That Questioning Look Ch 02

Author's Note

: This story takes place following "That Questioning Look" and is meant to be read in sequence. Any votes or comments would be welcome and very much appreciated. Special thanks to TrueNorth1969, editor extraordinaire... though he doesn't call himself one! You rock, brother.

*

I'm back on the road again, ostensibly for work, but my mind is going somewhere else entirely. Six months ago, I went away on a conference, and came away with far more than just a reference manual and a Powerpoint presentation. I'd had an incredible encounter with one of the instructors that has been indelibly etched into my body and mind. I'd be kidding myself if I told anyone that my pulse wasn't increasing with every kilometer I drive. I'm trying to distract myself, singing along loudly to a collection of CDs I've brought with me, but any song with even remotely sexual connotations has my thighs clenching together as I drive. I'm not sure how I'm going to be able to concentrate on this next conference. I don't even know if he's instructing again... and I'm not certain if I would be disappointed or relieved, if he isn't. We haven't seen each other or communicated in any way in six months.

I finally pull into the hotel, the very same one as the last time, and I'm assaulted with memories. I was so bored with my life, when last I was here, so restless and unsure of where this vague dissatisfaction was leading me. The last six months have been much worse and have taken their toll, both mentally and physically. Work wise, I've been succeeding beyond anything I've ever done before -- when I returned from the last conference, I threw myself into every aspect of my job, and professionally, it's paid off in spades. Personally, my relationships have been suffering greatly from my apathy and lack of attention. I've lost weight, because most food has simply lost its appeal. I've been craving sustenance of another sort.

After checking in, I head for the elevator to bring my meager luggage up to my room. I hadn't been paying attention when the hostess handed me the card key, so when I glance down to check the room number, my stomach drops and I stumble a little. Room 422... someone Up There is obviously having a hell of a laugh at my expense! Unbelievably, in a hotel with four floors and hundreds of rooms, they've given me the exact same room as the last time. When I come off the elevator, I walk down the hall to the dreaded room and slip in the card key. I stop dead, as soon as I enter, and jump when the door snicks behind me. My first impulse is to turn right around and leave. Everything about this room is horribly, achingly familiar, and I know I need to go somewhere to clear my head. I have a feeling I'll only come back when I absolutely have to, and pray that I'll be so exhausted that I'll drop into an instant slumber.

I succeed in distracting myself for quite a while. The beauty of this conference being only six months later is that the weather is now sunny, cool and comfortable, with the advent of spring. Little towns like this one blossom in the spring like a maiden on the cusp of womanhood; no one could fail to be moved by the singing birds, the blooming flowers, the buds opening on the trees and the fresh crisp air. Everyone I pass as I walk around town can feel it, too; people are more cheerful, more indulgent and more tolerant of their fellow man, with the weather so pleasant. I walk for hours, stopping for coffee along the way, until it's dark and I have no choice but to head back. Spring in this part of the country is chilly when the sun goes down, and my fleece sweater isn't quite warm enough to keep out the stiffening breeze.

But back at the hotel, I realize I've just been delaying the inevitable. Unlike the last time, I know exactly why my skin feels tight; I know precisely why my heart rate is erratic and my stomach feels hollow in a way that has nothing to do with a lack of food. As I step into the room, glaring impotently at the room number as I walk through, I almost jog to my suitcase in the corner. I unzip it with unsteady fingers and flip it open, to reveal a selection of toys and an enormous bottle of lube lying on the top of my clothing. I pull out my familiar pink vibrator, and, with shaking hands, a smaller purple vibrating butt plug. The butt plug, combined with this room, has me almost hyperventilating. I purchased it right after the last conference, when I returned home, and haven't been able to have an orgasm without one ever since.

As I shake off any further self-delusions, I begin a ritual that has kept me sane for six months. I step out of my shoes and strip off my clothing, dropping it heedlessly and uncharacteristically to the floor. I'm already lost to myself in memory and fantasy, and this room,

this room,

with its hotel smell sends me past the point of any other awareness. I pull back the covers and crawl onto the bed, breathing deeply through my mouth. I can feel my pulse everywhere -- in my lips, at the base of my throat, at the tips of my nipples and in my pussy. As I touch myself, I'm almost dripping, I'm so wet. I spread the wetness on my nipples, and they pebble in the cool room. I grab both tits and squeeze, feeling the wetness on my palms.

