Accepting the drink, she gives me a
by all means I have nothing to do anyway
glance. We are two random drops inside the great American melting pot suddenly brought together at the hotel bar in the middle of the great American nowhere. My heavy Slavic accent is getting subdued and seduced by the innuendo of her Romanian derivative of ancient Latin. Shared Eastern European roots help to break the ice.
"Are you waiting for someone, or for something?"
"Perhaps," she replies in a husky voice. "You?"
"Me? I am searching for a prototype for my story."
"Really? Are you a writer?" For a split second, she permits a glimmer of interest to show in the corner of her eye.
"I am, I write erotica."
I say it loudly and she looks around as if feeling uneasy in the company of a hardened pornographer I have declared I am.
"Don't worry, nobody hears me," I say. Indeed, hotel life is winding down, the bar is nearly empty.
"What about him?" She points at the bartender.
"The bartender does not count. It is his job to listen to what people say and to keep a secret."
"That is right," confirms the bartender and continues wiping empty glasses.
I can see the curiosity taking hold of her until she gives in to it.
"What sort of a story is that and what kind of a prototype are you looking for?"
"It is a hot wife story and I need to see, visualize, imagine the main character. Otherwise, I cannot set the right tone for the narrative."
"Is that why you are talking to me? Do you think I might fit the hot wife profile?"
"I don't know yet. I see you are married but I am not sure if you are a hot wife material."
"And what makes a woman become a hot wife material?" she asks almost mockingly.
Now she looks me in the eyes nervously rubbing a sparkling rock on her ring finger.
Four minutes and thirty-three seconds. That is how long I intend to wait. John Cage, a music genius, invented the perfect pause. I can hardly play piano, but that piece I know by heart. I see she is getting unsettled, and I stick to my silence.
With silent gestures, I ask the bartender to close my tab and give me a bottle of wine to go. I can see that she is watching me, awaiting an answer. Instead, I hand her my keycard holder with the room number written on it and with the card inside.
"Why don't you come up and join me? I will tell you everything about hot wives" I say with as much sincerity as I can muster.
"And why do you think I would do that?" she asks angrily.
I whisper in her ear and take my leave.
"C'mon, man, that's unfair, what did you say to her?" complains the bartender but I ignore him.
In my room, I uncork the bottle of
Casillero del Diablo
the bartender has given me for triple the price. Not the best choice but I like the name. I give it a fifty-fifty chance that she would show up.
I am pouring myself a second glass when I hear the lock clicking and see her entering the room.
"Don't gloat," she says, "this has nothing to do with you."
"What has nothing to do with me?" I ask and pour a glass for her.
"That..."
She lifts the bottle off the coffee table and reads the label, looks at me with a wry smile, reaches under the hem of her dress, and pulls down her thong. Even in the poorly lit room, I can see that her thong is soaking wet.
"It is not you, it is
him."
She points at the wine label and dips the gusset of her thong into my glass.
"See? I have just spiked your drink."
I take the glass from her. The thong is as red as the wine, as red as her lipstick which I now know she will leave on the collar of my shirt, on my neck, and on my cock. But that would be later. Now I push the gusset to the bottom of the glass and drink it all with not a single breath.
She takes away the glass and pushes me to sit on the couch. Standing in front of me, she lifts her dress exposing in all their glistening glory puffy lips of her velvety waxed cunt. Without saying a word, she climbs up and saddles my shoulders. Her bottom on the palms of my hands feels cool and smooth in contrast to the whiff of tropical heat brewing beneath her thighs. I find those puffy lips with mine and deeply, greedily inhale her scent -- musky, sharp, intoxicating. I feel her moistness on my mouth, bend my tongue upward and let her cunt swallow it.
"Oh fuck! I needed it so badly" she nearly screams and pushes her pelvis forward.
Moving up and down, sideways and in circles, my tongue begins its journey beneath her unchartered banks and waters. With begging whimpers, with gasps, moans, and desperate commands, she guides my pushing, sliding and swirling tongue through her depths, shoals, straights, and harbors.
And as I push and hold her ass in all its ups and downs as she rides my face, we sail through the open sea with no safe harbor in sight. The coming strength of a gathering storm is palpable in her moans that are getting deep and demanding until the earthquake rocking her core yields to the tsunami gushing over my face.
"I don't know how good your writing is, but your tongue shows skill," she says as she unsaddles my shoulders. She cleans my face, kisses my neck, and marks the collar of my shirt. A thank you note to the wife for unknowingly lending her a husband.
She sits on my lap as she needs to be held and kissed. Sensing my erection underneath invigorates her.
"Now let's take a look at how firm is your stylus, Mr. Erotica Writer," she says kneeling on the floor and unbuckles my belt. Her hand reaches inside my briefs, and a smile of approval touches her face. With a single motion, I remove my jeans and briefs and let my cock spring free.
She moves closer and takes in my scent. Her left hand gently caresses my balls. Starting at the base, her tongue moves upward until it reaches the head. Pulling down my foreskin with the right hand, she slowly, kiss after kiss, exposes the head to the depths and charms of her lipstick-covered mouth.
She takes me halfway in and lingers as if waiting for guidance which I do not hesitate to provide. Driven by my building pleasure, my hand placed at the back of her head pushes gently but insistently. I moan, she gags but holds for a few seconds.
