Brenda was two different women.
If you met her at work, where she greeted visitors, assigned rooms, and took money at the Morton Hotel at the edge of town, she came off as slightly shy, a little uncertain, but competent. That was Tame Brenda.
Demur was a word you'd apply to her if you knew words like that. She dressed simply. Hair in a pony tail, jeans and a clean white teeshirt, and sensible shoes. She spoke quietly and politely, never raising her voice, never adopting a hard tone no matter how rude or obnoxious a customer might be.
Because the Morton stood at the edge of town, woods lay behind it, and I discovered Brenda liked to take hikes in the trees as she ate her from-home sandwiches and sipped her from-home iced tea from one of those thermos bottle carafes they sell at Starbucks. It wasn't vast wilderness but it stretched between the hotel's property line to a couple farms that lay a couple miles distant. Deer, rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, and so on lived in the trees. It provided a buffer zone that lent the hotel a sense of isolation and quiet.
This drew customers of the more relaxed sort.
I'd do maintenance, carry luggage sometimes, and escort baffled older folks to their rooms. The Morton had only five stories, and thirty-five rooms, with a trio of out-lying cabins that cost twice as much but offered more privacy if that's what floated yer love boat.
Brenda remained untouched by the stories told by the maids, who'd giggle about finding condoms, semen all over things like the telephone or coffee maker, even smears of blood on pillows and sheets. Vibrators, strap-on dildos, and sex toys none of us understood were found along with, rarely, folded cash, coins, dice, false teeth, and boxes of matches.
One time a thief hid a diamond ring by sliding it onto the spring-loaded cylinder that held the roll of toilet paper onto the wall bracket, and a maid found it inside the roll of toilet paper when she changed it out, which earned her a plaudit and citation from the police.
Our giggle sessions, lots of eye rolls and braying sneers, affected Brenda not at all. She'd listen, sometimes give a hint of a smile, but never commented. Rolled off her like cum off a whore's lipstick.
It was because she stuck out in our group of Morton salts, as we called ourselves, that I got curious about Brenda.
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One day I asked if she'd like a walking companion. She said sure, why not, and we headed out. I'd brought my own lunch that day because I'd planned on asking if I could go with her.
As soon as the trees and underbrush blocked us from view, and no one at the hotel or in the parking lot could see us, she turned to me and set her lunch bag and carafe on the ground.
Startled, I watched her unbutton and unzip her jeans and lower them along with her panties. She hoisted up her tee shirt to reveal a lack of bra. She reached to cup my balls through my trousers, then squeezed, sliding her thumb up my stiffening cock. "Fuck me hard."
Gob-smacked at her language as much as anything else, I dropped my paper bag with its PBJ sandwich and my bottle of San Pellegrino water and popped open my pants.
She pretty much tore them off me.
Before I could move she dropped to her knees and sucked hard on the head of my cock, running her tongue under it, licking and swirling. Quiet grunts of greed roiling in her throat had me near coming. She popped her lips off my cock and looked up. "Go on, let it go. You'll last longer in my cunt."
Well, my knees wobbled but I let her suck down a big load, five pumps at least. She pulled the marrow out of my boner. I swayed in pleasure, and nearly fell over but she guided me to the ground, turned away.
On her hands and knees she presented herself for me. Dual globes split by a pucker over a Georgia O'Keefe wet dream, her pink showing.
Already getting hard again, I touched her pussy with four fingers, let my thumb press her anus, and slapped her butt with my other hand.
That made her groan and push back toward me. "Slam my cervix."
Unable to resist, I pressed myself into her slit and found it warm, wet, and active, squeezing like a pair of oiled hands. Stretching my hips forward, I went as deeply into her welcome as possible, hoping to feel the tip of my cock bump her cervix to give her a gasping thrill. When I did it, she moaned like I'd split her in half and it felt better than life. "Oh, daddy."
This was timid little Brenda?
She rutted like a wild boar's sow, digging her hands into the leaves and dirt, bouncing her ass up and down. I stopped squeezing her ass long enough to reach forward and squeeze her tits. I pulled on her pony tail, riding the bronco. My senses started blurring.
Muscles in her vagina wrung me dry.
I came three or four times, one after another, each one at least three pumps, every new tingle sliding me higher into ecstasy, my balls slapping at her clit, my hands holding her ass cheeks, my knees digging divots into the ground as I tried my best to cram all of myself into her.
When we both dropped flat to the ground panting, she purred.
"Fuck." Not an original comment, but accurate, I thought.
Standing, she brushed herself off.
I watched her flick bits of crushed leaf from her nipples, her knees, her elbows, forearms, and palms. As she stepped into her white panties and drew them up I nearly lost it, and leaned in to kiss her fur.
She gave me a funny look, as if puzzled why I'd do that, then snugged her underwear up and patted her crotch, as if congratulating a pet for doing something that pleased her. I found that cute and sexy.
Up came her jeans, their zipper, and she buttoned them on her flat belly, which still rippled, I noticed. Was she still having little orgasms? Women have it good when it comes to drawing out pleasure. All us guys can do is edge and that can make us sore and achy, especially if the ejaculation is ruined somehow.
Her teeshirt covered her handful-sized breasts and she slipped on a windbreaker that sported the logo of Morgan Hotel. She must've been carrying the jacket, I hadn't noticed. Too busy watching her ass sway, or measuring the curve of her slender belly.
Running fingers through her hair, she sat crosslegged and ate her lunch.
Dressing slower, my body tingling, I asked if we could do it again sometime soon. My voice wobbled, I was so spent. Or excited. Somehow I felt like a teenager again. She wasn't any kind of woman I'd met before.
"Do what? We can eat lunch together, sure."
She was back in her sweet, innocent mode, and it held true as I made banal conversation and chomped my PBJ, slurped my now-warm Italian water. Even as we hiked back to the hotel for our after-lunch duties she seemed untouched, pristine, a virginal girl who wore no makeup, no bling, and no attitude. As I said, she was two different women.
