Single 28/f

I grew up in an affluent Midwestern suburb. Nice high school, McMansions, nice cars, all of that. And then I went to college. It was a larger, prestigious state school. I got my undergrad, and then when the economy got bad, I went back for a Masters.

Now I work in sales. I travel. A lot. I have a condo I come home to, but it's a lot of hotels. And, of course, a lot of down time and quiet nights alone. I'm not as close with some of my friends as I used to be. A lot of them are married now, and have kids. It's not that I'm anti-mother, but I can only hear talk of little darlings so long before my eyes sort of glaze over. And that's not saying I don't want to get married or have kids. I do. When I find the right guy. I'm only 29.

I like nice things. I drive a decent car. But, it's the clothes and jewelry I like the most. And I buy nice underwear. i don't always wear thongs. Mostly it's boyshorts. Lacey, and in many colors. I like to look good. And I go to the gym. I eat right.

But I do get lonely. It's hard not to, when you travel so much. So I drink. Not too much, too often. I'm not a drunk. I do enjoy the hotel bar. Most of the time I'm done with my work by 5, and back to the hotel. I'll sit in my room for a while, scan the channels. Around six I'll usually head down stairs, bored. I'll order a drink, then a little dinner, and then another drink.

Inevitably, there'll be another person at the bar. Usually a man. Usually like me. And sometimes they'll talk to me, and I'll talk back. They're a little buzzed, maybe away from their wife, and they like to flirt. So I oblige them. And I like it too. A little human touch, even if it is just conversation with a stranger.

And sometimes he'll be cute, not too old. I never let them buy me a drink, but we'll move closer, talk more. The conversation will turn more personal. I'll give some details about myself, the next level. And we'll have another drink.

And then something will catch me. Usually it's his smile after he says something witty. Maybe something dorky. Something to put me at ease. I'll scan his hand. Ring? No ring? Does it really matter to me? I don't know. But that's when I start to feel the dull ache of my loneliness a little stronger. When he's there and I'm looking now a little longer into his green eyes, watching the way his blond hair is pushed across his forehead.

And then the heat will start. Right between my legs. Deep, but pressing. I'll cross my legs. Maybe rock my leg. And he'll keep the conversation going. Talk about himself a little, ask me a question. But my mind is fleeting. And then he'll set his hand down on the bar. I'll see it, study it. It looks strong. And this makes me think about my own hand. How I've felt my own hand on myself, but how long since someone else's? I'll rock my leg, and it'll become more urgent.

How do I let him know? How do I let him know that I wouldn't mind more? I wouldn't mind seeing how far he can take me. I think about his body. He's still talking, but now I'm being coy. Flashing my eyes, being quieter. I want to let him know.

And he'll pick up on it. He'll order another drink. I'll go along. We'll have one more. And then he'll really loosen up. So I touch his arm. He plays dumb the first time, but not the second. He touches me back. And then we're done with our drinks and alone in front of the elevator and then on the elevator and the silence between us is deafening and tense. Until he touches my arm again.

We kiss. Nothing serious. Just a kiss. But I feel it all the way through me. And now I'm ready. I want more of his plush lips against mine. He asks me to come back to his room and I agree.

We're on his bed, making out now. His hands are all over me, but hesitant at the same time. Where can he touch? How far will I let him go. So I feel him on my breasts first. That's safe. And he squeezes, and he rubs, and he pinches at my hard nipples through my bra. I moan, and part my legs a little because I want his hand between my legs.

And then his hand is between my legs. But it's over my jeans. So I make the move, I reach down and unbutton, unzip, and he takes the cue. His hand is inside my pants, his strong fingers pressed against the fabric of my sheer black boyshorts.

He helps my pants down a little, but they fall and stay around my ankles. I'm glad. I've spread my legs for him enough. And now he's inside my panties. Working my lips, my clit. I suck his mouth as he fingers me, and tugs at my panties. But I hold them on. Girls who take their panties off have sex. Girls who have sex are sluts.

He knows the game. He knows my panties aren't coming off. So he moans, he hints. He wants me to touch him. And I do. Squeeze it. But he wants more direct contact. So he unzips and unbuttons. And I've got a hand full of boxers with a stiff cock under them.

I stroke it. I stroke it and kiss his mouth as he fingers me and kisses me. He's still trying to get my panties down. even harder now that I've got his bare cock in my hand and can feel that thick, hot cockhead, wet from precum. And it's not that i don't want his cock. I do. I think about how much I'd love to be on my back for him, spread for him, naked for him. How good it would feel to have that all the way inside me. It's really what I need.

But I don't allow it. And slowly, his fingers are less pleasurable. He's really aroused now, not trying as hard. I know what he wants. He wants me to suck it. I think maybe we've made the blowjob too easy. Now any man who gets his fingers inside of you expects it. Not saying I don't like it. I suppose if you wanted to be crass you could call me a "cocksucker." We all are though. And which rationale do I use to assuage the mild guilt I feel for my willingness and desire to put a relative stranger's genitals in my mouth until he ejaculates? Does it make me feel powerful? Do I like to feel like a slut? I know, but I won't say.

I do like it. And I feel him between my lips, in my mouth. He throbs, pulses, loses precum. He leaks in my mouth. And I suck on it. Harder. I think about how warm it is, hot. I enjoy it. The way it throbs, it makes me throb. And I can't help but think back to the first one I did every time I do one. How strange, how foreign, but how arousing.

And when I want it to be over, I start to use my hand. His shaft is slick from my spit, and he moans, and then explodes. My mouth rides every pulse of his cock. I spit his load out and we're done.

I wipe my mouth, take a breath and wait for the obligatory, "That felt so good. Thank you." I always hate it when they thank me. Why? I wait to see if he tries to cuddle, tries to turn this into something more than it was. He does, a little, and we kiss some more. But then I pull my pants back up, straighten myself, tell him I had fun, smile and leave.

I always feel satisfied when it's over. Walking down the hotel hallway, smiling to myself, replaying it in my head. He was cute, nice cock. Nothing to be ashamed of. But it never lasts longer than it takes me to slide the card through the reader and open the door to my own room.