"Tell me what's going to happen," he said, his voice calm and quiet.
The ridiculousness of the statement made my head spin. I looked up at him from my kneeling position in front of him. He was standing there, legs spread slightly, hands clasped behind his back.
He was fully dressed in a suit, his tie slightly askew. His black trousers were neatly pressed, the seam of each leg pressed into a perfect vertical line just three feet away.
I, on the other hand, was dressed - if you could call it that - only in bra, panties, stockings and garters, kneeling on a pillow in the middle of the hotel room. I had my hands pressed to the tops of my thighs, unsure of where to put them.
He looked at me for an answer, but I could barely meet his gaze. I
hated
when he did this. This was his way of playing it safe, of giving me an 'out' if I wanted to take it.
I wanted him, and he wanted me - but we were both married, and not to each other.
If I said that nothing was going to happen, that we couldn't do this, if I hemmed and hawed, stammered, was unsure of what I was saying, he would walk out the door and we would never see each other - like this - again.
"Have you changed your mind?" he asked, his voice soft and gentle, truly concerned.
My heart raced suddenly. I needed to say something -
right now!
- or else he would walk out of the hotel room.
"No," I said, my voice croaking. Suddenly I needed a drink very badly.
I didn't want to do this, and I knew he didn't either. He wouldn't touch me, because he would lose all control and have to have me.
All
of me.
My pussy grew sopping wet at the thought, and I licked my lips. His belt buckle, just at eye level for me, glinted in the room's light, and I couldn't stop my eyes from drifting down the zipper. I saw movement underneath, and I couldn't stop a small moan.
Memories of conversations flashed through my head, thoughts of times before, of our 'arrangement.'
He had never touched me. Well, not sexually. Not
technically
sexually. We'd hugged whenever our travels crossed paths, like tonight. He was adamant that he wasn't going to cheat on his wife, and I respected that as best I could.
But damn, it wasn't easy.
My mind raced as I tried to find the right words. Each word was labored and not what I really wanted to say. What I wanted to say was,
I'm going to suck your beautiful cock until it explodes down my throat,
or maybe even,
you're going to lube up your cock to shove it deep in my ass until I come so hard it feels like it's being pulled off your body.
Underneath his trousers his cock began to grow down the side of his leg. I watched it push the fabric out like an inflatable snake, slithering to get a more comfortable spot.
"You're going to take your cock out..." I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact, but there was no hiding the hoarse, anxious lust from the words. My breath was short and constricted I needed a drink.
He was so hard now I could see the ridge of his cockhead pressing against the cotton. It looked extremely uncomfortable for him.
I had a sudden flash of a bird's-eye view of our situation. After all, this was only the third time we had done this. The first time was an accident, a chance meeting at a conference that turned into too much alcohol and then a conversation in his hotel room. He was the gentleman, however, and never made a move, but the conversation turned to sex and I was never any good at keeping my inhibitions after a few drinks.
Even then, he had read me like a dime-store novel, and knew how turned on I was. "You can masturbate, you know," he said to me. "I promise I won't touch you."
He must have thought he was giving me a feeling of safety, but in reality he didn't know how close he was to avoiding being jumped right then and there. The liquor, the sex talk, all of it - it was turning me into a beast about to give into my sexual needs.
At the time I was lying on his hotel bed while he sat at the desk across from me. I wasted no time getting my underwear off from under my skirt, still modest enough to conscientiously avoid baring any flesh to his view. Looking back, it seemed somewhat pointless, given that he knew what I was doing; hell, I
craved
him paying attention to what I was doing. My fingers danced across my pussy, and I felt the relief instantly. I was watching him intently as I played with myself, seeing his fingers start to caress the bulge in his pants as well.
He shifted in his seat, his hand trying to surreptitiously creep towards his fly. "Do you mind if I join you in a little mutual masturbation?" he asked.
