“I want another drink,” Charlotte said.
“You can have one more drink,” I said.
We bought two beers in the shop in the hotel. It’s a big hotel, with several bars. All of them were closed. At 10 pm on a Friday. WTF?
Anyway, we made our way to an elevator, and were just about to start making out when another couple slid their hands between the closing doors and joined us. We pulled our masks back up.
Once in the room – yet another improbably large hotel room for us – I asked Charlotte to strip for me. After having first kissed her hard, choked her a little, and smacked her face once or twice. And, having brought her close to orgasm with my fingers, through, over, her tights. But not having let her come.
“I’m mad at you,” she said, “and I don’t know why.”
“I know why!” I said. “It’s because I didn’t let you come.”
We sipped our beers. “Now, strip for me,” I said.
“I don’t know if I want to get naked for you,” she said, her face somewhere between a pout and a glare.
I raised my eyebrows as I reclined on the chaise longue I had chosen for myself. I looked at her, long, hard. I stood up, and took a step toward her. She backed up – genuine fear in her eyes. “What are you going to do to me?!?!” she said.I tossed her on the bed, and took an orgasm from her dripping cunt with my fingers, through her tights, while I choked her, while I kissed her.
My cock was, truly, hard. I’ve fucked Charlotte twice, both times very briefly. Neither time to orgasm, for either of us. My relationship to fucking of late has been particularly… anemic. But I had the sense I would fuck Charlotte this evening.
“Get naked,” I said, again.
Again, Charlotte demurred.
“It’s like you don’t want me to fuck you,” I said.
Something clicked in her, and she reached beneath her pussy to unsnap the bodysuit she was wearing….
And, in fact, I did fuck her, moments later.
I grabbed her by her ankles, and brought her pussy to the edge of the bed. Slid a condom on, and plunged my cock into her. For the first time, ever, I fucked Charlotte hard. Not long, but hard. And long enough, I should say, for her to come. And/but… moments after she came? My cock softened, and I lowered my mouth to her clit. [One day, I’ll get to the bottom of my relationship to fucking. But not that night.]
I tied her up. “I want to hog-tie you, tonight,” I said. And I did. I put her on her belly, and tied her wrists and ankles together, behind her. I placed her Hitachi magic wand under her cunt. I grabbed her pink dildo/vibrator, and pressed it against her clit, slid it into her pussy. Which. Was. WET.
And so it was, for thirty, maybe forty-five, minutes. Charlotte’s motion was limited. Her cunt was overwhelmed. She came over. And. Over. She was loud. At one point, the neighbors asked at the door, “Is everything all right?!?” I got up from Charlotte and looked through the peephole. Three people stood in the hallway, looking skeptically at our door. The sounds had stopped, and they retreated, skeptically, into their room, across the hall.
Charlotte missed all this. Her body was vibrating. She wasn’t hearing shit.
“We need to get you a ball gag!” I said. I genuinely felt bad.
We continued, at length. I have no idea how many times Charlotte came. All I can say is, I’ve never seen her in such a puddle of ecstasy. “What are you even doing down there?!?!?” she asked, repeatedly. At one point, during a break (she said “orange” three separate times), Charlotte told me: “Women’s orgasms are a thousand times more intense than men’s orgasms. AND THESE WERE 500,000 TIMES MORE THAN MY USUAL.” She added, “It makes me wonder if any of the orgasms I had before were even real?!?”
“You must feel pretty good about yourself,” she said.
“It was the machines!” I said.
But I did.
I untied her.
There was more clit-licking. More cock-sucking. More vibrators – this time, without the rope. (“That wasn’t as intense!” she said. Duh.)
We talked about the random blood stains around the room – a tiny one on the sheets. A few splotches on each of the vibrators. “I think most of your blood is on the wall,” I said, and pointed to a period painting hanging over the couch.
“One day,” I said, “you will tie me up.”
She really really doesn’t like the idea of ever having to think when she’s with me. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll tell you what to do.”
“Maybe….” she allowed.