Off-camera I heard him. "Oh, right."
The picture broke up again as Adam spun the tiny camera to face the flat screen on the opposite wall. It focused on a pair of well endowed women interlocked in a drab hotel room, as one rode the face of the other. Cries of, probably fake, passion emanated from the brunette grinding her pussy into the face and nose of her girlfriend. The vision threw me back to my own hotel encounter with Jess a couple of months prior; the difference being that my cries of passion had been very real as her tongue probed my soft, wet insides and snaked over my hard, sensitive clit, urgently yet tenderly driving me towards a tremendous orgasm that flooded my senses and her pretty, freckled cheeks with my release.
I warmed at the recollection and for an instant longed to be inside her again. Our affair had been intense yet all too brief and, though we'd occasionally swapped steamy e-mails -- steamails I called them -- and vowed to meet up one day, the distance between our countries and the pressures of daily life meant a reunion was unlikely anytime soon.
The dark irony was that part of me didn't want to see her again in case it tarnished the magic of our short time together. But another part of me craved to taste her once more; to feel her soft, golden pubic hair tickle my face; to feel her come; to hear her cry into the room and tell me in her wonderfully sexy North Carolina drawl that I made her complete. Even if only for that moment.
"B? ... Belle?"
I shook my head and focused on the screen. The hardcore had been replaced with an upside down image of Adam.
"Sorry, miles away." The image righted. "Listen, if you're off to bed I won't stop you. Just wanted to say hi. We can chat properly in the morning... my morning?"
"Cool."
"I miss you." I waved my hand, dismissing him. "Now go and continue missing me."
He grinned again and saluted. "Aye aye, cap'n. See you in a few days."
"Yeah. Night."
I cut the connection and logged off, lightly shaking my head. Boys, huh? I knew he missed me, but it still bothered me a little that he felt the need to resort to hardcore when I wasn't around. Was the image of me in his mind not strong enough that he had to rely on other visual stimuli? I sighed. Why couldn't boys sometimes behave more like girls?
More like Jess and I.
Certainly, the sight of her naked body had flicked levers inside me and yes she'd made me wet without so much as a touch. But that was after I'd taken in everything else about her. The way she talked; the shape of her mouth; her light floral scent tinted with vanilla; the silky smoothness of her hair that reflected chestnut, auburn or ginger depending on the light; her confident manner, poise, style, integrity; her long fingers and delicate red nails; and those emerald eyes I could sense were full of loaded questions and honest, passionate responses. All that I had absorbed from a fleeting encounter in close quarters at a trade fair: female intuition at maximum effectiveness. She had intrigued me from the outset; drawn me in; somehow made me want her. Yet, aside from our conversations over dinner, I still had little clue what had driven her into my arms; what had sparked her lust.
Unlike me, she was married with kids. We both worked in fairly high pressure, male-dominated environments and were used to having to fight to be heard against typical male arrogance. But I'd never pegged her as bi-curious after our initial meeting. She appeared fairly straight-laced at first glance. Mind you, I thought I was straight until I met her -- thought I was as content with Adam as she was with, umm, Matthew.
Involuntarily I shook my head: of course I was happy. Absurd to think otherwise. Adam's amazing: he seems to understand my thoughts and anticipate my desires better than anyone I've ever known. And yet within an hour of my first dinner date with Jess I felt like I'd known her forever. We just clicked and, with my shields down thanks to my slightly inebriated state, my subconscious began telling me I had to find a way to fuck her.
Perhaps she'd come to the same conclusion, and our similarities cultivated thousands of miles apart were the link between us. Had she seen echoes of herself in me: a strong woman, her course set, playing out her days with the surety that came from knowing we'd made exactly the right choices in life? Yet vulnerable in that knowledge because, after all, who knows for sure, right? And what better way to find out than by testing the limits of commitment to our chosen partners; exploring beyond the self-imposed boundaries of monogamy in a few nights of unbridled, unrestrained, and thoroughly unexpected passion.
