One Night Only

by Violet Blue

  You’ve always been the kind of woman who makes the best of circumstances.

  That’s when you pull away. He looks confused. You laugh and take his hand and drag him to your bedroom, knowing now he won’t pity you, quite the contrary. You fall onto the mattress together, and you’re kissing again, mouths wide as if you’re devouring each other’s face. Haven’t you’ve both been starving for this for ten long years? The heat and pressure of his hard-on against you is the sweetest feeling you’ve ever known.

  He wants me, he wants me, he wants me.

  Both of you are whimpering and panting. Four hands fumble with buttons and zippers. He has you naked before you’re even done with his belt, but you surrender gracefully, pressing your bare breasts against his hot chest. You’re in the middle of your cycle, which means you’re horny as hell and your nipples are exquisitely sensitive, already throbbing, and he hasn’t even touched them yet.

  You’re so drunk with lust, your fingers are clumsy at his zipper. Finally he yanks down his own pants and kicks them to the floor impatiently. One hand disappears over the bed. You sneak a peek at his cock, which is a good length and thick and very red. He holds up a condom in its wrapper, smiling like he’s won a prize.

  “That’s not from your wallet, is it?” you blurt out, then regret it. Even one word might destroy this magic, draw you back into the ordinary world.

  “I bought it at the drugstore on the way over. Was it too forward of me?”

  Up close, his eyes are seawater blue flecked with gray. Your reply is a laugh, and you fling yourself against him.

  The first time you fuck that night, he’s on top. Old-fashioned, yes, but you pretend it’s your wedding night, centuries ago, when some couples were betrothed for years and years until the man had made his way in the world enough to support a lady in the manner to which she was accustomed. Of course, by that measure, he’s come down in the world, but you like that, too. If he weren’t between lives, he wouldn’t be here, with you, naked and touchable. You spread your legs and sigh as he slides inside, his shaft massaging that ancient ache inside your belly. You fit together well this way. You move together well, too. There’s something liquid about the way your hips undulate in unison. His wiry blond hair down there chafes your clit just the right way, a prickling pleasure. He’s nipping and tweaking your nipples as you fuck, and it drives you crazy, the pleasure hovering on the knife’s edge of pain. You’re going to come soon—too soon?—but you sense that won’t be the end of this crazy time out of time.

  It’s never like this your first time with a new lover; you’re always too nervous; but with him, well, haven’t you been dancing around in a teasing, masochistic kind of foreplay since you first met? His merciless lips on your nipples are just a reminder of that sweet suffering. You hook your feet around his thighs and grind your clit harder up against his belly. That’s all it takes. You explode with a scream around his cock, and he sucks your tit hard until your spasms stop, and then he croons your name and with an Oh, god, oh, god his hips drive into you. Your own body shudders as he releases into you. You realize that’s what you really wanted all these years, to feel him come in your arms.

  Afterward you’re a little afraid to look at him, but he pulls you close and gazes steadily into your eyes and says, “That was so amazing. Even better than I imagined.”

  His expression is so pleased, you feel like you’re looking into a mirror.

  “Did you imagine?” you ask.

  “More than I should admit. Did you ever…?” There’s a touching uncertainty in his voice.

  “You know we’ve always had so much in common.” You laugh and nestle together for a while, and then you say, “Hey, are you hungry?”

  He nods and you slip on his shirt without asking because you like the smell of him around you. Besides it means he’ll have to go shirtless, and you like to look at his chest. He smiles and squeezes your naked ass under the shirttails.

  You have a picnic on your living room floor—cold sake and sushi rice scattered with strips of raw fish, sweet omelet and pickled lotus root. You talk about sunny things, his plans for his trip, the new female-centered history course you’re developing which is sure to change the world. After you’re finished eating, he pulls you on top of him and asks hopefully if you’re the dessert. He slides his hands under his shirt and cups your breasts, and before you know it, you’re straddling him and rocking your wet cunt into his hard belly. You feel his erection brushing your ass, and you get a wicked idea. You tell him to wait and rush to the kitchen for the green-tea ice cream. First you feed him some with a spoon. Then he wants to rub some on your nipples, and you let him. The chill both soothes and arouses the tender tips. Finally you unveil your trick—you take a mouthful and go down on him. He squirms and laughs, but his dick gets harder in your mouth.

  You wrap your fist around his sticky tool and show off all of your skills, tonguing him right below the head, squeezing your lips around him as if to milk him dry. That is in fact your goal, to drive him wild so he shoots his special cream down your throat.

  “I want to come inside you, please, stop,” he begs.

  You pull off and give him your best dominatrix glare. “If you come in my mouth like a good boy, you can fuck me all night long in any way you want.”

  You can almost see the wheels spinning in his head. Eyes narrowed, he lies back and submits.

  Even with his naked cock in your mouth, you can’t believe this is so easy. He was the one man you could never have for as long as your body can remember, and suddenly you can touch him and taste him anywhere you please. And what you want more than anything now is this, his salty dick pressing into your throat. You suck him like you’ve never sucked anyone, and the weirdest thing is you feel him down there, too, filling you, satisfying you like food.

