The motel room was small with just one queen size bed and a threadbare chair looking awkwardly out of place, as if someone had just reached through the roof of this dank place and left it there. There was a distinct smell of cigarettes and desperation, of cheap, hurried sex and the comfort not of skin on skin but of plastic bottles of vodka.
So this is where he had chosen to meet, she thought, as she set her suitcase down on the end of the sagging bed and sat herself down in the chair, lending it more grace than it deserved. She wondered if he had stayed in this particular room before, if he had smelled the sadness permeating the air. What did it mean, that he had chosen this place? She took her gold hoop earrings out and set them on the table beside the chair, the table that somehow managed to remain standing despite having a partially broken leg, witness to some violence, perhaps yesterday, perhaps years ago. Her right hand rested lightly on the table for a brief second, as if comforting this inanimate object so filled with years of pain, and then returned to her lap as she settled into the chair to wait.
Wait for what, exactly? She didn’t know. She’d met him online, they had flirted and chatted and had, in the natural order of these things, eventually exchanged cell numbers and email addresses. Yesterday (or was it Wednesday? she couldn’t remember, exactly) he had texted her the address of this place, this motel, this sad little remnant of happier, more profitable days, days before the highway was built and caused the lifeblood of this town to speed through at 60 miles per hour. He had specified in the text message what she was to be wearing and how she was to be wearing it, and she had complied.
Smoothing out the wrinkles in the black silk shift dress now, she wondered about his specificity. Why the black dress and the pink lace bra and matching thong panties? She would normally have worn black undergarments with a dark coloured dress, but here she was, catering to the specific desires of a faceless man, the underwire of her bra digging into the soft flesh beneath each arm. Why the ivory stockings? That was a mystery. She certainly wouldn’t have chosen ivory stockings to go with a black dress herself, but she wasn’t really picking out clothes for herself, was she? She was picking out clothes for him, for his enjoyment and pleasure, not for herself.
And just as suddenly as her reverie had begun, it was interrupted. There was a hard knock at the door--the sort belonging to a police officer, or a landlord, the knock of someone not hoping someone would answer, but demanding that someone answer. She stood up hastily, trembling with anticipation and, were she to admit it to herself, a little bit of fear. Her hands were on the door in seconds, frantic to unlock the chain lock and deadbolt and open the portal to a whole new version of herself. She took a deep, shaky breath and turned the doorknob.
He was taller than she had expected. His dark brown hair was cut short, and flecked with grey at the temples. He brushed indifferently past her, smelling of coffee and some kind of cinnamon-y scent she couldn’t quite place. He set his suitcase down on the worn green carpet, turned around, and finally seemed to take notice of her presence. His eyes appraised her as if for a purchase, carefully considering her outfit, her now-irregular breathing pattern, her dilated pupils, the betrayal of want by her own body. He stepped closer to her, and resting his right hand on her shoulder, a mirror image of what she had done with the table earlier, offered the comfort of touch.
He had seduced her with words, words texted, words messaged, words on the phone, but now there were no words between them. Finally, unable to tolerate the silence, she lifted her gaze to meet his, and whispered, "Hello, Andrew, I’m Jennifer." So formal, so distant, she thought, even as the words spilled from her glossed lips. "It is a pleasure," she said in an almost inaudible voice.
His voice was stronger, and his words seemed carefully considered. "Enchanted," he said, his voice sure, almost authoritative, and taking both of her hands in his, laid a soft, barely perceptible kiss on the back of each. "Turn around," he said, and she did so, her obedience surprising even to herself.
As soon as she was facing away from him, she felt his hands on her shoulders, then on her lower back, just above her ass, the at her neck, working to unzip the dress. In seconds, the black silk was pooled at her feet, and she felt his hands unclasping her bra, letting it slip from her shoulders and fall into the black pool of silk decorating the green carpet. She felt his lips graze her right ear. "Turn around again," his strong voice bordering on the authoritative. Again, she obeyed, blushing now, her heavy, pale breasts and dark pink, hardened nipples exposed to his view. Only her pink lace La Perla panties hid the warm wanting dampness of her sex, and she had never felt so vulnerable in all of her life.
"Take off the panties, slut." The words were spoken softly but were without question. "Give them to me." She did as she was told, wiggling her panties off over her hips, down over the stockings, breathing hard as she handed the damp lace betrayal of her need to him. He looked her carefully for a moment, then lifted her panties, smelling of Estee Lauder Pleasures and her desperate sex, to his face before throwing them to the floor. Stockings, he said. This time there was no question of a question at all.
She hurriedly unfastened her garter belt and rolled down her stockings, wondering, of all things, if he liked the colour of her toenails, done yesterday in OPI Dutch Tulip Red. If he had even noticed.
