out and immediately lowered my mouth to her pulsing, overflowing pussy. Wanting to taste her, and not minding my own cum, I licked her from bottom to top, wiggling my tongue inside her slit. I then sucked on her clit - still sensitive from her orgasm - until she started to rise again. I returned to her dripping vagina, this time starting my licks at her pink asshole and continuing to her engorged nub. She seemed to like this a lot, though this was still not my primary concern. I devoured her pussy, sucking up the juices that flowed from within. Her enjoyment, increasingly evident, was merely a byproduct of my own pleasure.

As she rose once again to orgasm, I grew hard. Before she could cum again, I slid my rigid cock into her. Kissing her firmly, she had no choice but to taste herself on my lips and tongue. To my surprise, she eagerly licked our juices off my face. One, two, three, four, five strokes and she started to convulse around my prick. I smiled, knowing that since I had just recently cum, both of us were now in for a long night.

As she came down from her orgasm, I rolled over, pulling her on top of me. With her riding me cowgirl style, I now had full access to her wonderful breasts that hung delightfully just inches from my mouth. I held them as she rocked back and forth, enjoying their weight in my hands. I pinched her nipples, then raised my head just a bit to suck hard on them like a famished child. With this, her eyes rolled back into her skull as yet another orgasm screamed through her body.

I pulled out, rolled her on her stomach, and nudged her ass into the air. Entering her from behind, she was much tighter for me and, I gathered from her reactions, my hard cock rubbed directly over her g-spot with each stroke. With hardly a break, she started to rise again until her body shuttered its approval with yet another orgasm. Four for her, one for me, but a hell of a ride. Figuring she was probably done, I pushed her onto her back, straddled her chest, and stuck my cock - covered with pussy juice - into her mouth. After a good cleaning, I pulled back, grabbed my cock, and stroked myself until I exploded all over her beautiful tits. Still a large load, I covered both tits well - and then watched the thick fluid collect in that special depression between her breasts. With my fingers, I scooped up my cum and brought it to her mouth, where she linked my fingers clean. I continued this until I had fed her all I could gather. An hour, maybe two, after I had entered her a second time, I finally collapsed at her side, done in for the night.