Businesswoman in a Tucson Hotel

Author's Note: This story is rather experiemental in form. It isn't a straightforward narrative like most erotic stories. It is similar to my non-erotic novel, City of Pillars. It isn't for everyone.

I am writing this. I am sitting and I am writing. The hotel bar is dark, the bright glow of the laptop shines in my face, illuminating me to the two or three other patrons, who are alone enough to spend their Tuesday night inside of the naugahide bar off the lobby of the hotel. It is a hot night. The air conditioning works poorly in a place like this, and the dry Arizona air filters in through the crack around the windows. The machine strains to replace the smoky air with clean, but ultimately it fails. A lone waitress walks past, delivering gin and tonics to a group of lonely businessmen, still in suits from the days activities. And I write. I am writing this, even as the ice melts in the drink near my elbow. Drops of water form on the outside of the glass, slowly inching their way downward to a napkin marked ‘Welcome to Tucson’, in gaudy cowboyesque lettering.

I am writing this, I am writing and looking around, trying to understand the people surrounding me. The lonely ghosts that inhabit this dry place. She is there. She is at the end of the bar. She is sitting, she is sitting and she is drinking. She looks uncomfortable here. She isn’t used to places like this. She is used to the big city, she is used to higher culture, she is used to having more things to do at night than sit in a dive and wait for morning to come. Wait for her plane to arrive in the morning and take her from this place. She is old, late forties by my guess. But time and fate have been kind to her. She is rail thin. One of those people who don’t get paunchy in their old age, but who become slim and graceful. She has fire red hair, short and bobbed. She is still in her business suit. A blue jacket, skirt that comes to just below the knee. It looks expensive. She is from the east, from the big city. She is from a place where fancy suits are a requirement, where every one judges everyone else by their labels. Here in the desert the people are too backwater to even tell a good label from a generic one, and she is lost. She looks around desperately for some glimmer of familiarity, for some person or thing that she can play off of. She wants to feel good about herself, she wants to feel the familiarity that she hasn’t felt since her plane landed.

I am sitting and I am writing and I am writing about her. She is the only interesting thing in the bar. I am writing about her and her black stockings. I am writing about her black velvet pumps. I am writing about the curves in the hollow of her neck. She wears little jewellery. Just her wedding band. It has been so long since she has been married that she no longer wears the engagement ring. Probably it is too small by today’s standards, given to her in a different time, back when she was a different person, and status wasn’t as important, or as affordable. She is sitting and she is drinking. She is watching the people in the bar. The bartender wiping down glasses with an off- white rag, the waitress who walks her rounds clearly in need of a cigarette. She is watching and she is looking. She see me. She sees me watching her, and writing. She is wondering about me, I can tell. She is wondering what I am writing about. She is wondering why a man is here, late at night, sitting and writing.

With courage, she stands up. She is coming over to me as I write this. She straightens her dress with her hands, picks up her drink, and she is walking. On her feet she is more graceful than when she is sitting down. She comes over to me. She asks what I am writing about. I tell her that I am writing about her, that I am writing about the only interesting thing in this bar. She disagrees. She blushes. I show her my laptop, I show her these words. She is reading. She is bent over the computer screen. I am looking at the back of her neck. It is bare and beautiful. She is reading, she is surprised, she is flattered. Flattered by attention that she rarely gets at home. She is praising me now, praising my writing style and my eye. It is false praise, she is just flattered by the attention. She is flattered that there is someone who recognizes her grace and beauty. She had though everyone had forgotten. We talk, talk for a while, several rounds of drinks pass. her hand is wet from the cool glass. She talks about her business trip, she talks about not knowing anyone in Tucson, she talks about art and science and literature and love. I listen intently. I am writing it all down. I do not stop writing as she is talking to me. I want to memorize every line, every detail of her beauty. I want to memorialize her in prose. She is vulnerable, she is beautiful, she is graceful. My pen fails me, I can’t describe her. Perhaps if I were older, perhaps if I were within two decades of her age I would have the experience and strength to properly illustrate her for you.

