I recently wrote a story called "The Surprise" - a non-consensual story with a twist. I deliberately picked a vague title, and so I will try and write a different tale under each of Literotica's twenty-five writing categories with the same inspiration over the next year. This is Number Eight.
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Life as a general manager had a lot of advantages; the pay was one, and the executive saloon, included in the package, was another. I handled over 100 offices from Aberdeen to Aberystwyth, and from Bristol to Berwick. I spent half of my time travelling in my vehicle or by rail, ensuring that our photography studios met the requirements of our customers.
It was demanding, but I loved the job. However, being away from my home four days in every week made relationships tricky. My last long-term partner cheated on me, and the fiancée before her, split when night-after-night of Hitachi Magic Wand, Hot Chocolate and Homes Under The Hammer failed to meet her expectations of the engagement.
It made me a little bitter about sex. I sought women for my sexual needs, and thought of my handful of lovers as vessels for expending my horniness. I had a few regular partners, in various towns throughout the country, who I would call upon when I stayed in the area. Brenda in Lowestoft had amazing breasts and her titjobs were incredible. Rhea in Aylesbury was the nastiest slut this side of a goth convention, and I loved the passion Moira showed when I stopped off in Carlisle.
But that's all I had. Meaningless sex. I was 26 years of age, and almost all of my sexual partners were in their late-thirties, forties or fifties. And we always conducted our rendezvouses in a couple of hours where the woman could engineer a window to escape the attentions of their husband or boyfriend. I felt nothing for these women and just used them for a quick, desperate shag in a hotel room.
One Friday, I had to travel from West Wales to make a special trip to Cambridge at short notice. My usual hotel in the town had no vacancies; the University had a conference and rooms were scarce. I found a cheap lodge and pub on the road out west, and met the manager of our Cambridgeshire studio and his staff at the end of their working day.
The company worked with adult entertainment producers, and they rented many of our studios, but we did not like our branding and logo appearing on the finished smut. We had professional contracts with proper companies to ensure that our facilities were not named and our logos were not in shot. But I knew Jules, the studio manager, used our space for his semi-professional erotica, and I had to remind him and his staff that I could turn a blind-eye to the facility being utilised when it was vacant, but could not ignore our reputation being jeopardised by their horniness when it was in the background of their completed product.
They promised they understood, and I settled into the hotel restaurant for some dinner.
I read my book, trying to tune out the conversations of the tables on either side of me. The eatery had crowded as many diners as they could in the dining area, and I heard the banal mumblings of two hillwalkers to my right, and the loved up romantic cries of a young couple to my left.
I was grateful when the waitress brought me my burger and beer, and I scoffed at my calorific dinner.
"Excuse me," the soft female voice asked, interrupting my thoughts. "Could you take a photograph of us? We've been married for three years today."
"Oh, congratulations," I said. He had certainly scored well. Her tight lycra-style dress exhibited her cleavage, and she had a cute, innocent expression on her face, framed by blonde pigtails. I took her camera from her grasp and snapped a dozen images, realising that she was without a bra. Her nipples poked through the thin, stretchy material.
I smiled and put their camera on the table. "Are you with your wife or partner here?"
"No," I said. "I'm not with anyone. I've come here on business."
"Oh," she replied. Her eyes focused on the key in my hand. "Oh, you are in Room 6. That's next to us." She giggled. "We'll promise not to be too loud in the night."
I nodded towards her grinning partner. "You're a lucky man," I said, and took my belongings to my bedroom. I kicked off my suit and changed into my loungewear before loading my laptop to check my e-mails, skipping several dozen messages. They could wait until I was less tired, and it was not a Friday night.
I stretched on my bed, and picked my tablet, browsing a few erotic stories, when there was a knock on the door. I slung my device on my desk and opened it.
The girl from the restaurant stood in the corridor, wearing a translucent, pink babydoll with a white lacy trim. "Holy fuck!" I muttered as she wiped her eyes, pushing past me into my bedroom. She kicked her shoes into the corner beside my wardrobe as she sobbed.
"What's up ...?"
"Lisa."
"What's up, Lisa?"
"Hugh. Three years we've been married and today was supposed to be special. We booked a long weekend in a hotel and he's had too much to drink and passed out in our bedroom."
"Oh, that's ..." My eyes focused on her erect nipples bumping the tight, sheer fabric. I was 26, and she was a couple of years younger than me, with her youthful body that oozed innocent sexuality.
"It's not fair. Sex in a hotel bedroom is so much saucier and erotic than shagging at home, don't you find?"
I concurred.
"And I've even shaved it all off for him, just like he wanted," she moaned, pulling the hem of her babydoll to her waist to flash her hairless mons. "And the bastard starts on the whisky, gets to our bedroom and crashes on the bed."
"Well, don't you think you should make sure that he's OK?" I muttered.
"No, we came to this hotel to have sex. And I want sex." Her eyes met mine. The sultry look in her expression told me what she expected. But the nagging doubt preyed on my mind. Was this a scam? Was Hugh about to burst into my room and accuse me of seducing and kidnapping his wife? Were they about to blackmail me?
I reached for my phone as it beeped. "One moment," I said, and subtly turned on the video recorder before placing it against my book to film the room. "But if your husband is ... ill ..."
"Hugh is not ill. He's drunk," she persisted. "I need sex." She twisted her two pigtails in her hand and turned to face the mirror, tugging the hem of her babydoll to the seat of her buttocks. "Don't you find me sexy?"
"Very," I replied. "More than you can imagine. But your husband ..."
"He is a drunkard. And you need to step into his shoes. I need a man to take me." She flashed her eyes and walked towards me. She ran her hands over my T-shirt, sliding down my body to reach my loungewear trousers.
