Hotel Fun

DEAR READERS: This is a continuation of my very first story, "Hotel Fun," in which the narrator meets up with a long-lost friend, and takes her to his hotel room for a hot fuck involving some exhibitionism. The story ends with the hint of a continuation involving a third person, a bellhop at the hotel. Here's the sequel, written especially for my friend (you know who you are, sexy thing) who's been so good at making me cum so very hard all these years. The story picks up with her returning home from work, the day after the tryst in the hotel. If you enjoy it, please vote and, if you care to, send me your comments.

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You arrive home the next day, beat from a long day at work. You've gotten nothing accomplished, since you've been preoccupied with yesterday's tryst with me at the hotel. Your mind has been wandering back to that window at the Four Seasons, that window where I fucked you hard in full view of whomever cared to look up or across. All day your pussy has been moist, thinking about how hot you were, exposed for all to see as I fucked you deep and hard. Now you sit at your coffee table, still dressed for work, your hand on your lap as your fingertips softly caress your mound through your clothes. You look at the clock and frown, knowing that I'll be busy until late tonight, and you need me now.

Maybe a bath is in order? Hmm what a nice way to unwind. You've never regretted the money you spent redoing your bathroom to accommodate that big Jacuzzi tub. Time to put it to good use, you think.

As the tub fills, you slip out of your clothes. The business suit lays crumpled on the floor, destined for the dry cleaner. You stand there in your bra and panties, looking in the mirror and smiling. The silky black material of your bra cups your breasts nicely, showing off your cleavage, and the matching panties hug your hips so nicely, leading your eyes to your pussy. You're surprised at the wet spot you have there, the physical evidence of a whole day's arousal. Your face flushes as you wonder, embarrassed, whether or not your colleagues could tell that your mind had been in the gutter all day long.

The bra and panties are soon lying on the floor as well, as you ease yourself into a warm bath, and turn the Jacuzzi on. The candles you've lit bathe the room in a soft warm light that sparkles on the surface of the churning water, and fill the air with the comforting aroma of lavender. You let your hands wander along your body as the music drifts in from the living room and you lose yourself in memories . . .

It's eight years before, and you're a junior in college, trying to concentrate on a history paper, but utterly distracted, like you are today, by lurid recollections of hot sex. It was so unlike you, everything you had done that weekend. Good Catholic girls like you simply didn't do those things. But you had been with me, and I had helped you unlock something inside you that you didn't even know was there. A few months before, when we hadn't even met, you were certainly no virgin. You'd had your share of boys you'd dated briefly, boys who had gotten you out of your panties after a night of drinking, and had fucked you quickly and coldly on the narrow beds of their dorm rooms and in the slovenly rooms of their fraternity houses. Guilt had always followed the morning after, along with the hangover, as you looked back on the night before, ashamed at what you had done, while all the while wondering why it had been so unsatisfying.

I was your professor that semester, doing my best to make you and your classmates see beyond the difficulties of poetry, and help you glimpse its possibilities. You were that beautiful girl who sat in the class and clung to my every word, as my lectures helped you make sense of things that had seemed so senseless before. I had to struggle not to deliver the lectures to you alone, to you with your wide glowing eyes and your beautiful figure that showed through your khakis and button-down shirts. Those shirts that I wanted so desperately to unbutton, so that I could devour the soft warm flesh underneath.

How was it that we had become lovers? The details escaped you now. You had discovered that your fascination with me had become physical. I was that young, freshly-minted PhD that seemed barely old enough to be on that side of the podium. One day I had smiled at you during class, and to your great surprise, your heart skipped a beat. I asked you to come see me after class, and you sheepishly agreed, wondering how you would conceal the desires that were beginning to well up inside you . . .

You stare at your blank computer screen as you feel the wetness grow between your legs again. That weekend had been only the latest in a string of weekends with me. With each encounter, you had given yourself over to passions that you did not even know you had. You had learned to scream as you got fucked. You had had your first real orgasm, and had discovered that could have them over and over again. You had learnt the pleasure of having your cunt eaten skillfully, and of cumming all over the face of a lover who was thirsty for every drop that came out of your body. You had been tied up. You had given me your virgin ass. And with each encounter, the guilt had faded as the desire and pleasure grew. You still wore the same khakis, the same button-down blouses. The same gold bead necklace still hung primly around your neck. But you knew now that your preppy, Catholic girl-next-door look was now just a fa