Enough.

I take my pink vibrator -- a silicone, jelly-like creation with a very realistic phallic shape and head, if somewhat lacking in size. Attached to it is a model of a small animal with a long tongue, designed to vibrate against the clit when the pseudo-penis is inserted. I rub the head against my clit, moaning in anticipation, before filling my pussy with its length. I turn it on a low vibrate, making sure the little attachment is lodged firmly in the lips of my pussy and held flush against my clit. My eyes close, and my memory takes me back... I remember sitting on a chair, and at this, my eyes snap back open, and I search the dim room... there it is...

that chair.

He was seated in it and I was astride him. I wanted to take my time and explore him, but he wasn't having any of that, and he pulled both hands behind my back to hold them in one of his. The other hand he used to pull my hair so my head was pulled back tight. I'm on my knees now, with my vibrator upright and underneath me, and my hips are pushing down, harder and faster. Frantically, I remember I had packed a dark blue silk scarf... not for a fashion accessory. I slide off the bed, my vibrator still inside me, and pull it out of my still open suitcase. Back on the bed... where...

where...

? THERE! The knob on the headboard is more than enough. I wrap one end of the scarf around my hair and the other around one of the knobs on the headboard. I'm on my knees again, facing away from the headboard, vibrator back upright underneath me, and now... I lean my head forward, and my hair catches and pulls. Not exactly the same, but enough that I can feel my juices starting to drip down my thighs.

Yeah,

I think to myself,

just like that...

I'm panting... and remembering...

"Now what are you going to do?"

God, that voice! And I'm again sliding up and down his turgid length, lost in lust and want. What am I going to do, indeed? There are only so many things I can accomplish on my own, but I know exactly what I want next... the one thing that has become a critical component to my sexual existence.

My hips still gyrating, I take my lube and squeeze a generous amount on both hands. With both hands on my ass, I massage both cheeks, squeezing hard and sliding my fingers into the crack. I'm moaning, my breath is catching in my chest, but with my eyes closed, I can almost feel the heat of him behind me. I didn't say much, before, I was so overwhelmed by him, but now, lost in my fantasy, I can say whatever I want...

"Oh, god, baby...

yes,

YES...

fuck,

get it in me!"

My legs are starting to quiver, my pussy is grinding feverishly on my vibrator, and I'm covered in a sheen of sweat. I finally grab my butt plug, the clincher to sending me completely over the edge. I soak it in lube, turn it on and it slides easily, oh, so easily, up my asshole. I toss my long hair out of my face, and let everything go.

"Ohh, yes, fuck me... FUCK ME... oh god,

pleasepleaseplease,

I'll do

anything,

give it

all

to me..."

I'm sitting on my calves, my vibrator inside my pussy, the small attachment against my swollen, rigid clit, my butt plug is pushed deep inside my ass, and I finally,

finally

feel the crescendo building. My hands have been supporting me on the bed, but at this point, I sit straight up, further pushing my toys inside my body, and grab both tits, shaking and squeezing them, imagining larger, rougher hands... I swear I can feel hair on a sweaty chest against my back, hair from his bush rubbing against my ass. I tip my head forward, feeling the scarf pull again, and I'm imagining a stronger grip, pulling and controlling me.

At this last thought...

controlling me

... I'm pushed over the edge...

"Ah, ah, ah, ah, oh god,

yes,

YES,

YES

, baby,

COME ON,

fuck,

come in me!"

I feel the surging heat in every cell of my body, a swelling rush that explodes outwards from my very centre to the tips of my fingers, my toes, the top of my head. My mind shuts down as the orgasm takes me under. I collapse on the bed; with trembling hands, I slowly reach behind me to undo the scarf from my hair, and then turn off the vibrators. In my throes of ecstasy, I've pushed the butt plug out, but when I pull out the pink vibrator, it's completely soaked from my juices alone. The wet spot I've left on the bed is the diameter of both of my hands, spread out... another thing that happens only when I'm alone, now, and only when I think of him. I lay on my stomach to catch my breath, too blown out to think of the implications of what sent me so far, so fast. My body, now bereft of the stimulus of my toys, is still humming, still needing, and my hips still flex and stretch into the mattress. Though it seems vaguely incomplete, like always, the knife edge of my raging, burning want has been blunted just enough, so I can drift off to sleep.

