We ascend the stairs to the hotel’s first floor. As per the dictates of courtesy, I walk behind her, enjoying the fragrance of her perfume and the sway of her buttocks beneath her tight skirt. It would be so easy to reach out and touch her, caress her; relish the tautness of her bottom moving against the palm of my hand. And I know that she would welcome such attention. The invitation to join her in her room was made in such a way as to leave no doubt in my mind.
But I’m trying to be good, to be a man of integrity. So I keep my hands to myself, and after a few seconds, I turn my eyes downward, so that I’m looking at the stairs beneath her sandalled feet instead of her shapely behind. I even try telling myself to ignore her scent, though at such close quarters, that’s all but impossible.
The corridor is thickly carpeted, but the floorboards still creak as we make our way down the narrow passageway. My room comes first: number 17, on the right. Hers is at the very end of the corridor on the left. Number 22.
I stop outside my door and fumble in my pocket for the key. The hotel is long-established and traditional, so it’s a stainless-steel Yale rather than a credit-card sized piece of plastic. It rattles against the change I was given in the last pub we visited before our saunter back to the hotel. We didn’t talk much on the way. She’d laid out her cards; I’d carefully examined them for a suitably respectful amount of time, and then politely declined.
She stops a couple of feet past my room and half-turns towards me. Her gaze is part sad, part mocking, as though she is trying with a single glance to invoke a response in me that will lead to a change of mind.
“I’ll see you at breakfast,” I tell her.
“Sleep well,” she answers, her voice friendly and no more than that.
I watch for a few seconds as she walks away, my gaze finding its way to her shapely behind once again. I shake my head and then slip the Yale into the brass-coloured lock. Within seconds, I am alone.
I leave the lights switched off. I’d left the heavy curtains wide open when we left for dinner several hours ago, and the full moon is reflecting off the sea with sufficient luminescence to illuminate the room. I undress, draping my clothes over the single armchair in the corner.
The hotel is built close to the Harbour’s edge, and my view is across a single flat roof and straight out to sea. I stand naked at the rectangular window, enjoying the vista. There is a light wind, and the blue-grey water looks like steel flecked with shimmering ice. I slide the sash window upwards so that I can hear the water lapping against the rocks and feel the breeze on my skin.
Suddenly, I am acutely aware of my nakedness, my cock, my ardour.
I look back to the bedside cabinet, where I placed my phone when I came in. My eyes have fully adjusted to the semi-gloom, and I can clearly make out the dark oblong of metal and glass against the pine top. Not for the first time in my life, I am pulled in opposite directions by the dominant aspects of my nature: the puritan and the hedonist. I stare at the phone for what feels like much longer than it actually is, struggling to decide, trying to hold onto my integrity in the face of my rapacity.
I cross the room and pick up the phone. When I click into the messenger application, I see that she is already online. Waiting for me, or talking with someone else? The hedonist hopes that it’s the former; the puritan is betting on the latter, that she’ll ignore my presence and save a coward from himself.
I watch the screen, waiting to see if she’ll respond to my ‘arrival’. When she doesn’t, I type: What are you doing?
For a minute or so, there is no response. Then I see that she is typing something.
—Waiting to find out what you want.
Not for the first time, I find myself smiling at the way in which she combines evasiveness and directness.
—So what do you want?
My index finger hovers over the simulated keyboard. Eventually, I type: Put your bathrobe on over your nakedness. My door is unlocked.
Watching the words as they appear upon the screen is enough provocation to make my cock begin to swell.
I don’t wait to see what she types in response, or even if she responds at all. I turn off my phone and replace it face down on the bedside cabinet. I move to the door and open it, and peer out; the corridor is fully lit and completely empty. I wonder what she’ll say if she encounters another guest. Most of them are much older than us. The sight of her naked but for a bathrobe will be … provocative.
Carefully, I let the door swing back until the locking latch rests against the striker plate. All she has to do now is push.
I slip into the bed, delighting in the sensation of the crisp bedding against my nakedness. I stare at the ceiling, listening to the water, the wind, the thud of my heart in my chest. The war inside me hasn’t ceased, but the charge of adrenaline and the thickening of my cock are both testimony to the hedonist’s position on the winning side.
Out in the corridor, there is the unmistakable sound of a door opening and then carefully being closed. Circumspect. A floorboard creaks: once, twice, three times. My pulse quickens, and I swallow to try and lubricate my arid mouth.
The door to my room sighs against the carpet’s thick pile as she pushes it open, and the room lights up in gold. Her shadow looms across the opposite wall: a succubus, come to slake her need for sustenance from her latest victim.
She closes my door as carefully as her own, and a second later I hear the heavy bolt slide into place.
She walks around the foot of the bed. As requested, she’s wrapped in her complementary white towelling robe. As I watch, she unties the heavy belt, opens the robe and slips it off. Beneath, she wears a black nightdress. It glints faintly in the moonlight. Satin, possibly silk.
Circumspect, I think again.
“You don’t need that,” I say quietly. “Take it off.”
She hesitates only for a second or two, then peels the nightdress over her head and drops it on the floor.
Her pale body gleams in the moonlight.
I pull back the bedsheet for her to get in. She slides in beside me without hesitation.
Words are suddenly an irrelevance.
I roll over, pull her towards me, kiss her mouth with slow passion. She shifts against me, lets her hand trace a line from my chest, across my abdomen and to my thickening cock. I press myself into her grasp, relishing the cool softness of her palm, the delicacy of her fingers, the elegance of her strokes. I mirror the same route upon her body, caressing her full breasts and her taut nipples, across her lightly fluttering belly and across her almost hairless mound until I find the succulence of her sex. We rock together, our kiss waxing and waning as we coax one another’s pleasure higher, and for a moment I imagine us going no further than this, imagine myself coming copiously and guiltlessly in her hand, coating her fingers with my semen as her cunt spasms about my own digits.
