She sat at her usual table, a Coke in front of her, eyes fixed somewhere to the back of the lead singer. She was alone, as usual, dressed in the clothes young girls wore when they worked in offices. She knew that the bartender wasn't quite sure about her, but it didn't worry her. She didn't look like a pro, didn't come on aggressively, keeping to herself. She knew, somehow, that the bartender knew she was underage, but she never ordered booze, paid promptly and tipped, and was quiet and polite. As far as anyone knew, she came to the hotel bar to listen to the band.
She did, however, leave with a different man every night, and had for the past two months.
She sipped her Coke and waited.
The makeup was expertly applied, a little heavier on one side; not noticeable in the dim bar. The bruise was fading, and she thanked her lucky stars for a quickly healing body. She didn't hurt very much tonight, and that was good news. She had $1100 dollars in an envelope locked away in her desk drawer at work; another $200 and she'd be free.
She checked her watch; it was a little after 9:00. If necessary, she could go back to the apartment; he'd be gone to work, and she could at least get a little sleep. However, if she got lucky tonight, she'd never have to go back at all.
She tried to keep her mind blank, though she began to size up the arrivals in the bar. Business types, here for conventions, not affluent enough to stay at the big hotels but looking for a little fun. She dismissed a group of young men, loud and boisterous. She had a knack of being invisible to them, and they walked past her to a group of more vivacious and inviting women.
Her eyes swept the remainder, and she saw him. Mid 40's, big, a little paunchy and grey hair. Very nice suit, glasses . . . yes.
She stopped being invisible, rose and walked to the bar to get another Coke. She, herself, couldn't explain how she did it, but as she moved next to the man, somehow her perfume became a little more pronounced, her hair - long and flowing freely - a little ruddier in the dim light. Under the trim grey suit jacket, her breasts seemed fuller, and she very lightly brushed against the man as she turned from the bar.
Her eyes through her wire-rimmed glasses seemed huge, and she smiled and murmured an apology. He followed her to the table.
His name was Paul, though it was really unimportant. He owned a small manufacturing plant in Columbus. He was married, and had three teenagers, two boys and a girl. He had been in meetings all day, hadn't had dinner, and was she interested?
She smiled, nodded, and rose with him. Her head came to his shoulder; he was very tall. His arm was light on her shoulders, and she inhaled his scent; pipe tobacco, scotch - his aftershave was a little elusive; something old fashioned, spicy and light.
It was going to be all right.
They had dinner in the hotel restaurant. This was new, but not unpleasant; she hadn't eaten since breakfast. She didn't tell him much, just that she worked in a credit union, had left home - she didn't specify why - and had been living with her boyfriend, but that hadn't worked out. She drew him out, about his job, his life, his interests. She learned that he had a nice house and two cars. He liked Florida a lot; wasn't too sure about California. His children were bright and no trouble. His wife was a volunteer with a church group.
She also learned that his wife wasn't interested in sex anymore; that he had, well, needs; that he didn't think he'd seen anyone prettier than the young lady he was with. She was nice, too, letting him talk like that. He talked a lot about his daughter, how bright she was, how accomplished.
She smiled at him. It wasn't forced; he was a nice man, and pleasant company. She noticed that his thumb was tracing a pattern on her wrist; it felt very pleasant, and she felt arousal beginning. Sometimes that made it easier. She looked at his hands; they were square, and hard.
She moved her foot under the table, slipping out of her pump and rubbing her stocking-clad toes against his ankle. Her hand dropped to his thigh, stroking it gently as he tried to maintain the conversation; his breathing became a little harsh, his cock straining.
"Jesus!" was what he said, and called for the check. She slipped back into her shoe and moved her hand, giving him time to compose himself. They didn't speak as the waiter brought the bill and he signed for the dinner, nor as they rose and walked to the elevator.
They were alone in the elevator, and when the door closed he pulled her close, kissing her very firmly, strongly - it hurt, and she knew how it would go; she became quiet, a little passive, open and receptive and submissive. His hands gripped her breasts and tightened, there was pain, but pleasure, too, and he took her by the hand as the door opened and they walked down the corridor to the room.
Once inside, he turned on the light and went to close the drapes, telling her over his shoulder to undress. She put her bag neatly on a chair, removed her jacket and skirt, then her blouse. These she placed neatly over the back of the chair; they weren't expensive, or of good quality, but they were one half of her working wardrobe. She took off her slip, folding that neatly; unhooked her brassier, and stood in her garter belt, panties and stockings.
He watched her, having removed his jacket and tie. "Come here," he said, and she walked toward him, familiar feelings of desire and fear rising within her. "Good girl," he said, reaching up and pinching both nipples, hard, twisting them. Her eyes filled with tears, but she smiled.