The next morning, I drive to the conference centre. I still can't make up my mind whether I want him to be there or not... and the tension of not knowing had me nursing a travel mug of tea on the way in, my stomach not up to anything else. As I enter the auditorium, once more smiling and greeting familiar faces, I find a place to sit. I spend a few anxious minutes tapping my pen on my thigh, when the conference coordinator finally comes in the room, to get things underway. She is followed by her half dozen or so instructors... and my stomach clenches. He isn't one of them. In a strange way, I'm relieved. Now I can totally concentrate on the conference and not on a preoccupation that has turned into an obsession.

After a productive morning, a few of my colleagues and I head to a small local pub for lunch. We're laughing, talking about our jobs and families at home, and making fun of one of the instructors who we're all convinced talks through his nose, when another small group of people come through the door of the pub -- laughing, shoulder-punching and obviously all friends. I've just finished a superb plate of pan-fried haddock and am on my second glass of wine, my stomach hurting from laughing at yet another impression of our very knowledgeable, nasal-voiced instructor. It's been a perfect morning, and eating lunch out with these women who have become friends over the last two conferences has me more relaxed than I've been in months.

I glance over at the bar... and feel the colour drain from my face. There he stands by the bar, in attractive but casual clothing and surrounded by other men. All I can see from here is his profile, but I could instantly pick him out of a crowd of a thousand, could they but fit in this room. Within seconds of seeing him, it's as if I've tapped him on the shoulder or called his name. He turns his head right away towards our table, and his gaze collides with mine... and holds. When my friend and colleague sitting next to me makes a joke, I turn my attention to her, laugh weakly and try to hide my trembling hands by taking a sip of wine. What kills me is that I know I'm as transparent as my glass of white wine to a man standing across this room; he stands there almost dispassionately staring at me... and now all I'm doing is looking for an easy exit.

I'm not going to get one.

His expression relaxes, his eyes become warmer. Still holding me prisoner with only his eyes, he raises his eyebrows with that questioning look... my lips part in a quick exhale, my hands clench on my thighs, and I know I'm soaking wet. He almost imperceptibly inclines his head toward the bar, indicating that I should come over. Like every other interaction between us, I'm helpless to do anything but what he wants. I excuse myself to my friends, as casually as I can manage, saying vaguely that one of the men is an acquaintance I haven't seen in a while. Acquaintance... well, that's one way of putting it. I take a steadying breath and make my way to the bar. He smiles, and opens his arms for a quick hug, as if I really was just a friendly acquaintance, and my heart almost stops. He smells and feels exactly the same.

"Hi! How've you been?" What a scintillating conversationalist I've become!

"Well. Yourself?" He's twinkling at me again, as always, amused at my sad attempts at normal social interaction and my denial of the blatantly obvious. "You're here for the conference again," he continues, making it a statement rather than a question. No denying the obvious for him.

"Yes," I say breathily, "I notice you aren't instructing this time." Wonderful. Obviously he was never attracted to me for my intelligence! Why can I never get it together around this man?

"You're looking really good," he tells me, and I flush with the compliment. "How's work been?"

"Thanks, I've dropped a few pounds, and I think it's entirely thanks to work! We've been working on this new project for months, and the information you gave us at the last conference has been an enormous help." I've grasped the discussion of work like the lifeline it's been the last six months and once again, it comes to my rescue. I'm able to tell him more about our project at work, a database that promises to enable us to have essential data reports and real-time statistics at the tips of our fingers and cut our workload almost in half. I think he's interested almost in spite of himself, and the two of us are engrossed in conversation for about twenty minutes. Before I know it, my friends are grabbing jackets and purses, and heading for the bar to pay their bill.

"You should go, since your friends are leaving," he says. Then, his voice drops and he almost whispers, "What hotel are you in?"

