Sneak Peek: Hotel Pick-up (Patreon)

This sneak peek is from near the end of chapter four. A bit late posting today; apologies!

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           We weren’t the only ones in the elevator: a few older businessmen in suits, and a young woman with tired eyes who might’ve been an assistant, dressed like Cindy on a working day. There was also a family of four crowded in with us, suitcases, two young children under the age of ten and their parents. I felt the dad’s eyes on my ass, and the mother’s disapproval roiling around us, even as we crowded into the front and ‘Liam’ held my wrist and surreptitiously pressed my hand to his crotch, where I felt his erect cock under my palm. He moved my hand and twitched under my touch, and I blushed wondering if anyone could see.

            A few floors of awkward silence. Flustered clatter as I stumbled in heels and a tight dress, trotting to keep up with this man’s eager pull as he dragged me towards his room. The hallway was almost eerily silent, the lights a little too dim, and the dark beyond the window at the far end almost complete, devoid of stars, lightened only by the red flashing of passing drones. Identical doors rolled down either side of the corridor. We stopped outside room 2029. I avoided thinking; Cindy was in charge; my hands roamed, sliding along his neck, across his chest, down to rub his crotch. “Hurry,” I moaned. “Get this fucking door open.”

            He fumbled around in his inner jacket pocket. “Christ,” he laughed.

            Then the door slid open. He smacked my ass, and I laughingly yelped and we fell through the threshold into his room.

            Almost instantly, his hands were all over me, too, insistent and rough. “Show me,” he demanded, already groping at the front of my dress. He crushed my tits through the dress.

            “Easy.” Gently but insistently, I pushed him away. “Not so fast.”

            Instead of backing down, he pulled me to him. His arm snaked around my waist and held me close. He forced his mouth to mine, thrusting his tongue into my mouth. Meanwhile, he returned to my chest, groping and kneading with way too much enthusiasm.

            I’m still weak in the knees and wet and horny as hell, but he was doing a fucking fine job of dousing the flames. Frankly, I expected better from my stalker.

            This time, I shoved him with a little more force. He fell back, nearly falling over the corner of the bed “What the fuck?”

            “I said easy,” I explained, the tone of a primary school teacher with a particularly dull child. “Slow down.”

            “You told me to hurry,” he said, petulantly.

            “And I need the little girl’s room.” I posed in the doorway, arms outstretched, hip cocked to one side, and tossed my hair and looked back at him over my shoulder. “Why don’t you make us a little drink?”

            I closed and locked the door. I stepped out of my heels and sighed with relief. Then I extracted that fucking vibrator. I wrapped it in tissue paper and buried it at the bottom of my purse. Then the choker, tricky to unlatch but a moment’s effort and it joined the sex toy. Then I took a piss, because after all those tall, fruity drinks I was genuinely desperate. Finally, I touched up my makeup in the mirror, a little flutter of mascara, a dab of gloss at the lips, and quickly brushed out my hair. Reluctantly, I stepped back into my heels and tried not to think as I fiddled with the delicate straps. Everything I did was done avoiding conscious thought. I did my utmost to avoid even acknowledging myself in the mirror. Cindy was in control. The last week’s training was fully in control. I needed this guy to see and believe in the girl I’d become.

            He smiled as I exited the bathroom. He’d taken off his blazer and tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. The room was small, double bed and tiny desk, and a tv screen on the wall, with a small window looking out on a central courtyard far below. The sight brought a heavy feeling of sadness, a recollection of far too many lonely nights spent in similar rooms. But the memory was fleeting.

            To be honest, I’d expected a bigger room. And in the dim light—his best effort at creating mood, I guess, overhead light off and a pair of reading lamps on—he seemed older, mid-thirties maybe, shorter and less muscular, still in good shape but much less threatening.

            He had a bottle of beer in each hand. “Beer?” he said, passing one to me. “You don’t strike me as a beer kind of chick.” He shrugged apologetically. “All that’s left in the minifridge.”

            I took the bottle. He watched me drink: raising the bottle to my lips, delicate grip and pinkie finger sticking out, pink nail white tipped sheen and the undulation of my throat with each swallow. The beer was cold and refreshing. Moisture beaded on the bottle, dripped, dotted my chest. I the hunger in the way he tracked my movement. I dabbed at the drops along my cleavage with a finger and sucked on the tip. “Mmm, good choice,” I purred through pursed lips.

            That did it for him. He dropped his bottle. It tipped over, frothing beer onto the carpet. He crossed the room in a single stride and grabbed me. I suppressed instincts to defend myself. Instead of kicking out the knee, or cracking the bottle across his face, I… gave up; retreated and did nothing. Hummed as he swept me up in his arms and swung me around—straining a little—and slammed me up against the wall.

            Gasping at the impact, I laughed. “Show me those tits,” he muttered, groping again at my chest, scrabbling at my thigh, hand sliding up under my dress, cupping my ass.