She breaks the kiss and guides my mouth towards her breasts. I kiss the full slopes until I am satisfied that I have missed not a single millimetre. Only then do I take one of her nipples between my lips, circling the proud flesh with my tongue tip, drumming it lightly against the roof of my mouth until she gasps. I repeat myself with her other breast, and then I begin to kiss lower on her body, pivoting myself in the bed as I do so that we are arranged in a head to toe fashion. I kiss the thin line of strawberry blonde curls upon her mound. The scent of her sex assails my nostrils, and I find myself possessed by the fragrance of her body once again.
This time, I know there is not a chance for my self-control.
I feast upon the entirety of her sex, only focusing upon her clitoris when she reaches down to grasp my head and guide my mouth to where she wants it, to where she needs it. My tongue dances about the inflamed nub until she begins to whimper and her hips begin to rock against the mattress as she presses herself back to meet my succour. I keep up the caresses until she is shuddering and pushing absently at my shoulders in search of respite from the assault upon her senses.
I wait a few minutes, gliding my palms over her breasts and her belly and her thighs, and then when I sense that she has almost fully recovered, I lower my mouth to her sex and begin again.
She comes twice more.
This time, while she lies spent upon the damp, wrinkled sheet, I move between her splayed thighs and bring the head of my cock to her sex. Even as the last remnants of her climax course through her, I ease myself into her, all the way, one steady thrust that doesn’t waver or stop until I am embedded inside her. Her mouth forms a perfect ‘o’, and then her teeth show whitely as I begin to fuck her. I reach down to grip her slender calves, and I raise and spread her legs, holding her open to my thrusts. Instinctively, I know that the bed will creak if I thrust too hard, or too fast, and so I keep my pace measured, using my length to explore every part of the oiled silk at her core. She smiles again, eyes closed, all cognisance drowned by the deluge of her pleasure. I watch her expression raptly, enjoying the way that her ecstasy plays out across her face, how it softens and hardens her features over and over again.
“So what do you want?” I whisper to her.
“To feel you fucking me harder. Harder.”
She speaks the word with reverence.
So much for the creaking bed.
I give her what she asked for. I raise her legs higher as I begin to piston into her. She cries out softly, covering her mouth with the back of her arm. I take hold of her other wrist and bring her hand to my mouth. I lick the tips of her middle three fingers, making them sodden, then guide them to her clitoris. They writhe there restlessly as I fuck her, the bed creaking uncontrollably beneath us. I can feel perspiration beading across my forehead and my shoulders; the small of my back feels just as damp. I dip my head to lick the sweat from between her breasts.
“Oh fuck,” she mutters, her words muffled behind her arm. “Oh fuck! Oh fuck!”
I’m close, so bloody close. We’re going to climax together. And then just as I’m about to come, she beats me to it, a photo-finish, and as she dips for the line, her cunt convulses so powerfully, it expels me, forcing me from her body with the same single thrust with which I had entered her.
For a micro-second, I’m going to push my way back inside her … but I don’t. Was it deliberate on her part? So that I don’t come inside her? Unlikely, but the doubt is there now, like a rotten tooth that’s impossible to ignore. I won’t act non-consensually, not for anything. So I grip the head of my cock and shudder and grimace as I erupt into my fist.
The irony is not lost upon me.
“What happened?” she asks eventually.
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I realised we were going to come together, and I was so excited — it rarely happens for me, coming at the same time as a lover. And then I orgasmed and I … I just … pushed. I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t help myself.” She looks at me intensely, and lowers her voice a fraction. “Why didn’t you just slide back inside me?”
I smile thinly in the semi-darkness. “I wasn’t sure if you did it on purpose.”
“That’s stupid,” she laughs softly. “Why would I do that?” She tries pulling me closer as though to kiss me, but I’m still gripping my glans in my fist, and the position of my forearm makes succumbing to her impractical. My come is beginning to seep between my locked fingers.
“I need the bathroom,” I say half-apologetically. Using my free hand, I push myself up and away.
The bathroom tiles are refreshingly cool beneath my feet. I feel a fleeting urge to sprawl across them, to press my nakedness into their unyielding chill. I push the bathroom door closed and feel for the cord that turns on the light over the mirror. I stare hard at myself, guilt and foolishness coursing through me. It’s hard to tell which is the stronger.
I open my fist over the sink and watch my semen, as thick and copious as I’ve ever seen it, run into the plug hole. The whiff of ammonia hits me, and I turn on the hot tap, rinsing my hand beneath the flow until the stickiness is gone. I dry my hand, turn off the light and go back into the bedroom.
She’s stretched out on one side of the king-sized bed, facing away from me. Her breathing is relaxed, just this side of sleep. I’d rather be alone, wallow in my shame and discomfort until sleep takes me. Not to be, I think, and I slip back into bed and pull the sheet over me.
“Good night,” I say.
“‘Night,” she replies, her voice little more than a murmur.
I stare at the ceiling, listening to the sea and the wind outside as my body uncoils, as the taint of guilt and embarrassment slowly ebbs away. And even though I might swear otherwise right now, I know that the pull of my desire is such that if she wants it, we’ll fuck again in the dawn light, the sounds of our mating punctuated by the cry of whirling gulls and the diesel engines of fishing boats setting out to find their catch. This time, I’ll come deep inside her, perhaps the most intimate of physical acts between a man and a woman, because of what it could mean. And that’s when the guilt will come again, more potent this time, a familiar face who calls regularly and always outstays their welcome.