We were still testing each other, inching our way forward towards ecstasy in halting, baby steps. I have no doubt that if I had said that it made me feel uncomfortable, he wouldn't have done it. Even so, the way he said it made it sound like he was being polite, respectful, not asking for permission.
"Oh, yes," I said. I longed to see what he had underneath his clothing. I desperately wanted to watch him stroke himself. I found that to be an incredible turn on, something my own husband refused to do for me.
When his cock sprang into view it was harder than anything I had ever seen. He must have been suffering from tremendous blueballs, given how rigid he was. Lightly taking his dick in his hand, I could see that he was having a similar feeling of relief flow through him as well.
The way he was sitting, though, I couldn't see too much. He was across the room - I was on the bed, he was by the desk. He saw me craning my neck and stood up, taking a few steps closer.
It wasn't going to take me long. I had been so turned on and my fingers were flying across my clit, and there was no holding back my moans which only sent him farther along. It looked like he wouldn't be able to stop either.
His breathing was ragged, and I recognized the signs of his impending climax as my own began rising inside of me. "Do you want," he panted, "a pearl necklace?"
I couldn't answer with words, but my free hand pulled at my bra straps and yanked the lingerie out of the way, exposing my tits to him. He came closer, so close that I could smell him, so close that I could lean over with my tongue and take him in my mouth.
I debated doing just that, taking him in just for a little while to see what he tasted like. I knew that I'm good, and he probably would have exploded as soon as I wrapped my ruby lips around the end of his manhood, and I wouldn't have minded one bit.
Somehow, though, I didn't, I just stared at the angry red knob as he pounded his fist over it, watching the little hole stretch with each thrust of his hand.
My orgasm hit me then, and I clenched my thighs around my fingers, too sensitive to keep fingering myself and too horny to move them away. My little yelp pushed him over the edge as well.
"Here it comes," he warned, just as he fired a searing hot splash of come onto my neck and breasts. I shivered as his ropes struck me, painting my jawline and dripping down my throat. I felt horny, slutty, sexy... and guilty all at once.
He didn't seem bothered, though. It took him a while to settle down, and even longer for his cock to begin to droop, as he stayed hard for several minutes after. I was impressed, and thought more than once about putting it to good use inside my pussy.
He went into the bathroom and came back with a warm washcloth. I took it from him to avoid any awkwardness of him cleaning my body, and he looked appreciative.
Okay, you can come on me but you can't touch me. Strange boundaries you keep.
Nevertheless, that was
exactly
the boundary he kept. Somehow he managed to convince himself that he hadn't cheated because he hadn't actually touched me. In a way, though, it only heightened the sexual tension between us, like we hadn't
actually
gotten it out of our systems.
Over the next few months I sent him links to erotic art that I liked, and he made the appropriate noises of appreciation. For the most part, though, my life took a very busy turn, and I wasn't able to communicate with him very much. I began to worry that he thought I was being awkward and uncomfortable - and while there was some truth to that, that wasn't really the main issue. It was simply one of time.
The next time I saw him, I could see he was a bit hesitant to say or do anything, and kept his polite distance. I started feeling bad and pulled him aside to let him know my silence was merely a matter of being busy, not because of him.
He smiled. "That's good," he said, and immediately started talking as if we had grown up together. His ability to take things at face value was impressive, and cute. He made it extremely easy to be with, comfortable and I felt like I was in a very safe place with him. The night sailed along smoothly, and I found myself remembering why I found him attractive to begin with.
We sat at the bar with a few other people, and everyone was feeling loose and happy. I'm often the only girl in groups of technical guys, and of course I can use my lack of filter to my advantage. It's amusing to watch shy boys squirm.
He never did, though. In fact, his confidence and self-assurance was sometimes irritating, but I couldn't tell if I was just upset because I wasn't turning him into a mass of self-conscious jelly like I could everyone else.
Once again, we found ourselves shutting down the bar, and once again we found ourselves in his hotel room.
As soon as we got in, though, he didn't waste any time. "You can take off your clothes if you want to," he said, matter of factly.
