I’m just hanging out in an empty hotel conference room, masturbating, pondering my life choices, as you do.
“I, um, needed a moment alone,” I tell him. It’s as true as anything else I’m feeling.
My heart is hammering in my chest, but it also feels a little bit like it’s doing that in my pants. The need to touch myself surges as I take a breath of him in. With how close he’s standing to me, his scent engulfs my lungs like plunging into a pool.
I swallow, trying to steel myself.
I keep telling myself I don't care what this guy thinks of me. I don't even know who he is, really. But even if I can convince myself into utter apathy about him, my body doesn’t get the memo.
I’m not going to touch myself in front of him. I have to draw the line somewhere.
He has yet to do the obvious thing, just backing away and closing the door, to pretend the split second he saw me didn’t happen. I can’t fathom why not.
Too many seconds roll by with us just staring at each other. I imagine loosely, it probably looks like I’m having an asthma attack or something, with how heavily I’m breathing. No, who am I kidding, there’s no way it isn’t obvious what I was up to.
His eyes track over me, one hand down my pants and the other holding my tit. His nostrils flare infinitesimally.
“You asked at the bar, what I am,” I say, my voice sounding just a little strangled and breathless as I try to hold back a moan. I try to think of a good way to say it, before deciding, fuck it, fuck me, fuck this whole trip. He’s already seen my chimera cock vibrator, it’s not like I had any dignity left with this guy.
“I’m a siren,” I offer weakly. It’s as much of an explanation of this as anything, the fact that my body is somehow more ready to go than it was before. “And I couldn’t get time off during my feeding frenzy period...”
There’s some noise outside in the hall, the sounds of people talking, and he moves closer, his figure in the doorway throwing a concealing shadow over me before the door closes and we’re alone together.
I shuffle a little further inside to make way for his wingspan, and the movement jostles my hand in my pants and my fingers brush against my needy clit. I hiss at the contact, the sharp, all-too short note of pleasure and pain and relief.
I bite my lips and try not to rock my hips into my hand.
“I wasn’t trying to, like, feed off your sexual aura before, when we kissed, I just,” I fumble to say. I don’t want him to think I was trying to use him before in any way.
There’s so many different Sex Ed topics to cover, really only the most common types of beings are covered in public school. Humans have a menstrual period, harpies lay unfertilized eggs every so often, werewolves go into heat, orcs have the bloodfever, yadda yadda yadda. Sirens have a yearly cycle that causes us to prey on the sexual energy of random victims, whoever there’s a spark of chemistry with to be had. Sometimes I think it's a little bit more like whatever vampires have going on, just not as often.
It’s quiet, and I can only make out the outline of him in how dark this room is. I wonder faintly if gargoyles have better night vision and can see how hard I’m trying not to writhe against the wall. Maybe if I keep talking I won’t feel the need to take a flying leap at him.
“A-and I didn’t end up getting time off for it like I usually do, and I don’t know how I’m going to get through this trip, but I just really needed to take care of this—”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
An utterly baffling question to drop at a time like this, if you ask me. But the way he asks it, the genuine concern in his voice, I get that he doesn’t mean it in a creepy way.
He’s nice. And for some reason, that’s weird. I can’t help but be a little unsure of and mystified by the mere notion of being offered help when the corporate world is just a loop of shuffling your work off onto someone else.
“I can watch the door,” he offers after a minute, and my body really, really wanted to interpret his offer in the most unprofessional way possible. “While you take care of things.”
“Yes, that would be good. That would really help.” I nod, even though I’m not actually all that sure how helpful that is, besides making him feel like he’s helping me. But I’m so used to assigning busywork like that to Deanna that I just roll with it.
“Anytime,” he says, and gives me a little half smile. I’m desperately thankful he doesn’t press the issue.
He waits a moment, listening at the door, before opening it and dipping out. His tail brushes against my leg the slightest bit before he’s on the other side, but that little graze lights my body up with need. I fall against the door as soon as he’s gone, gritting my teeth as I resume my stroking with fingers now pruney from how wet I am.
I don’t know how to process any of what just happened. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I think I can smell him through the door. I imagine him leaning on the other side of it, that I can feel his weight pressing against me through it.
The imagery makes me whimper aloud, and not a breath later, I hear him clear his throat on the other side of the not-very-sound-proofed door.
I don't have it in me to be mortified that I have an audience, rather emboldened by it. I want to know if he's listening as intently as I am.
My strokes become more vigorous, until I surprise myself with a burst of pleasure that makes me gasp aloud, and my thighs quiver, twitch, and shake. My hand is becoming slick, and I feel the heat in my body rising. With each rub, there’s a short burst of unnerving pleasure and surprise that builds my need ever higher, but never high enough.
I wanted to feel someone else grip my thighs; to sink my hands into the gargoyle’s body; to rake my hands over his chest; to mouth at his skin where I was lost for words from the way the shadows had cut across his form in the moonlight, showing the hard lines of his muscles and deepening each crevice; and to drag my teeth across his hipbones.
