Aug 032014
 

She’d never been to the Liberty Inn before.

“Where do you fuck the lucky guys you fuck?”

“Their places, mostly, though mine, too, on weekend nights.”

We walked the five minutes to the Liberty Inn. She had been to the St. Mark’s Hotel – a somewhat down-at-heels place that caters mostly to Australian and European backpackers, but that has a side business renting rooms by the hour. Like the Herald Square Hotel, the Carlton Arms, and several others.

“We only have a jacuzzi room available,” the kind woman behind the bullet-proof window said apologetically. The place isn’t that seedy, actually, but the window is bullet-proof.

“That’s ok,” I said.

“How many hours do you need?”

“Three, please.”

She asked for our I.D.s – this was a first, in my experience there. She thoughtfully handed them back face-down, through the little slot. Rose took hers. I took mine. We didn’t see one another’s full names.

The attendant handed us the key (to Room 101) and we made our way down the hall, past the vending machine hawking condoms and M&Ms, and I opened the door. Once inside, I pulled Rose toward me and kissed her hard. Her breath still tasted of cigarettes from before our two drinks. “Oh – you didn’t get a chance to have a cigarette between the bar and here – do you want one?”

“No,” she said, somewhat breathlessly.

Rose is petite. Maybe 5’2” (She tells me 5’1”). Her proportions are pretty much perfect – curvy, round, with a little meat. Her hair is blonde-ish/red, wavy, curly?, a little frizzy. (It’s her hair, and all the different ways it looks, that was responsible for my sense that I was seeing pictures of ten different women.)

We had established some ground rules. No bruising. She was eager that I use my belt – to hit her, she said. Perhaps around her neck. She advocated for this, somehow – I’m not sure I remember how it happened, but she was clear this was something she wanted.

I threw her down on the big bed, and she stared at herself in the mirror on the ceiling as I lowered myself onto her, as I began kissing her, as I ground my cock into her pussy, my jeans, her skirt, between us. I looped my belt around her neck. I tightened it a bit. And dropped my end of it.

I lifted up her skirt and traced the outline of the boyshorts I had selected for her to wear. Her body was responsive.

She was hungry.

I watched her touch her pussy for a few minutes. Her pussy’s lips were puffy, swollen. Her panties barely contained them.

“Keep touching yourself,” I said, as I walked to the bathroom to fetch a towel. I laid it out on the floor in front of the chair in which I planned to sit while she sucked my cock. I sat down. “Crawl over to me, please,” I said.

Just as her body was responsive to touch, it was responsive to command.

She crawled to me. I reached for the end of the belt and pulled her head up toward me, down against my jeans.

I teased her – and myself – for quite a bit. I would guess thirty minutes passed before I allowed her to lick my cock, before I licked her clit. But then? Man, was there a lot of that.

I used the belt repeatedly. I controlled the placement of her head, of her mouth, by pulling on the leather looped around her neck. I didn’t have to pull too hard: as I said, she was responsive. Just a slight tug, generally, and her head would glide to where I wanted it. I might, however, have to hold it there.

I moved her over to the bed again, bent her over it, spread her legs, revealing her pale, rounded ass to me. I spanked her, but this was challenging – after just a few delicate spanks, her right ass-cheek showed a clear hand-print, and the left one, a clear line where I had brought the belt against her, looped.

We didn’t fuck.

I’ve written before that fucking often isn’t my first impulse, and it wasn’t on this evening. Orgasm after orgasm flowed from her as I buried my face in her cunt. Repeatedly, she said “blue” one time, two times, three times. Each time, I’d stop. Back off. But each time, I’d return. In retrospect, I realize I violated my promise as to how I would interpret her use of her safe word, but she didn’t seem to mind, and while I violated the letter of our agreement, I don’t think I violated its spirit. (She has confirmed that in reviewing this post. She wrote, “I agree completely with what you said. Importantly, I felt more secure in that feeling because of the way you respected my request to avoid leaving visible marks while you were hitting me. From that, I knew that if I demonstratively used ‘blue’ three times you would have stopped.  It wasn’t even a question for me. The spirit was definitely honored.”)

At one point toward the end of the evening, I asked her how many times she had come. She wasn’t sure. I wasn’t either.

Her bucking, her writhing, pulled the bed away from the wall. Far away from the wall. Across the room.

I moved it back twice.

She sat on my face and braced herself against the wall. She moaned. She screamed. She didn’t gush, but her pussy pulsed, and there was a slight squirt when she came. She sucked my cock, delicately, deliciously. I guided her face down, held it down, heard her gasp. I guided it up, held it up, felt her tongue straining to reach the tip of it.

This went on for hours. Two hours and forty-five minutes. When the phone rang – the front desk, informing us we had fifteen minutes left. “O.k., I’ll come,” I said to her. “I’d like to come in your throat,” I said.

“Good,” she said.

And I did.

Rose is fun.

There will be more of her.

Say something! (I just did....)