Today, a Saturday in September, Emerald City promised unseasonable warmth and sunshine. Diana and I awakened refreshed and invigorated as did the city known for its aromatic blends of coffee, post card perfect ferries and deeply ingrained tree hugging mindset. Soon another influx of tourists would flood these precipitous downtown streets and shekels would commence smoothly rolling into purring cash registers once more.
On the hotel roof's flat expanse, an immense American flag wildly gesticulated on a colossal white flagpole thrusting from a bubble of white fog. Diana having slept soundly next to me, awakened first. She bounded out of bed, from room service she ordered up a continental breakfast supplemented by fresh strawberries and cream, moved to the shower while I snoozed. I managed to raise my head, crack open one eye, see she was no worse for wear following our lovemaking duets the previous evening and into the early morning hours. It was gratifying watching her slim naked body sashay toward the bathroom, a room only a true sybarite could fully appreciate.
My head drooped back to the pillow and I fell asleep once more.
I adore sleeping in a premier hotel. The quiet washes over me; a dark room behind closed curtains makes for a swanky cocoon. This morning my cocoon was also permeated with fragrant memories of the desirable woman who had slept next to me. I loved the plush silk sheets, confections left on the pillows, the servile hotel staff on permanent loan from Swiss banking concerns and English manor houses. Such extravagant surroundings in my mind were far superior for charming lissome women into bed then any lodging catering to common folk. These simple souls content in their diminished capacity were satisfied with simply getting their rocks off expeditiously. They know not what they were missing. I yearned for prolonged ecstasy with women, sought out their desires and sated them if at all possible. Then turned the table, allowed them to cater to my wishes, apply themselves to my base needs. Fornication was nothing but reciprocal action anyway.
No one considers me ordinary. You may think me arrogant, others romantic. Some see in the angles of my face a prism capable of breaking any passionate woman to my will, then bending her into an acquiescent vessel fulfilling my desires. I covet such women with a nearly insane concentration. My domination is absolute, complex and considerable. My brand of women is freely submissive in their nature. It is a sixth sense, I suspect. Somehow, in a woman's aura, the manner of her movement, a look in her eyes, I sense her capitulation, her willingness to be tamed, to be under my command. Naturally, such a woman returns to my bed again and again.
And yes, I am always eager to meet the day full bore, head on. My avocation keeps me charging forth searching for the next conquest, distilling the purest form of eroticism from the most unlikely of women. That is the thrill, the idea propelling me forward.
A few minutes after Diana climbed out of bed; I did too. I stretched, did several deep knee bends, a series of sit ups and surreptitiously scratched my naked ass. Off to the bathroom, passing the hot tub to my left, I stood over the commode as my way too yellow pee drained out into the porcelain bowl. I yawned, rubbed the stubble on my jaw and heard the shower.
Steam snaked from under the bathroom's inner door behind which Diana showered. I could opt to make coffee, shave, wrap myself in one of the complimentary terrycloth bathrobes, and wait for room service. My spot on instinct to couple with this woman frequently as possible compelled me in my course of action. I much preferred the idea of soaping her back, getting squeaky clean bumping into her rather then shaving or supping on coffee by my lonesome. I smacked some toothpaste across my teeth, focused my attention for a few seconds on the subdued web of lines rioting round my eyes. My mug was getting a little too seasoned looking and in the past few years, I had put some hard, bumpy miles on my body. In the mirror under the harsh glare of the incandescent light above the sinks, my depraved habits definitely showed. Sometimes in looking too closely at my soon to be craggy and creviced face, I felt like a prisoner locked away in my soul, a seducer who led too much the empty, dissolute life. Maturity was blooming all about my face. Such morose thoughts however temporary they might be did not prevent me from walking straight into the shower and locking myself to Diana.
One former girlfriend, a buxom Argentinean bombshell named Sheila, a vain, calculatingly self absorbed woman freely resorted to artifice to forestall time's inroads. Never in our courtship or intermittent relationship did she allow me in the shower with her. She did have a little pooch, some serious blue veins on her thighs and several other imperfections scattered about her body. Naturally, I had seen them all while fucking her, but God forbid I see them in the shower.
