Parallel 02

The woman pushed her empty bottle to the rail, dug in a little pocket in her oh-so-pleasant yoga pants, and produced some wadded-up bills. She put them on the bar without straightening them and turned back to him.

She looked at him, considering, seemingly thinking, and said, "You're nice." She thought some more. "I'll suck you. It'll be fun."

He had to sit and stare at her, unsure of the reality of his situation.

She laughed a little, and said, "I'm really, really good at it. Trust me." She waited a tick, watching his reaction, then said, "What's your room number?"

He told her.

"Go on up. I'll meet you in, like, fifteen." She reached out and touched his leg. "It'll be fun." Then she bounced off the stool and strode out of the bar, leaving him.

He looked around, waved the beaten bartender over, and paid her off. Then he walked out of the bar into the lobby-slash-atrium, reflexively looking up to the glass roof, past the cheap rental plants and at the shimmering, oblique glow of the descending day. He'd had how many beers?

"Interesting," he thought, they'd had no effect at all.

He was charged up about this girl. He glanced back briefly, but she was gone; she'd probably gone out the other exit, to the opposite bank of elevators. A brief stab of nervousness hit him, and he had a superstitious fear that if he saw her again right now it would jinx it, and they wouldn't get together. He shook his head and made a beeline for the elevators.

In the glass box he deliberately faced the outer bank of rooms, making sure not to look into the atrium for fear of seeing her in another bubble, across the way.

"Christ, this is stupid," he thought. "I'm losing my mind." When the bubble box hit Floor 23 he stepped over the gap and distractedly scuffed his feet on the carpet on his way to the room, fishing in his pocket for the key card, and suffering another flick of panic when he couldn't find it, only to locate it in his shirt pocket instead of his jeans.

The door seemed extremely heavy and awkward, and when he entered the room he looked around with a nervous eye, trying to see if he'd made too much of a mess in the bathroom. Why did the bathrooms always have to be right next to the entrance door? "The first thing you always see is the toilet," he thought, and closed that door.

Wandering the close room, he had the thought that he'd imagined the whole thing, that the little gymnast was a figment of a jet-lagged imagination, and that he was circling an empty room in a base delusion of sexual frustration.

"People don't really have one-night stands with strangers in airport hotels," he thought, and stopped, motionless in the room. As he tried to gather his thoughts a short, sharp series of raps snapped on the door. It was her.

He walked over and opened the door.

The gymnast woman walked- no, sauntered into the room without speaking, slipping off a pink pair of flip-flop sandals as she entered. She moved with a little bouncey stride that made her body sway and ripple; she had a firm, tight figure. Moving to the large window, she put her palms on the glass and peered out onto the ugly suburb-scape of concrete, glass, and Hot Wheels cars. A large jet flew past.

He walked around the bed and it's bad-trip coverlet to stand behind her, and was again surprised at his relative height: he towered over her. She turned her head and lowered her chin, gazing back over her shoulder with eyes as sultry as she could manage with her doll-like face.

She smirked, did a funny little bounce and said, "...you gonna get naked for me or what?" and when he froze momentarily, continued, "Get that cock out!" and laughed, a high-pitched, amused and fun-filled expression.

He complied, opening his trousers and fishing, but the woman bounced over to him, looked up into his face, and tugged at his shirt briefly before tiptoeing back to the window, silently demanding he take everything off. He did it. When he was buck naked she pranced straight to him and grabbed his cock like a fireman on a hose. He looked down and she was right: in her hand his cock looked big.

She bluntly shoved on his chest, and the force of it surprised him; she was a lot stronger than her size indicated. He sat heavily on the bed, and as his ass hit the soft surface she dropped to her knees, and in a single, smooth motion enveloped his cock with her mouth. It felt very, very good.

She sucked him, and it was incredible, tongue rolling around the very tip and head as she bobbed back and forth, cupping his balls and stopping once to lick and suck his pouch and base. She kept it up for several minutes, sucking the very tip, then taking him in more deeply, then licking carefully and delicately. She was really, really good. Stunning, and he had to think hard to not come right away.

He looked down at the top of her head, and touched her hair, looking at her shoulders and back. She had that amazing, solid, muscular body. He touched her neck, stroking gently, and she glanced up at him.

She stopped suddenly, looked to her lower right, and said, "Lay on the bed, come on, move," and with still unexpected strength flipped his legs up, swiveled his whole body, and flipped him into the middle of the bed. He stretched out and placed his hands behind his head, and she leaped up, dipped on all fours (a move that accented the arch of her back, and her ass looked exactly like the ripest, most luscious peach ever grown), and went directly back to work.

He watched her suck him, mouth moving, her tongue flicking out to stroke the very tip and underside of the head of his cock, and he could feel it getting close. He rested a hand on her shoulder, stroking, and she shifted her body at nearly a right angle to his. He took advantage of her move to put his hand on her ass; it was amazing and tight and round. He gently stroked her fantastic ass and rested his head back, waiting to come.

She stopped.