She likes my words, she likes my looks. She asks, “Can I kiss you?” I notice as she coyly tries to hide her left hand from view, tries to hide her wedding band. I lean in. I can smell the gin on her breath. Our lips meet. Her lips are dry from the summer heat. They are covered in red lipstick. I can feel the greasy nature of the lipstick against my lips, against my tongue. She hesitantly puts her hand on my shoulder as our tongues meet. She is desperate, she is lonely, she is flattered by my portrayal of her. I am sitting and I am kissing her, not writing. We kiss only for a short time. She doesn’t want anyone to see, she doesn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. She doesn’t want anyone to see her kissing a man twenty years her junior and believe that she is desperate, that she is perverted. But that is what she is. She can’t deny herself to herself. She realizes this. She realizes what she wants, what she needs. She needs the excitement of the taboo, she needs the excitement that she once had in her youth, but left behind so many years ago for the materialistic dreams of Armani and Mercedes. She looks at me with puppy dog eyes. She seems a bit embarrassed, but happy. I want her to be happy. I want her to experience the happiness that she once had, the passion that she once had. I want to make her feel like a woman again, she deserves it.

We leave the bar together. There are the obligatory ‘nice to meet you-s’ and ‘have a good trip tomorrow-s’ then we part. I know that this is not the end. I know that she will not be able to control herself in the end. I return to my room. I sit at the small, uncomfortable desk and begin to write. I am sitting and I am writing. I am writing about her, I am writing about how she will knock on my door, how she will enter, how she will fall into my arms. Of course she arrives. She didn’t want to, she doesn’t know how it happened. She has made up an excuse for stopping by again, some final words that she had forgotten to say before we parted. We both know why she has arrived. I let her in and resume my position at the desk. I am sitting and I am writing and I am watching her. She wants me to watch her, she wants me to watch her and write about her and immortalize her in my prose. She wants to be the center of attention, she craves attention, even if just for a little while, even if just from a stranger in a dirty hotel room halfway across the country.

I am writing about her body. I am writing about how her small breasts feel under the imported silk fabric that makes up her jacket. I am writing about the curve of her calf, and how the black stocking changes color around the perfect curve. I am writing about her long, thin fingers. Tipped with perfectly groomed red fingernails. This is what I am writing about. She asks me about my story. She asks me to read it to her, which I do, she asks me how it ends. “I never give the ending away,” I say coyly. She asks me to write about her, she asks me to write about her body and her passions. I am sitting and I am writing and she is sitting on the edge of the bed and she is watching. She is sitting and she is unbuttoning her jacket. It falls to the floor. Her white silk shirt is in plain view. She is unbuttoning her shirt. She is asking me to write about her, she is asking me to write about her removing her shirt. The blouse falls to the floor. All that remains is her bra. It is lacy, it supports her breasts flawlessly. She asks me if I want to see her breasts, if I want to touch them. “Not yet,” I reply. I want to imagine them first, I want to imagine the large, dark, rounded nipples. I want to imagine them becoming stiff when exposed to the cool hotel room air. She stands. She stands and she undoes the zipper on her skirt. It too falls to the floor. She is standing in front of me in her underwear. Her black stockings are held up by a garter. Black panties hide her most intimate secret. She asks me to write about her. She asks me to describe her. I write about her body. I write about her stomach, which protrudes just a little. It is very sexy for a woman of almost fifty. She tells me stories, she tells me of how she looked thirty years ago, of how all the boys wanted her, of how some of them had her. But she is lonely now, she is neglected now, she has become obsessed with things other than her body, and the men she is surrounded by have become passionless and cold. She wants to feel the heat again, the passion again, she wants to feel wanted again, to be admired again.