  His thighs tremble and his cock grows impossibly hard. Your lips register the spasms first, then jets of jism shoot up against your palate. He is sweeter than you expected, the grassy taste of him blending perfectly with the lingering flavor of astringent green tea.

  He doesn’t let you gloat over your achievement for long. He pushes you down and rolls you over and yanks your knees open. For a moment, you’re afraid, but then you feel something cool and smooth along your asscrack—his fingers rubbing melted ice cream there. You start to laugh, but it fades into a moan when he starts to lick you. You’ve let guys fuck your ass, but no one’s ever enjoyed your back door with such gusto. His finger snakes up to strum your clit, and suddenly your whole body is melting under his hot tongue. You start to beg him to fuck you, but decide, in the little corner of your head that can still think, that this is better. You want him to take one of your virginities. If he makes you come while he’s tonguing your ass, that part of your pleasure will be his forever.

  In the shadows of night, it’s easier to talk about sad things. He tells you he hasn’t had a blow job in years, and yours felt so good, the best he’s ever had. You confess no one’s ever licked your ass, and you like it more than you ever thought you would, even if it makes you a pervert. After that you simply lie in each other’s arms in silence.

  Then he whispers that he wants to do something else for you, something no one’s ever done before. That’s when you tell him about the closet fantasy. Scholar that he is, he admires the perfect symbolism: the dark, secret hideaway; the disapproving public right outside the door. He asks you how big your closet is. You tell him “big enough.”

  He’s rough when he pushes you up against the wall, trapping you with his hard, feverish body. Yet his lips are tender, almost teasing. He kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your ears, your neck. All the while his cock presses against your belly, and you hope somehow it will leave a permanent mark on the skin.

  You whimper and push your hips against him and he calls you “impatient” and tells you he’ll fuck you soon enough. He pinches your nipples steadily, and the flaming sensation shoots straight to your cunt, until your thighs are shamefully slippery with
sweat and juice. At last he crouches slightly and starts to probe your slit with the head of his sheathed cock. You push up on tiptoe and tilt your pelvis forward so he can reach the hole. He slides in. The sensation is so very different from any other coupling, as if you’re straddling a pole, riding it. His shaft pushes up against your clit, rubbing it with each thrust. Your legs start to wobble and shake. You’re gasping and moaning and he’s growling in your ear what a pervert you are for liking it so much, fucking up against a wall like a street whore. It’s a risky thing to say, but it’s exactly what you want to hear. It’s the words as much as his cock that makes you come—very loudly. He starts to plow you before your orgasm fades. Again your secret flesh spasms in sympathy as he comes into you, grimacing and grunting.

  You lean against each other, laughing softly and so damned proud of yourselves. It’s past midnight and without another word you both collapse onto your bed. When you wake up, it’s dawn. You lie there and watch him sleep for a long time. Strangely, he seems most yours now, even more than when you had him wrapped in your arms and legs and cunt. You think of that hole in your pocket, and how you sewed it up after your night of selfish pleasure because it was your favorite pair of jeans. You still have them in your drawer, although you don’t wear them much anymore.

  The last twelve hours were a gift of pure magic. You know the end will be magic, too. The moment he wakes, the hole will mend itself. The golden veil of purity will descend. But for now you steal this moment to gaze at his face and wonder how one person can give you so much pain and pleasure all at the same time.

  You smile when it hits you that after this night, the pleasure will always outweigh the pain.

  MAID SERVICE

  Jan Darby

  No one ever aspired to be a maid when she grew up, Allison Ferreira thought as she pushed her cart down the hallway of the Suite Spot. Everyone wanted to be a lawyer or a doctor or a CEO, not the woman who tidied up after them. But that was about the only job available after she’d fallen off her career ladder. She’d taken it, just as an interim thing, to buy herself some time to figure out what she really wanted to do.

  A few minutes later, Allison had just finished making the bed in Room 402, and was placing the finishing touch—the hotel’s trademark “suite sweet”—on the pillow, when she heard the door opening. She’d only been working here for three days, but one of the first rules she’d been taught was that she was supposed to be invisible to the guests, like a guardian angel, taking care of their every need, without ever being seen.

  Allison moved as unobtrusively as possible toward the exit, keeping her eyes focused on the carpet. As she was about to pass him, she murmured a soft “Excuse me.”

  “For what?” The sincere curiosity in his voice startled her into looking him directly in the face, something she knew was forbidden. He wasn’t the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, or the ugliest either. He looked like every other tired sales rep who stayed at the Suite Spot, passing through on his way to the next small town in his route, the next sales call. His eyes were different, though. They sparkled with the same curiosity that she’d noticed in his voice.

  “I’m sorry about being here in your room,” she said.

  “You shouldn’t be,” he said. “It saves me from having to call housekeeping.”

  “What do you need?”

  “I haven’t decided.” He dropped his sample case on the small desk in the corner. “What’s available?”

  “I’ve got spare towels and toiletries and coffee supplies on my cart,” she said. “That’s about it. Except for the suite sweets, of course. I could get you another one.”