My head snaps up; I look right into those amazing eyes and tell him the name of the hotel... the same hotel as before. Before he asks, I tell him, "422."

At that, his eyebrow quirks, and he laughs, "You're kidding!"

"I only wish!" I laugh back. My stomach is still dancing a tango, but I'm relieved that we're able to talk and laugh together... more relieved that I can be in his presence with some degree of dignity.

As I start to walk towards the cash register, he asks quietly, "Sleep well last night?"

"Not hardly," I mumble, suddenly embarrassed, no longer smiling. He steps closer to me... too close.

"Look at me," he murmurs. I look up through my eyelashes. "I'll call you," he says with quiet promise. Against all common sense, I hold that promise close, and head back with everyone else to finish off our afternoon.

Unfortunately, with this new encounter and the thought of what might come later, I'm robbed of the focus I'd had that morning. The conference has moved on to syndicate work, which involves small teams, or syndicates, working together to solve various problems in proposed scenarios. My contributions are lackluster and flat; this is a far cry from my enthusiastic participation in class discussion that morning. Thankfully, no one seems to pay too much attention, but one of the women with whom I'd had lunch asks me about my "friend at the pub" when we have a quiet moment. I give her the same story as before about him being an old acquaintance, but I can tell from her expression that she isn't quite buying it. But however well my "old acquaintance" seems to be able to read me, as if I were written in large print with colour illustrations, to anyone else, I'm completely opaque; I'm able to brush away her doubt with confidence. I only wish I could don that armour of confidence around him, because I know I'll need it to hold my own with what's to come.

At last, the afternoon is over, but I'm determined that this time, unlike the last, I plan on leaving an indelible impression on him, such as he has left on me. I make plans with a few of the women from my syndicate for supper. I very deliberately walk to my car, drive the speed limit to the hotel and head to my room. After a quick shower, instead of dressing down, I decide to pull out the heavy artillery and dress up. I pull a simple, black, mid-thigh length sheath with spaghetti straps from its hanger, apply a touch of makeup, mostly to accentuate my eyes and lips, and pile my unruly, long hair artfully on the top of my head, leaving a few curls to fall by my face. As a finishing touch, I slip on ridiculously tiny, high-heeled, ferarri red sandals. For a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl, I decide I clean up pretty well. With that, I throw on a short, black trench coat, grab my little handbag, and head out to catch a taxi to meet the girls.

Three hours later, full of decadent filet mignon, garden salad and death-by-chocolate cake, the taxi drops me off in front of the hotel. With a smile still on my face, I tip the cabbie and head inside, buzzing with just the other side of too much red wine, and three hours of a great time out with friends. I catch my reflection in the mirrored door of the elevator and see a well-dressed young woman with a flushed face and bright eyes; though I wonder where this carefree creature has been the last six months, I'm suddenly very glad to see her. I give my reflection a wink and a grin, just before the doors open. When I walk down the hall and slip the card key in the door of room 422, it somehow feels a lot less intimidating than when I first arrived.

In my room, I slip off my shoes and am just about to take down my hair, when the phone rings. Though my stomach flutters, I narrow my eyes in challenge, as if he could see me... then take a quick breath, before walking over to pick up the receiver.

"Hello?"

A deep, hauntingly familiar voice replies without preamble, "Are you busy?"

I can't help grinning, my stomach tightens in anticipation as I fall back on the bed, twirling my fingers around the phone cord. "Not particularly," I reply, only a little breathless. "What's up with you?"

But he ignores my attempt at flirtatious conversation and gets right to the point. "What's your cell phone number?"

I hesitate for just a second... but I know deep down, I've always known, that I would do or give anything he asks, and I've been waiting for this moment for six long months. I give him the number, and damn the consequences.

It doesn't shock me when the phone in my hand immediately goes dead, and seconds later, my cell phone rings.

When I answer, he again goes right to business. "I need you to walk to the hotel lobby. Keep your phone on."

"Okay," I whisper. Keeping the phone at my ear, I pause at the end of the bed, before sliding my panties down my legs and kicking them off with one foot. I feel a slight tremor go through me at this act that feels almost defiant. Then I slip my siren sandals back on my feet before heading out the door.