I am admiring her. I am admiring her and writing about her. I am writing about how she is leaning over me, watching me write about her. I am writing about how she is kissing me, about how her tongue feels in my mouth. It is rough, like a cat’s tongue. Her hand is on my pants, she is feeling my erection through my pants. Her hand is slowly moving up and down over the crotch of my pants. It is ready for her, but I am not ready, I am writing. She is touching me more to get herself aroused that for my benefit. She wants to be the seductress once again. She is kneeling in front of me as I write. She is kneeling and she is slowly unbuttoning my trousers. Her hand goes across the cotton of my boxers. Her head moves downward, her lips press against the cotton. She lightly blows hot air through the fabric. Her hands are on my stomach, up and down my stomach. She fumbles with the waistband. I can feel the cold metal of her wedding band against my stomach. She slowly lowers to fabric to expose the tip of my manhood. She kisses it lightly. I can feel the grease of her lipstick against my skin. It twitches instinctively. She kisses and licks the tip. She looks up into my eyes, she is watching me write about her, write about her actions. Write about her tongue and her fingers and her greasy lips. She is appreciative of the attention. She takes the entire tip in her mouth. Saliva drips down the shaft. It has been many years since she has had a man in her power like this, since she played the seductress. But she remembers, remembers what it feels like to have a man in her mouth. She can feel the throbbing, she can feel the heat. She moves slowly up and down, just teasing. She pulls my pants all the way off. Her hands caress my thighs, up and down, from hip to knee. She caresses my scrotum. He mouth moves down the shaft to join her fingers. I am very stiff now, I want her, I want to stop writing and put it inside her, climax inside her. But I keep writing. She knows that I want her, she wants to be wanted. A large smile is on her face.

She gets up off her knees and lies on her back on the bed. She opens her legs for me. She opens her legs and runs her hands lightly over her panties. I can see that they are wet with excitement. She pulls the cloth to one side to expose her lips. There is a tuft of red hair down there. Her scent begins to fill the room. She holds her panties to one side and she moves her finger up and down the slit, slowly, carefully. She is inviting me. Inviting me to worship her body, not on paper, but in life. I move to the bed. My head is between her legs, my tongue laps against the red hair. I can smell her perfume about me. I can feel her wetness. She pushes her hands against the back of my head and I taste her. She is still warm, she is still soft. She is glad of that description. She is afraid that one day she will not be inviting, she is afraid that one day she will be reduced to a shrivelled husk, wrapped in Italian silk. But that day is not today. She is warm, she is inviting. My tongues brushes her clitoris. It stands at attention. It stands harder than it has in many years. I lick her up and down, slowly, just teasing. I know what she wants. She wants me to be inside of her. She wants me to penetrate her. I move upward across her body, stopping to see the sights like a tourist. I stop at her belly and lick around her navel. There are few strechmarks, she keeps fit, she watches her weight. She wants me to notice, she is desperate to have someone to notice. I move upward, to the peaks of her breasts. I can see the nipples through the fabric. I bite on one, lightly, through the material. She gasps in delight. I lift the underwire above the beast, exposing it. I suckle her for a while. She is reminded of her youth, of her children, these breasts have suckled many, they have brought life to many, now they are bringing pleasure. She wants to bring pleasure. She wants to be the source of passion, even if it is to a stranger. I suckle each breast in turn, taking my time with each, but not lingering too long.

I move further north on the topology of her body, to her neck. I nuzzle against the skin. Her perfume is strongest here. I can taste the bitter flavor of it against the sides of her neck. That doesn’t stop my tongue. It licks its way from ear to ear, slowly, leaving a trail of saliva across her throat, like a scalpel would leave a trail of red blood. I nibble against her left ear as her hands stroke my buttocks. she heaves her pelvis against me, desperate to get me inside her, desperate to feel my warmth inside her. But I don’t give her the angle, don’t give her the opportunity. I tickle the backside of her ear with my tongue for several minutes. Her breathing is hard, labored. She is fully consumed by the passions. she feels my hands stroking across her breasts, she feels my weight against her chest. She feels my body brush up against her open thighs. I want her like this, I want her consumed, I want her to be delirious, so delirious that she doesn’t know what to do next she doesn’t know how to say no. I could do anything with her now.

