L A Story

NOTE: Another story inspired by an exchange with a reader.

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The lobby of the upscale Los Angeles hotel was exactly as I had envisioned. All sun-splashed white marble and glass, with potted ferns and ivory leather sofas and side-chairs. I could easily imagine George Clooney, or Emily Blunt wearing dark designer sunglasses, strolling through it non-chalantly. Non-chalant. That's how I wanted to appear.

I had arranged an early check-in and put the room in her name. She had arrived first, and left me a second key at the front desk.

My flight had arrived late last night, before midnight but 2 AM by my body's clock. I had checked into an economy motel right outside the airport that first night to sleep and shower. It wasn't so much that I didn't want to pay for two nights at the Ritz-Carlton -- this whole trip was a ridiculous extravagance anyway. It was more that I wanted the room to be absolutely pristine for her when she walked into it.

The back wall of the elevator was a floor-length mirror, and I took a moment to check my appearance in it. This afternoon I felt pretty good about it. I was glad I had purchased the new linen shirt and the topsiders. I hoped I looked more like a studio musician on Jackson Browne's new album, than a middle-aged Midwesterner in need of a haircut.

I knocked on the door and heard a muffled "Come in," then used my key card and entered the room. It was as I had pictured it -- spacious, immaculate, infused with light from the wall of windows opposite the door. The bed was still made up with a brilliant white duvet and matching pillow shams.

The bathroom door opened and she stepped out, with a smile on her face that was both shy and coy. She was wearing an emerald green satin bathrobe with a jacquard pattern woven into the fabric; her legs and feet below that were bare. Her perfectly-proportioned breasts rose a bit as she put her hands up to lift her curly brunette tresses out of the collar of the robe. She was adorable.

"Well, hello there," she said.

"Hello, Ms. Rose," I responded, waiting inside the door for her to invite me to approach.

She turned and gestured toward the well-lit room, the blinds open to the magnificent view. I admired the dimples on the backs of her knees. "The room is lovely," she said, then turned and looked at me over her shoulder. "And you're even cuter than in your pictures."

Cute. That made me smile. At one time I would have been deflated by being

described as "cute" by a desirable woman. But today, I would take it.

"The room *is* lovely," I agreed. "And you are... stunning."

She smiled again and climbed onto the bed, fluffing the pillows and reclining back against them. "Thank you," she said. "Well then, let's get started."

Encouraged and aroused by her directness, I moved to the foot of the bed, and placed my hands on my top shirt button, waiting for her further direction.

"Oh, no. I think you should stay dressed," she stated, understanding immediately. "Don't you agree?"

I did agree. I got onto the bed on my knees, as she bent her legs at the knee and opened them slightly. She undid the satin belt on her robe, and laid it open, revealing more of her lovely fair skin and a matching green chemise-style nightie. A pearl teardrop pendant hung from a tiny sliver chain in the shadow of her cleavage.

Emboldened by the realization that this was really happening, I ventured a question. "Does your husband know what you're doing this afternoon?"

"Yes. And so does my boyfriend," she responded, casually. "I think he finds it amusing."

I chuckled. I knew she was married, and that she had a regular lover as well. I was suddenly jealous of both of them, although truth be told, I probably related more to her husband. I also knew, from our online conversations, that she had a Pillow Princess fantasy; and that to fully realize it, she needed someone other than one of them; someone fully and solely committed to a long afternoon and possibly evening of unreciprocated cunnilingus and nothing else. Someone disposable.

And that was my fantasy, too. I just never imagined it would take a long weekend and a cross-country airline ticket to fulfill it. But then the conversation happened, in the direct message system on her social media account, and I committed myself, before I could change my mind.

She pulled up the hem of her emerald gown. She wasn't wearing panties. Her pubic hair was natural, untrimmed but not dense in the triangle over her mound. As she parted her legs I could see that her vulva was also unshaven, although the hair there appeared soft and wispy. Just a sliver of pink inner lips peeked out between her outer labia.

