The Bar in the Hotel Lobby

This dress you picked out for me tonight is scandalously revealing. I feel exposed, like you've already started taking off my clothes.

The bartender takes in an eyeful of my legs and cleavage as he brings me my drink (my third -- a dress like this requires some liquid courage). He was sneakier about his ogling when we first arrived, but I've done nothing to discourage him and he's growing braver with each minute. His gaze is becoming more overt and is lingering longer.

Others are looking, too. There's a man at a little table in the back, over by where the bar opens into the hotel lobby: his eyes snatch up all they can of my body whenever he thinks his wife isn't paying attention. Another man has taken a stool near us; I suspect he'd have sat closer if he hadn't seen you holding my hand. I can tell that he, like you, likes the way the freckles trail down from my neck and shoulders toward my breasts.

For your part, you're in your best suit and your hair is perfect. You look every inch the hotshot businessman, and I, in too much makeup and not enough dress, might be mistaken for your call girl if not for the rings on our fingers (now that I think about it, I might enjoy being mistaken for your call girl -- I make a mental note to leave my ring in the room next time).

We touch as much as we dare. As you hold my hand, your thumb makes little circles around my knuckle the same way I know it will later around my nipple. I let out a tiny sigh at the thought. The toe of my shoe finds your ankle and encourages you with one slow, upward stroke.

I reach for my glass with my free hand and take a long drink, leaning back my head and pushing out my chest. My eyes are closed as I drink, but I can feel you staring. I can feel your eyes sliding down my neck and over my breasts, which are threatening to burst out of this little dress. I'm certain the other men in the bar are enjoying the view, too, wishing they could do everything to me that you'll be doing soon.

There's a piece of ice still in my mouth as I set down my drink. I let you catch a glimpse of it on my tongue for a moment and squeeze your hand meaningfully. It's a reminder of the last time you fucked me in this hotel: then, I held an ice cube in my teeth and teased your belly and thighs with it before letting it melt away in my mouth as I swirled it around the head of your cock. You squeeze my hand back, almost involuntarily. You remember.

In retaliation, you take my hand, the one you're holding, and set it on top of the other on the counter, so that you can hold both my hands together tightly in your one hand. You're trying to remind me of the night when you bound my wrists together with a bathrobe tie and then hung them above my head on a towel hook. I was your helpless prisoner that night, and you groped, stroked, and fucked me until we couldn't stand up anymore. It's the kind of memory that might ruin my underwear, if I were wearing any.

I give you a tortured look to let you know your gesture has had the desired effect. Only then do you release my hands.

An hour ago, we were making flimsy attempts at conversation, weakly keeping up the pretense that this was something more than pseudo-exhibitionist foreplay. The conversation is long gone now, and the pretense is forgotten. The promise of sex hangs heavily in the air, and we haven't said a word since I ordered my third drink.

Your hand finds my knee as I take another sip. It begins as a gentle touch, but by the time I set my drink down I can feel your nails lightly digging into my skin. At first I think you're just nervous with anticipation, but when my eyes lock with yours I can see this is meant as a deliberate gesture: you want me thinking of the way your nails dig into my ass when you fuck me. It's a torturous thought, especially considering that my current attire would present almost no obstacle at all to you claiming me in just that way.

I shiver and stifle a sharp intake of breath. It's time. We're nearing the line between suggestive and indecent, and I'm starting to feel as if I'd spread my legs for you right here at the bar if you asked. I fix you with my most piercing fuck-me-now look, then raise my glass, lean back, and down the rest of my drink in one long, slow gulp. It's an exaggerated pose, intended to give you -- and everyone else -- one last look at my body's struggle against this dress. I can feel the whole bar hanging on the tilt of my head and the arch of my back.

You reach into your pocket and produce some folded up bills. I think to myself that next time I ought to fetch the cash for you: it'd be a free opportunity to brush my fingers against the erection that I'm sure is there. You set the bills down on the counter -- I can tell there's a generous tip included for the bartender -- then stand and turn toward the lobby.

I stand, too, acknowledging the men in the bar with a knowing look. Some of them smile back. Others pretend they weren't looking.

You begin to walk back out to the lobby now. You've buttoned your jacket to hide your erection, but otherwise act completely confident. You don't look back at me. I follow, adopting my best Marilyn Monroe walk.

I mastered these heels a long time ago, but my knees still wobble ever-so-slightly under the weight of what I know. I know I'm about to suck your cock like a desperate slut. I know you're about to fuck me like you've forgotten my name. And I know every man at the bar is jealously watching my ass as you lead me to the elevator.

I love it all.