Although I don't think she mentioned our affair to her husband -- at least she hadn't let on as I admired the radiance of her skin bathed in the soft blue-white glow from her phone as she sat naked on my pillow -- I'd told Adam of my stirrings towards Jess because that's my nature. He must have thought all his birthdays had arrived at once: I could practically sense him salivating into the phone. Though I doubted his intentions were entirely altruistic, he reassured me that it was perfectly ok for me to cross the line and had thus cemented my path to Jess' arms and velvety insides. It had probably fed his overactive visual cortex ever since, as he imagined us sliding hands over damp, delicate skin, igniting our senses using lips and tongues and teeth to dive into each other's hot bodies, panting and groaning into the otherwise quiet hotel space as our orgasms owned us. If he only knew the half of it!
No other woman had gotten to me like Jess. In fact I hadn't even known I'd wanted anyone to do some of the things we'd done those nights, let alone another woman. And yet here I was, two months on, still thinking about her; longing for one more touch of her soft kiss on my quivering pussy, and one further shiver of excitement from her slender fingers gliding in and out of my wet tunnel.
But I would be lying to say I wasn't also at ease with my days at work and my nights with Adam; the job was great, the sex was fantastic, the routine of it all a comfort. A steady beat defining my life's course. So why was I so conflicted?
A sharp rap on the door jolted me from my reverie and I padded across the room barefoot to answer it. Room service. That brought back a brief flash of a memory, which I pushed aside as I acknowledged the waiter in the plush corridor. Though I knew my boss would have preferred I accept the invitation from our US partner organisation, I hadn't fancied dinner with a bunch of brash Americans and cited jetlag as my excuse, promising to take them up on the offer the following day.
I stepped aside and the guy wheeled in the trolley. It smelled good and I suddenly became aware of how hungry I was. He parked the trolley near the table and began to reel off its contents in accented English as I nodded politely. Ramone, his name tag revealed. Yet another ticked box in The Vegas Handbook: Section 3.2: employ migrant workers of perceived lower social stature to run errands so clients feel important and tip well. This city was despicable. Ramone probably only made minimum wage and I wasn't entirely convinced any of my five bucks tip would reach his pocket. But I gave it to him anyway and signed for the food, trying to let him know through my expression that I wasn't like all the other fat cats in the hotel; that I understood and empathised with being the little hamster in the mighty industrial cog machine. Maybe it worked; maybe it didn't. He thanked me, I thanked him and he left.
No time to dwell on the morality: I was ravenous, my internal clock jumbled thanks to the time difference. I stuck my iPod into the dock, hit shuffle, and sat down to eat, as Aerosmith's 'Love in an Elevator' thumped through the room. Ha! Even the music was conspiring to remind me of her.
Half an hour later I wheeled the trolley outside and scanned both ways up the corridor, listening intently for any telltale sounds of action from neighbouring rooms. A little bit of audio therapy might help me relax, especially since the last few hotels I'd stayed had not fuelled my vice of listening into the nocturnal unions of man and woman. The corridor was deathly quiet, probably due to most people still being suckered into parting with their cash downstairs.
Mildly disappointed, I hooked the Do Not Disturb on the doorknob -- despite not really expecting anyone to drop by -- and headed back inside, allowing the door to slam behind me, the thick carpet outside deadening the echo.
It was the turn of Black Stone Cherry's 'Lonely Train' to flow through the room. Passing the bathroom I paused at the mirror and critiqued, as usual, green eyes searching for my flaws. I was still in reasonable shape and gave a half smile, turning left and right, sucking in my slightly unflattering belly amid a self-conscious pout. It'd be much better without the few extra pounds there. But the remainder of my trim, sinuous figure kind of made up for it, and I didn't feel too far out of proportion. I was curvy where my hips gave way to my sides and up to the swell of my proud 36Cs, leading to thin arms sprouting from slight shoulders. My hands smoothed the skirt against my lithe legs and my full bottom jutted above, inviting and womanly. To size-obsessed Americans I'd be overweight. To fellow Brits I was on the thin end of average; a size 12-14 depending on the fit, mainly because of the size of my boobs, belly and butt. I'd certainly seen worse. Far worse. I pouted again and combed my fingers through my long hair. It felt grimy, slightly gritty. Probably all that crap in the city air. One way to fix that.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Steam ballooned from beyond the shower screen as I stripped in front of the bathroom mirror and selected some shampoo and body wash from the toiletries on offer. Might as well use all the free stuff. With less bass than in the main room, AC/DC's 'Hells Bells' vied for the space not yet filled by steam. I danced a little and sung into the hairbrush like a teenager at a sleepover; the wine from dinner beginning to soften the edges of my perception. By rights I should have been tired, but I was wide awake and in no hurry. Supporting my full and weighty breasts with my hands, I swayed in time to the beat as the mirror began to fog and my reflection was slowly devoured by the condensation. With a final playful squeeze of my chest I hopped in the shower, the threads of water that bounced, sprayed and flowed over me from head to toe, figuratively and physically cleansing me of the city's stench.
