I know this will be trouble. Every nerve in my body screams it, almost as loudly as every muscle in my body tenses excitedly for it. And I'm ignoring all of them.
Our on-line play has been just that, play. It's been relegated to the place in my mind where most electronic things go: Like an intense video game or hardcore amateur porn, exciting, stimulating, pleasurable -- and entirely unreal.
It hasn't shaken up my life, it hasn't upset my bond to my wife, and it hasn't physically touched me...except for when I've touched myself. Repeatedly. For my pleasure, at times for yours. To be on display or just to find some sweet release from our chats.
Chats really seems too light a word to give them. Seeing as how intimate they've been -- how we've had our cams on, our mics on, and our clothes off. From states and states away, yeah, but these "chats" have caused me to gush tons to hot fluid all over myself in any number of messy yet fabulous ways.
It's been ephemeral; it's been mediated. And for those reasons, it's left me unconflicted. I remain a happy husband, not a care in the world.
Now, though, you're here. In town. In the city. You're visiting...someone. I don't remember. Frankly, I can't remember. My brain is just trying to hold it together, block out what seeing you *could* mean. I'm telling myself this is being courteous -- stopping by your hotel to give my regards to an out-of-town acquaintance. I would even multi-task it; I would take advantage of a beautiful city day, snap some photos of the scenery along the way, and include your hotel as part of a leisurely bike ride across town. Yeah, that will make things easier and more relaxing.
(And if things get too weird, I can haul ass out of there.)
I'd wear normal street-wear, like jeans and a t-shirt, just to show it's not any sort of formal (or diabolical) occasion. It's a good plan, a good rationale. Except for the fact that when I arrive early and you answer the hotel room door, I'm soaked from head to toe. Damned weathermen.
"You're soaked!" you laugh, seeing me dripping from the rain.
"Nice to see you too," I reply, patting down my slicked head.
A genuine attempt to wring out some of the water from my hair, but it also gives me an easier opportunity to glance you from top to bottom. I was going to call from the lobby, take my time, and wait for you down there. A nice, safe public zone. But between my being soaked from the freak rain shower and your being on the terrace of your room when I rang you, I had to come up here -- to your no man's land. One man's land, really.
The terrace awning kept you from getting rained on, obviously, but it seems as though you were enjoying the weather otherwise. You have on a loose men's button-down shirt -- a husband's? a brother's? what do I care? -- that, with the top 4 buttons open, allowed the wind to whip in and against your skin. You have a bra on, but I imagine it's just for comfort, because it certainly hides very little of your bosomy chest.
No shoes, bare toes, and an easy-wear pair of black, stretchy sweatpants-like bottoms. I'm waiting for you to turn around so I can confirm that it hugs your actually bottom as well as I suspect. Your hair is down, and your eyes are, hm, mischievous?
My plan is shot to hell. I'm in the lion's den.
"Get in here," you smile, grabbing my damp arm, keeping me from puddling in the lobby.
I drop my small bike bag at the doorway as I enter. I finally feel some of the heat returning to my body. Starting at my groin and emanating outward. You dash to the bathroom while I stand dumbfounded in the middle of your room. Big bed, but only one suitcase. You're obviously alone. Some items on the bedside table. Ointments? Balms? Or gels of a naughtier nature, the sort you've talking about using on my body if you ever got me alone?
Oh God, you've got me alone, my inner voice yells.
Emerging from the bathroom, you begin padding me down with towels, and it's all I can do logically to respond by losing unnecessarily ridiculous clothing: my jacket, my bike shoes, even my squishing socks.
"Here," you say, giving me one of the towels while you continue to aid in drying me down.
Maybe you think I'm distracted as I dry my own hair, neck, and shoulders by the way you're patting on my thighs and hips. You shuffle around me, your own clothes carelessly brushing against my crotch, abs, and ass. Little damp spots appear on your clothes where they made contact with me, and I can't help but wonder if it's causing any further damp spots deeper into your ensemble.
"Wow, you ARE a mess," you smirk.
"I could blame you. Only r-reason I'm here," I stammer from the cold.
"I'm glad you came," you reply.
"Y-yeah," I say, attempting to be a non-committal as possible.
It has to be obvious, though, the war going on in my brain, lust fighting logic. I try to spy if you are picking up any sign of it. Then, the most confusing -- and most stimulating -- signal falls from your mouth: "You really should get out of those wet clothes and warm up."
I start to stammer something but, realizing that my brain has frozen up with the abundance of nude, pressing, seizing images that race through it, I turn it into a cold-induced shudder.
"There's a laundry on this floor," you start, placing your hand on the small of my back and guiding me towards the bathroom. "Get out of those things and I'll dry them while you warm up in the shower."
It's so rational, so reasonable, that I find my feet moving towards the bathroom as my arms begin tugging off my shirt. It would all be perfectly innocent if you weren't so engaged in helping it off of me as well. My shirt is off, then the soaked tank top beneath it, and they lay in your hands as I begin to unfasten my pants. I can sense your own eyes zeroing in on my zipper pulling down when I realize I probably shouldn't strip nude in front of you...not yet. Not if you're keeping this as innocent as (half) my brain needs it to be.
It's a good thing I close the bathroom door when I do, pulling back my fly, my cock has engorged to its full heft; you would have easily spotted its shaft straining against the wet cloth of my black boxer briefs and its cut head peeking out eagerly at the waistband. Whatever you might have planned, it's a relief to get the cold clothes off of me as they fall in a heap to the floor. My pulsing dick can stand freely and my heavy, aching balls can finally hang free.
For better or for worse, a hot shower is the best option here, so I turn on the high-pressure faucet and slide behind its translucent paneling. I'm naked, shivering, horny, hard, and entirely bewildered in the shower in your hotel. How'd this happen?? Did I LET this happen?