I placed my hands on her inner thighs, just above her bent knees, and gently pushed them further apart, moving between them, leaning in and lightly kissing my way upwards. When I reached the top of her thighs I passed over her genitals, discreetly inhaling her scent, freshly perfumed but already slightly musky, and placed my lips on her belly just below her navel. Here the fragrance of her perfume was stronger. I could picture her, minutes ago, or maybe an hour ago in front of her husband, spritzing herself there with an atomizer, preparing herself. For me. Or at least, for this.

I felt her hand on the back of my head. It felt gentle, even affectionate, which pleased me. But I could also feel it pushing me down. Reminding me, I wasn't here for foreplay.

I settled in and planted a kiss over her pussy, then made a point with my tongue and found the very bottom of her vaginal opening, right where her perineal raphe met her inner labia. I slowly moved upwards, gently splitting her open, then moved down one side and back up the other. She was moist already, and her lubrication was thick, almost viscous, but with almost no taste. She sighed deeply, not yet a moan, but still gratifying.

I moved my hands up under her legs and cupped her lovely bottom in them, so I could pull her closer to me. She adjusted her legs, resting her thighs on my shoulders. They were warm, and so soft. My shoulders had never felt so sensitive. I continued to lick her for a couple of minutes, then I flicked at her clitoris. She twitched, and pulled away.

"No," she chided me, as I looked up and made eye contact again. "Maybe later. I just want to enjoy what you've been doing." I nodded, then watched as she reached to the bedside table for a book. An 800-page Diana Gabaldon novel. Which she opened to the middle.

Smiling to myself, I settled in for the long haul. This was, in fact, exactly what drew me to this scenario. I wanted to please. I wanted to serve. I wanted to be ignored.

I expected my neck to get stiff, and it did so, alarmingly quickly. Oh well. That was part of the game. I concentrated on what I was doing, immersing myself in the attention I was giving. I alternated between teasing her labia apart, and gently sucking on one and then the other, often waiting to hear her turn a page before moving on.

I moved my hands from her soft cheeks to her thighs again, so I was encircling each thigh with a forearm and wrist, and her ass was resting on the crooks of my elbows. I held her open, and I wrote the alphabet in cursive with the tip of my tongue on the opening to her vagina. After I had gone from A to Z twice, I started spelling out the preamble to the Constitution.

I hadn't looked at a clock before we started, but I think about an hour had passed when she closed her book and said, "That was very nice. I think I would like you to give some attention to my clit now."

I tried not to be too eager as I finally moved up to her clitoris, flicking it, sucking it, drawing it between my lips to hold it in place while I gently stroked it with my tongue. I felt her body tighten and her breathing get heavier, and I longed for the moment when she ultimately tensed her thighs around my ears and began to rhythmically convulse. But she had told me not to expect that; that she didn't want to feel any pressure to orgasm for me. So I just savored the different way she was moving and responding, and let go of any drive to conquer her with my tongue.

"That was good," she finally whispered, and then added an unnecessary, "Thank you." Then she reached for the bedside phone and pushed a button.

"Yes," she said into the receiver. "Could you send up some champagne and strawberries to room 1427?"

Replacing the handset, she looked down at me and said, "We have ten minutes."

She was sensitive, though, and after a moment she pulled me up again. She let me rest my head on her belly as she stroked my hair and we waited for the knock on the door. When it came, I got up and met the young man, tipped him, and returned to the bedside with the silver tray.

"Oh, look, he brought two glasses," she said with a sly smile. "How cute."

I grinned, surprised at how suddenly her coy little reference to further denying me caused my semi-erection to surge in its cage. I uncorked the bottle and poured a single glass and handed it to her. She picked out a bright red strawberry and teased it with her lips and tongue, her eyes sparkling as she watched me. Then she patted the bed between her legs.

I settled back down between her thighs, amazed at her ability to add new layers to our little game, in spite of the fact that she said she had never done this; in spite of the fact that she didn't even know me. Or, perhaps, it was just that she knew all she needed to know about me.