Diana on the other hand enjoyed sharing the shower, embracing under the multiple shower jets, feeling my leer on her backside, following my lead as the water pummeled down on us.
I set course to the bathroom's inner sanctum where in all likelihood Diana was aiming the shower head's pulsating jets between thighs. I often visualized Sheila doing such an outrageous act down in her delta but the Berlin Wall she huddled behind hindered me from seeing her in such a state. Damn her solitary nature. It baffled me how a woman who engaged in any and all sexual acts with such abandon, a tart eager to please and be pleased could veil herself in such oddball thinking.
I did not knock on the door. Nope. Right into the fray I went, the steam, the heat, the hot hell not in anyway a reproach to my urgent need to fuck dear Diana.
Under the frosted glass etched with finely detailed herons, leaning over palm trees, I spied Diana's hourglass silhouette. In such a space four burley-sized men could easily cavort. This was no shower but a bathhouse catering to chauvinists lolling about on stone tables washed and dried by other burley men immune to the heat enveloping them. Dense steam boiled out of the shower's head and a dozen white towels covered the floor as did a large, square blue mat at the stall's entrance.
"Doll, my motto is more the merrier," I said sliding back the panel, trying to glimpse Diana through the gauzy clouds of steam.
"Come on in stud. The water is fine. Do my back and then doggy fuck me if you dare?"
"Such nice talk darling. I can hang on if I have too and I have too."
I glimpsed portions of her tanned, corded legs, a shot of slender calf reddened from the overheated steam, of a wondrous thigh dripping water. Up on her bent toes, smooth, round heels high in the air, she looked to be wearing invisible cum fuck me pumps. Water sluiced down her right breast as she vigorously scrubbed the left one with a sudsy sponge. A pile of pink towel, a turban of sorts, covered her auburn hair.
"Damn, you are a racy woman. Let's play grab ass?" I said.
Into the shower I went. Standing behind her, slightly bent forward, my cock merrily slid into her. Diana howled, rose up on her heels as I prodded for more gratification. I griped her buttocks in my sodden palms, held on for dear life.
"Fuck." Diana said.
My hands made circular motions around her breasts, marched to her southern latitudes, found her throbbing camel toe. She swooned as I touched her, bent forward at her knees and lowered her head. My cock pushed in deeper, found confinement thrilling. I grunted. Impaled on my wet horn, my submissive princess was transformed into a fiend, a doppelganger of sorts chained to me. My brute wickedness enslaved her, delighted us both and made her one with me.
Had Osama showed up covered in gray dust, tethered to his dialysis machine and waving a Kalashnikov rifle, I could not have disengaged from Diana at that moment.
The rosebud nipples on each one of her full, firm breasts glistened, cried out to be sucked.
Bent forward as I was, my hands squeezing her breasts, I rhythmically fucked Diana, rammed into her. She moaned louder.
We screwed until room service started pounding on the door with some persistence, the drumming driving us out of the shower like orphans fleeing into the night. We dressed in matching white terrycloth robes, the hotel's logo stitched above the right breast pocket.
Who might need a pocket in such a sumptuous robe? A forward thinking man might park a stogy there for later use. I could see a lady dropping a small sexual implement in for a private moment of exultation. How about a parvenu eager to impress his youthful, ceaselessly blond, air headed mistress? He could secrete an expensive string of pearls there; slip them out at the right moment. The list was endless. Trevor was my occasional work name. I said to myself, Trevor, have you gone round the bend? Has your dissipation, the heat and humidity finally gotten you?
Foregoing such crazy, off-kilter thoughts, I took Diana's hand; we strolled back into our suite all squeaky clean; she breathtakingly lovely. Latched to my body as she was, I smelled her heady, musky scent as though it was in and of me. Now, following this our most recent immersion, our spectacular rooms seemed less communal, colder since arising from our bed and its conjugal intimacy.