Her fingers are in my mouth. I worship them as I worshipped her breasts, her navel, her mound. I put them in my mouth. I lick her wedding band, knowing that it is the symbol of adultery, that it is taboo. It makes me stiffer to know this, to know that this shouldn’t be happening like this. That she should not want me like this, allow my to be inside her like this. I manuver myself higher. I gently brush my lips across hers, but only gently. She lifts her head, in the vain hope of gaining a stronger kiss, but I pull away. I lift myself up, higher, I want her to see my body, I want her to see my chest. I want her to want me. Her hands reach down between my legs and grab the shaft. She pulls it towards, her, she aims it towards her. She wants me to thrust into the most intimate place, she wants to feel me where she has felt nothing but her husband for a dozen years. She wants me to go inside of her, to become part of her, to feel the place deep inside of her that makes her a woman, the place that nurtures children and provides the sweetest pleasure to only the most fortunate of men.

I don’t disappoint her. I push myself forward, against her lips. She hesitates for a moment, but just for a moment. Suddenly unsure if she should take this final step. But prudence gives way to passion and she opens for me. I am inside of her. I am inside of her and I am stroking her. My lips are locked together with hers. Our saliva mixes. Our fluids are mixing. I am pumping in and out of her. Faster and faster. Her hands are on my hips, puling and pushing, forcing me to move faster and faster. she is tight inside, tighter that I had imagined. She is warm inside, she is soft inside, she is wet inside. I can feel her wetness dripping down her thigh. She is moaning in passion. She wants to feel the passion, she wants others to know, she wants everyone to know that she is passion, that she can feel, that she can entice, that she can love. She is screaming, she is screaming loudly, disturbing the other patrons of the desert hotel. She is screaming and calling. Her mouth is open, her eyes are closed. She is imagining being admired, she wants to be admired. She wants me to admire her and to write about her and to make love to her and to write about making love to her. She doesn’t want he passion to die with the end of the physical act. She wants it to live on, to live forever, to be an everlasting symbol of her womanhood.

And then she is climaxing, and I am climaxing. I can feel her muscles clench around me, I can feel her body quake beneath me. She is climaxing and I am climaxing. My fluid enters her in hot, long, shots. It squirts into her deepest places. She acts as if she can almost feel each ejaculation enter her. Perhaps she can feel the warmth, perhaps she can feel the wetness. We lie together for a time afterwards. I lie on top of her, slowly growing soft within her. I can feel her chest heaving, straining for breath. I can feel her sweat dripping, making her body slick and moist. Our lips touch once more, and them I am up. I go to my computer and begin typing. Sit there nude and type. I write about her body, I write about her passion, I watch her, still lying there, legs spread, heaving for breath. I watch as she arises. I watch as she is sitting on the edge of the bed, regaining her senses. She knows that I am writing about her, somehow it is no longer enough. She feels the wetness of my saliva underneath her wedding band. She twists it nervously. She looks sad. She has let passion overcome her. She has done a bad thing. She can’t undo it. It has happened. It was real, it is forever memorialized in prose. Her passions will live forever, even if she no longer wants them too. She dresses in silence. Her hair is tussled. She is beautiful, even in sadness, even in regret. A tear slides down her face. Her makeup was disturbed before, by our passions, but now the mascara runs down her cheek. It makes her look more vulnerable, it makes her look more beautiful. She finishes dressing. There isn’t much to say really. I am writing and she is dressing and she is standing. She looks back once more at me, but I am busy, I am busy memorializing her passion, her desire, her error of judgement. She no longer wants to be admired. She no longer wants to be wanted and stared at and made to feel like a woman. She wants to retreat into obscurity. She wants to return to her passionless life of comfort and predictability. I understand this and I write about this. She heads towards the door. She is looking back at me now, hesitating, thinking of something to say, something to make it right, something to erase the past few hours. I could comfort her, but I don’t. I am writing, I am chronicling her. She turns back in silence and closes the door behind her. I can hear her footsteps grow more and more faint in the hallway as she returns to her room, returns to her life. I don’t care. I am writing this. I am sitting and I am writing.