I went back to gently licking at her labia, oddly aroused at the idea of being reduced to her secondary source of pleasure.

But after a couple of minutes, I felt her fingers twisting in my hair to tilt my head back up toward hers. "Good boy," she said with a laugh. "But, come on, come up here and have a glass of bubbly with me."

Well, that was unexpected, but welcomed. I scooted up beside her, and gently stretched my stiff neck while she poured champagne into the second flute and handed it to me.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" she asked after we had silently clinked glasses and I had taken a sip.

"Yes," I acknowledged. "Actually, very very much. Are you?"

"It's okay," she replied, then burst out laughing. She really was a wonderful tease.

Then she asked me, "Are you wearing a cage?"

I just nodded, feeling it grip me harder at the mention of it.

"Can you cum in it?"

"Well, not cumming is kind of the point," I told her.

"Hmmm," she replied. "I don't know. I think frustration is the point."

I agreed with her on that, but I could tell that she saw I was confused.

"I can tell you're into denial, but that's your kink, not mine." She rolled onto her side and propped up her head with one hand. "I want you to cum for me."

"Really?" I asked. I knew I could orgasm in a chastity device, essentially by doing kegels; I just hadn't tried it for several years. "Okay..."

"See, I think when most guys talk about going down on a woman 'for hours,' it's their dick talking. And I love it that you've been aroused by this." She reached out and gave me an affectionate touch on the tip of my wet nose. "But I want to see you keep going. After you've drained yourself of all that testosterone."

Yet again, I found my cage getting uncomfortably tight. I have to admit, the challenge intrigued me. I finished my champagne as she settled back against the pillows again.

I put my face back between her thighs and began to lick at her with a renewed intensity. I adjusted my cage so that it was pointing straight down, and then I leaned into the torment, grinding myself against the bed instead of arching my back, squeezing my thighs together, creating a rhythmic pressure on the root of my shaft.

For the first time, I felt her placing both of her hands on my head. I tried to get my tongue deeper into her, wishing I could find her g-spot with it; that was impossible, of course, but I definitely felt myself pushing against the bottom of her pelvic bone. I might have been imagining or projecting, but she was emitting little panting noises, like she was hungry to be penetrated.

Performing oral sex had never felt so much like fucking. But it wasn't fucking, and I found myself eroticizing the distinction. I concentrated anew on the pathos of my situation, and soon felt an orgasm building, moving past the point of no return. I could hear myself gasp, though I kept licking, right through my restricted convulsions and the gradual sensation of wet stickiness spreading inside my slacks, over my pulsing testicles.

And I realized my cheeks were wet, too. I was weeping. But my tears were tears of... gratitude. I was struck by how emotional I felt. Oh, I wasn't silly enough to think I was feeling "love." But it was something. Adoration, I guess.

I completely lost track of time. But I continued to worship at her altar, aware of a new clarity in my appreciation of the softness of her thighs around me, and her increasingly feminine aroma. And I noticed that her hums had a tone of... *admiration* about them.

Eventually, my arousal returned. And so did hers, if it had ever left. Finally, she pulled my head up.

"C'mon," she said. "I think you've earned another glass of champagne."

As I pulled myself up beside her, she reached for her phone and started tapping at it.

"Whatcha doin'?" I asked, affecting a childlike voice.

"I'm texting my husband," she said. "To tell him not to hold dinner for me."

I smiled. She smiled back at me. Then she asked, "What time does your flight leave tomorrow?"

I sighed. We hadn't discussed how long I was staying. When I had impetuously booked this flight, it had occurred to me to tack on a couple of days to do some sight-seeing, as long as I was here. But then I hadn't done that. Something about the extravagance of flying across the country solely to perform cunnilingus on this woman, and then to turn around and fly home, just seemed so erotic.

And she had made the same assumption.

"Nine o'clock," I acknowledged.

"Hmmm," she responded, placing her hand on my head again and guiding me back down. "Well, I guess you can sleep on the plane."