As she was bent over, she heard the rustling of him undoing his trousers, and saw the grey wool come to cover the carpet beside her dress. Standing up again, now completely naked, she felt so...well, naked. He had his left hand on his cock, stroking himself through his olive green boxer briefs, and she inhaled sharply at the sight of the outline of his hardness struggling against the fabric. Now it was her turn. "Take the boxer briefs off," she said. He smiled, the gentle, sly smile she had imagined a thousand times over, and pulled down his boxer briefs. "Oh fuck," she murmured, as his cock sprang free. The words tumbled and tripped out of her mouth, a whispered, "Oh fuck, Andrew...please."
"Please what?" he said, his tone still authoritative but his voice softer now. She climbed onto the bed before answering, splaying herself out on the bedspread, her legs drawn up and fallen wide open, the pink gash of her needful sex fully exposed.
"Fuck me, please, Andrew. Take me. Make me the cumslut you know that I am." She arched her back, stretching, knowing that he was watching her. She felt the bed sag a little more as he placed his right knee between her legs, nudging them even further apart, before climbing atop her, gazing down into her eyes.
"You can stop this, he said. You don’t have to go through with this." She was surprised by his sudden concern for her welfare, startling as a rain shower on a clear summer day.
She shook her head, begging now. "Please, Andrew, please..." and then the gift she had been waiting for came into being. He kissed her hard on the mouth, tasting her lip gloss and desire, pinning her arms above her head and then suddenly, his mouth was on her right nipple, sucking, licking, kissing, biting, all in a fury. "Oh fuck... oh fuck, please, Andrew..." She wrapped her legs around his waist, trying to pull him in. Her cunt was a place of sopping wet desperation now, and he knew it. Still pinning her arms above her head, he reached for a pillow and placed it under her ass.
"Hold still," he commanded, and she did. He let her arms go and she kept them where he had left them. "Close your eyes, slut." She did, and abruptly, felt rough fingers spreading her labia majora, cool air hitting her most secret places.
She wanted to know what he was doing, but kept her eyes closed, and then... "Oh fuck, oh fuck Andrew," she whimpered as she felt him forcing two (three?) fingers into her wanting cunt. Whimpering with need, she lifted her hips off the pillow, trying to force his fingers in further.
And just as she lifted her hips, she felt it. The sharp, stinging slap on her spread open, waxed pussy. "You’ll have my cock when I want you to have it, slut, and not a moment before." His words echoed in her head. She felt her right leg being lifted to rest on his right shoulder, and knew that the moment was not far off. "Please... please, Andrew... I need it, I need your cock, I need your cum," and just as she was forming the last of her plea, she felt him force himself into her, felt her swollen pussy walls parting to welcome the intruder. He was very deliberate, going slowly, until the head of his cock nudged the soft wanting of her cervix.
He began thrusting. Gently at first, then harder and harder, slamming his cock head into her cervix, pain and pleasure ricocheting through her body. "Harder, faster, fuck…" she was whimpering and begging now, needing him to give her what they had both agreed upon. His balls were slapping her perineum, the wet noise of her dripping pussy giving away her unfathomable desire. Harder, her cervix abused and wanting, she wrapped her legs tighter around his waist. "Oh fuck... please, Andrew... please..." she felt his breathing change and become irregular, she knew he was close, and then, just as that thought whirled like a zephyr through her brain, he was climaxing, spraying her wanting cervix with his seed. She cried out in delight as she felt herself being filled to the brim, felt him roll off over her.
"Open your eyes." The words cutting through the foggy haze of happiness enveloping her body. She opened her eyes and looked at him, laying next to her. He stroked her cheek as he sat up. "The ivory stockings were the last vestige of your purity, to be tossed aside," he said. Keep your hips on the pillow, another command. He was standing now, rapidly pulling on his olive green boxer briefs and the grey wool trousers, now decorated with pieces of lint from the worn carpet. He looked at her approvingly again, before saying, "Stay like that for twenty minutes. I don’t want to have to do this again. I’ll text you in a week, so be ready with the results." He was tucking in his Oxford cotton dress shirt. He leaned down over her and kissed her again gently on the cheek, his right hand caressing her lower belly, before picking up his suitcase, opening the door, and walking out into the thick darkness of the night.
She was a good girl, and lay with her hips on the pillow for at least a half hour, before sitting up. She felt his cum leaking out of her still-swollen cunt, and smiled. I’ve fallen for you, Andrew, this time I’ve really fallen, I’ve fallen pregnant, she thought. Then she stood up, relocked the door, and headed off to take a shower.