  “I’ve never had much of a sweet tooth.” He glanced at the pillow where the exquisitely handmade, dark-chocolate rose lay. “What about you?”

  “I adore chocolate.” And the custom-made roses were a particular favorite: extra-dark, extra-premium, extra-decadent. She’d received one—a damaged one, not good enough for a guest, but too good to throw out—on the day she’d been hired. It was probably the one and only perk she’d ever get from this job, but that was okay, since she wasn’t planning to be here for long. A couple months, at the most. Just until she found something better. Or maybe she could go back to school and get another degree.

  “You can have mine, if you want.”

  “No, thank you,” she said automatically, but she couldn’t help glancing at the rose. The management didn’t care if the staff took home the occasional shampoo bottle, but they had strict rules about the roses, and taking one without permission, even an imperfect or damaged one, was grounds for immediate dismissal. She might not be planning to stay for long, but she needed this job until she found a better one.

  “I wasn’t thinking properly,” he said. “You’ve probably had a hundred of them and would prefer something different for a change.”

  She took another step away from him, toward the exit, like the good little maid she’d been hired to be. His curiosity about her was too appealing, though, and she couldn’t make herself avert her eyes from his. He didn’t try to prevent her from leaving, but she got the distinct impression that he was disappointed almost as much as she was, at the thought that she’d never get to know anything about him. Anything that mattered, at least. He would remain a stranger, just one among the dozens of guests she would run across every week. She doubted she’d even remember him by tomorrow when another tired sales rep checked into this room.

  “I’m…” She hesitated. Management had another rule, even stricter than the one about the roses, and it prohibited fraternizing with guests. “I’m Cheri.” The lie probably wouldn’t save her job if he reported her, but it did give her plausible deniability.

  “Jeremy.” He crossed the room to pick up the chocolate rose by its lollipop stem and hold it out to her.

  She shook her head.

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “It’s just a fancy sucker. It’s not like I’m propositioning you.”

  “I can’t touch it or I’ll be fired.”

  He tossed it back onto the bed. “Damn. I was hoping you’d stick around and we could talk for a while, maybe share something from room service.”

  She would have liked that too, but she had to be careful. “I can’t touch the rose. The rule, and I quote, is ‘chocolate is for the guests’ use only.’ It doesn’t say anything about how you use it. Or with whom.”

  Jeremy blinked, but it didn’t take more than a fraction of a second for him to catch on, and he lunged for the king-sized bed to retrieve the chocolate. Once he had it, though, he paused, turning the rose’s stem thoughtfully.

  Finally, he flopped on the bed, propping himself against the headrest, messing up the pillows she’d so recently fluffed. He tore off a small strip of the decorative red foil from the tip of the rose and bent his head slightly to smell the chocolate. “Good stuff. Not that I’m an expert, of course.”

  He licked the exposed tip, and she felt it as if he’d licked her nipples. “Really good stuff.”

  She swallowed.

  “Want some?” he said.

  She nodded.

  “I’ve always wondered why people were so fascinated with chocolate,” he said, watching her intently.

  “The scientists say it’s because of hormones,” she said. “Chocolate causes the body to release serotonin into the bloodstream.”

  “I suppose that could be it,” he said. “But there are other hormones. Other releases that are pleasurable.”

  She shrugged, as if she hadn’t noticed the reference to orgasm. She’d been warned that guests might proposition her. It was a natural consequence of the guests being away from home, lonely and bored. She was supposed to ignore any such innuendos and retreat as quickly as possible. There was even an official form for reporting such behavior, as if the proposition were some sort of work-related accident. What they hadn’t warned her about was the possibility that she might be inclined to proposition the guest.

  He licked the chocolate rose again. “I ju
st don’t get it. Why choose chocolate instead of some other pleasure?”

  She knew what she was supposed to say—something noncommittal, and then steer him back to the things that the hotel offered: extra pillows, blankets or chocolate. Except that wasn’t what either of them wanted.

  She took a step closer to the bed. “It doesn’t have to be a choice. A person could have both.”

  His eyes lit up. “I don’t want both. I want you.”

  Her pussy clenched in response. She wanted both, but only on her own terms. She’d been a formidable negotiator in her previous career. “I still want the chocolate.”

  “One taste,” he said. “And then I get to taste you.”

  She leaned down and licked the rose he was holding, moaning just a little at the extraordinary quality.

  He pulled the chocolate away, out of her lips’ reach. “My turn.”

  She pulled the hotel-logo sport shirt over her head and removed her bra, a little self-conscious about how plain it was, compared to the shiny red foil encasing the chocolate rose.

  He didn’t seem to care. He licked her breasts exactly as she’d done to the rose, complete with an appreciative moan for each nipple. She could see him struggle with the urge to keep on licking, but after a moment, he leaned back against the pillows.

  “Do you have sex with all the male guests?”

  “No.” He didn’t need to know he was the first guest she’d even talked to. For the moment, she wasn’t Allison, the temporary housekeeper; she was Cheri, the adventurous maid. “Just the ones who know what a woman wants.”