I lathered, soaped, massaged, and scrubbed every inch, ultimately running my hands down and over my central mound; it was mildly stubbly and could use a little tidying. Grabbing my razor, I put my foot on the edge of the bath and began the practised strokes that would result in silky smooth lips, using the index finger of my hand to protect the tender parts; the remaining fingers spreading my folds and stretching the skin taut for a close finish.
By the time I was done, my whole area was once again baby soft, save for the runway strip of neatly trimmed hair that I allowed to grow from just below my tummy to above my clit. I washed and rinsed again for good measure, running a hand down between my legs to check my handiwork, cupping my sex. Perfect. I loved the thrill of being shaved. It felt naughty and just a little bit anti-establishment, like I was rebelling against society despite knowing it was a far from uncommon practice and that very few would ever find out my preference.
A little rub; a gentle squeeze. Mmmmm. Just how I liked it. Just how Jess had liked it; the contrast between my bare mons and her patch of golden fur eliciting a sexy squeal when she'd first laid eyes on my nakedness. My fingers pressed against the outside of my core and I moved them apart a little, splaying my puffy lips and feeling rivulets of water redirected over them. The exposed inner surface of my labia thanked me for including it in the proceedings and I shuddered.
Water cascaded from the large shower head and ran over my curvy body on its relentless journey to the plughole. With one leg still perched on the bath's edge I steadied myself with one hand and moved the other between my legs, stroking my private area with long, slow motions, occasionally pressing my palm up against the covered hood that housed my awakening clitoris. I periodically spread my lips revealing my pink insides to the running hot water and closed my eyes as nerve endings signalled their contentment.
Touching myself was one of my favourite pleasures. It just felt so natural, so right to slide my fingers over and around the soft, sensitive folds of my pussy. Vegas could go shove its titillating shows in any of the dumpsters that lined the murky backstreets; there was simply no contest for the excitement I could conjure from memories and fantasies created out of my own headspace.
Rubbing harder I dared to slip first one then two fingers into myself on the down stroke. I glided inside the entrance to my sex and hummed at the touch, withdrawing slightly sticky fingers which I trailed up to circle my clit before running them back down to my horny opening. Back and forth I went, diving into my channel, becoming bolder and going deeper with each passing stroke as I grew accustomed to the intrusion and my petals began to open of their own volition.
As my lips widened and the soft pink insides were revealed to the incessant shower water raining down my smooth body, the tiny pink jewel nestled at the top of my slit started to peek from its shield, eager to join the party. I caught the tip with the edge of my finger and opened my mouth involuntarily, then flicked tenderly and sighed. Sliding my palm down, I chiselled two fingers under my body and up into my moistness, lingering just long enough to coat my digits with nectar. Drawing them slowly back out, widening my lips, I then traced a path north and grazed my little nub, running a pair of fingers either side, squeezing ever so gently. God that felt good. I tensed a little and my leg quivered on the side of the bath, then I relaxed and let a deep breath exit my body.
Down my hand went again, palm lightly scuffing the very tip of my clit, following the furrow of my pussy between my legs and snaking two fingers inside, pushing deep into my oozing channel amid a gasp of pleasure. I wiggled my fingers inside myself tapping the front wall to seek out my G-spot. Wrong angle; maybe soon. I withdrew, flattened my hand and circled it over my splayed lips, each complete three-sixty working ever so slightly northward until my actions ended at my little clit. Circling my fingers over the sensitive pearl I opened my mouth further and tipped my head back. That touch brought back strong memories of Jess as her fingers had done the same, shortly followed by her soft pink tongue, circling lazily yet persistently across and around my proud bud.
