You're my medicine, open up and let me in
Darling, you're so great I can't wait for you to operate…
- Marvin Gaye, Sexual Healing
This hotel room isn't quite as nice as the one that I got last week.
I don't know why I notice that. I don't intend to use this place for anything more than a quick tryst. Amenities are lost on me; all I need is the bed. And maybe the toilet. The television is nice for entertaining me before she comes in, or perhaps keeping me from thinking too damn much.
A poorly produced chop-socky is playing right now. "Mr. Nice Guy", I think. I snort a laugh of disgust. I'm anything but. I'm irresponsible, I don't contribute much to society and I'm screwing some poor sap's wife.
I take off my boots and lay back into the soft pillows, catching a whiff of detergent. I wonder if the proprietor of this place knows that his business provides no service to the community at large beyond a place for illicit lovers to come and screw. I wonder what type of detergent they use to clean the protein from the sheets. I watch my toes as they wiggle and block my view of the screen. It's nearly 10 p.m. She's a little late. Or I'm a little early. Either or.
Maybe she's caught in traffic. Maybe she's stopped for a bite to eat. Maybe she's calling her husband right now, telling him that she's 'working late.'
Maybe she's riding him, whispering his name and scratching his stomach, the way she scratches mine.
The door's unlocked. She knows what room I'm in. Nothing for me to do but be erect by the time she shows up. I don't need to touch myself. I think of her – her glistening skin, a marvelous shade of ivory, her flowing auburn hair that reminds me of wine, and her jade eyes – and I feel blood flow. I put my hands beneath my heads, making a cradle.
I wonder what she'll have on tonight. Blue jeans and a T-shirt? Khakis and a blouse? Spandex? It doesn't matter. She might take it off, she might not.
As much as I like this woman, I'm mildly surprised by my indifference to the whole matter. You'd think that someone partially responsible for the decline of morality in general would at least take the time to put emotion into a relationship, no matter how twisted. You'd be wrong. I don't even think of her as my girlfriend. She's more like…an appointment. Or a client, if you will. Not a regular by any means, but one that I try to keep happy. And what am I to her? A hard cock to fuck when she feels like breaking out of her world and pretending that she's wild and spontaneous. Sheesh.
Sharp clicks echo on the concrete. I look up as a shadow passes by the drawn shades. A moment later she enters the room, locking both the deadbolt and the chain. She looks at me with a demure smile.
She's wearing a shell-pink suit trimmed in darker pink silk, with a matching cap. Her nude pantyhose coat her slim legs and vanish into bone-white pumps. She's even wearing a pearl necklace. She looks the absolute picture of angelic housewifery, excepting the sheen of sweat that makes her facial features glow. Nervousness, maybe? It can hardly be lust.
I watch as she makes her way to my side of the bed with a brisk, professional gait. Ready for my 10 o'clock, sir. I slide my pants down my hips and she mounts me almost immediately. I notice that she hasn't taken the cap off, nor has she bothered to wear underwear. My hands lock on her hips, holding her steady as she slides down with a groan.
She smells good. It might be soap, it might be partly her husband's cologne. I like it all the same.
She rakes manicured nails over my chest, disturbing the sparse hair. My nipples respond, growing erect from the mild abuse. She tweaks one, drawing a pant from me, but no noise otherwise.
The only sounds are her excited breathing and the squeaking of the bed. Stars explode behind my closed eyes as I submit to being her fucktoy, but I don't murmur my delight, don't moan for her. She's married, after all. She doesn't need another husband.
I feel it coming on, and I thrust into her, the first active move I've made yet. A few more excited pushes seal the deal, and I finally open my eyes. She's stopped riding, breathing hard. She's beautiful. I never knew that she had freckles. They're almost an afterthought – a smattering of pale beauty marks that frame her cheekbones. Her eyes meet mine.
"One more time?" she asks, almost timidly.
This time, we get completely undressed. She wants to rut while kneeling in the center of the bed, so I take my place behind her and enter her, moving slowly. Her hair sticks to her back in clumps; the rest of it hangs down and contrasts with the white sheets.
It's over soon. At least for her. She slides off me and I slide out of her and she lays herself down for a few moments, trying to get the strength to move again. I, on the other hand, simply notice that I am hungry.
"Hey," she says. She's looking over her shoulder at me. "You didn't come."
No, sweetheart, I didn't. Frankly, I'm surprised she's noticed. It's not as if she does this for any pleasure that I may receive.
She crawls towards me on all fours, skims her damp hair out of her face and begins to suck. I sit back on my haunches, trying to maintain enough self-control not to touch her. I don't want to become attached to this woman. Attachments make things hard. Like leaving when I want to. Like knowing that she's going home to a husband who may or may not be aware that his wife's playing him like a jukebox.
Her husband. It's a pretty large town, but I'd be willing to bet I know the guy. Maybe I've seen him around, bought him a drink at a bar once. I watch her lips as they stretch, warp. You gonna kiss your husband with that mouth, honey?
I come with a sharp intake of breath, and slump forward. I make sure to plant my hands on either side of her body and balance myself above her. She looks at me, bemused, and I smile sheepishly, as if to say, Just trying not to crush you. Or touch you.
We dress quickly. It's nearly 11:30, and high time that she left. I turn off the television and the light and take the room key when I exit. I walk to the front office and return the key, informing the clerk that I'm checking out. He nods absently and I make the short trip back to my car. She's standing by it, expectantly.
I muster a smile. "Next week?"
"Of course," she says coolly. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."