Our room service man, a tranquil little man of the world named Miguel, looked to be a retired matador. Smooth black hair tightly brushed back over his high domed forehead was secured in a ponytail; a black tread of hair rested above his upper lip, a burgundy jacket snugly adhered to his flat abdomen. Creased gray trousers, a black bow tie, polished black Wellington boots completed his ensemble, and made appear a devil may care character. He had to be in his sixties if he was a day and in front of my eyes, lovely Diana was coolly calculating the dimensions of his cock, considering taking him into our bed. Clearly my little vixen wondered about Senor Miguel's potential for the exotic and erotic, maybe winning a bull's ear from him.
Gracefully, Miguel wheeled in the breakfast trolley plastered over with an assortment of flaky pastries and croissants, fresh fruit, steaming coffee in a pewter pitcher, bulbous red strawberries and a silver boat filled with pure cream. He parked the moveable feast near a window overlooking a small park occupied by commemorative benches, several swing sets and a tubular arrangement for kiddies to hang from- the same sort of contraption I had seen used in Liberia to display severed heads decaying in the humid African sun.
In this high rise towering above Emerald City's downtown boulevards, fog was still clinging overhead. Gray light filtered through the white cloudy mist, entered the window and reflected off the trolley's creased white table cloth with a dazzling intensity. A single, thorn free pink rose in a slender fragile looking vase sat at the table's center. China bearing the hotel's logo, crystal glasses, silverware and two cloth napkins were arranged in perfect precision about the table. Silently, Miguel situated several chairs close by, offered to serve us. I offered him a gratuity; he smiled. My tip firmly in his grasp, the back of his hand a spider web of veins, he paused before backing out the door, kissed the back of Diana's left hand and stole a glance at her as a lover might. I imagined his speedy return if my Diana had any say in the matter.
Standing on her bare feet, the top of Diana's head reached the center line of my chest. As the door shut behind the heroic looking Miguel, she stood on her tip toes, grasped my head in her hands and kissed me full on the mouth, first without her tongue then with it. She tilted my head this way and that, inspected my face with a closeness I found un-nerving. Being a woman who did nothing in half measure she fired a barrage of kisses against my face. Busses which shot wave after wave of pleasure straight into my groin and tickled my prick.
During one of these deep, penetrative kisses, Diana reached inside my robe, stroked me with a nun-like devotion, jerked me and then yanked at my member.
"Fuck your nasty slut right now, you bastard, fuck me right here on the end of the bed. Drive me mad with desire."
Such hot patter from any buxom, long legged woman has always fired me up, sent me over the edge. As a boy how many times did I beat off in my bathroom thinking of my busty mother, her equally endowed friends? How often did I imagine one of them in a miniscule bikini, their tits barely contained in a white or red or yellow bra? Come fuck me pumps clicking in a hallway, around the pool's terrazzo deck, crossing our house's parquet entry way. Such imagery set me off to the nearest bathroom for immediate relief.
I pushed Diana down on the mussed bed, whipped open her robe, exposed her flat abdomen to my tongue. After licking my way across this flat plane, pausing to let my tongue slip between her legs, my mouth zeroed in on each one of her breasts. Beguiling breasts I was forever toying with, chewing and rubbing about inside my mouth. Often in our sexual play I found myself mystified by their heft, their firm texture, their natural bounce. I could wile away hours tasting these wonderful behemoth things, feeding off them in lieu of a bedtime snack, an early morning wake-up call. Even in the middle of night, I often found myself crawling over her, lips busily sucking.
Diana wrapped her legs around my back as I plugged into her pussy. My tongue, no stranger to the interior of her mouth, found her tonsils. I was quite near orgasm as my tongue rolled about inside her mouth, a cavity brimming over with pearly white teeth, a pink tongue capable of the most astonishing motions and now holy with the hint of mint.
I could sense her orgasm approaching with a thundering urgency. Quite soon, little explosions shook her entire body. She found release and under my body she shuddered.
"Damn baby, you are truly one magnificent fuck," I said from on top of her.
"You are so romantic darling. Give me some of that hot stuff." The words "hot stuff" put me on edge, brought to mind a particularly delightful girlfriend who had abandoned me to another.
