He slid on the condom, then climbed back onto the bed, picking up one of my legs and placing it on his hip. I was only too happy to oblige, my hand nipping down to give his wrapped cock a quick squeeze.
He was thick and hard, and part of me braced myself for its invasion. I wasn’t used to this; my last lover, all those months ago, hadn’t been as well-endowed. My body was going to get a very nice shock.
The kiss as he entered me was dirty and messy, a distraction technique to lessen the stretch. He slid in, pausing, resting on his forearms.
“Ready?”
I bit his shoulder. Nibbled. Bit – it was out of affection and hope that he was going to burst the dam and let the orgasms flow.
Biting clearly was how to get him moving. I had no idea how he stayed cognizant enough to move my body how he did, keeping up a rhythm that had me praying to all the gods on duty and the ones on vacation that I would survive this and not be broken for any future man.
Men with big dicks were great – if they knew how to use the damn thing. Fingers and tongues were fun, and even a smallish cock could be okay with skill. A big dicked bloke, as my friends referred to them, could also make sex an experience to forget.
Not in the case of the man who called himself Leonard.
He knew what to do. He understood angles, and he understood dirty words. He understood exactly when a woman needed to be told what to do, and how to make sure it was the only time she obeyed, which was when he told me to come.
Because I did. Hard. Possibly enough to cut off the blood supply to his dick, but thankfully that wasn’t the case, because big dicked Leonard carried on fucking me in the best possible way, throwing me around that bed, as if I was his sex toy.
My body was recovering from a second orgasm, one that had definitely added lubrication, when he slowed over me, my chest heaving, my nipples harder than glass. I watched him tip his head back and saw him swallow, his whole body tensing and his cock growing thicker and harder. He came as he thrust hard, pulling out tremors of another orgasm from me, my hands clutching onto his triceps.
We stilled, apart from our breathing, both chests heaving. The ceiling may have disappeared because I was seeing stars still, galaxies.
Neither of us said anything.
A knock at the door fractured the perfect silence. Then a voice.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’ve had a complaint about the noise. Would you mind considering our other guests and lowering the, er, volume?”
I looked at the man who called himself Leonard.
He looked at me.
We both burst out laughing.
Being marooned in a hotel in Houston, during what was the worst tropical storm of the season so far should’ve been a tribulation. A fucking pain in the arse. But it wasn’t.
The storm rattled outside. A take shelter notice had already been issued, only our definition of ‘take shelter’ was rather different to what was usually meant.
We didn’t need to leave the suite. Room service stayed available, and the hotel staff would’ve been all too happy for us to turn down housekeeping, which we did.
My drought was over. My body now had clear understanding of what a non-self-induced orgasm felt like, an understanding that would now last me through the next few months of celibacy.
Filming was intense. The last few months had been spent on sets in the middle of nowhere, America, filming part of the fantasy series I’d been a lead in for the last three seasons. Thankfully, my character had been killed off, something that would be controversial with the obsessed following that we’d accrued. I’d had enough of the powerplay with my co-stars about who had the biggest storylines, especially with a couple of the other women who seemed to think it was a battle over who displayed the most cleavage or had a sex scene that would break viewers’ TV sets. I needed a change, and the whole spending seven months away filming the same thing was becoming tedious, as much as it provided a steady and good income. I had a movie out next year where I was one of the three leads, a character completely different from the one I played in the series, and the film was a serious one, with a double Oscar winner opposite me.
Plus, I’d gotten lucky with a new project, an adaptation of a steamy romance series, that had been slightly de-steamed for the TV, keeping enough of the bare breasts and breaches to lure in viewers on both sides of the Atlantic. It was also being filmed in England, which was a plus as I’d become a bit homesick. I longed for the mizzle of the north and the bustle of London, proper cups of tea that were brewed with boiling water and using the word aubergine instead of eggplant.
When the storm began to tire itself out, leaving detritus and devastation in its wake, the realisation that we were going to have to leave our cocoon of a room started to come into view.
I lay half on the bed and half on Leonard, his arm possessively over my body and the duvet hutched down around our waists. The quiet after the storm was almost deafening.
“We should check details for our flights.” One of us had to say the words, and I wasn’t one to shirk from getting things out in the open. I’d never been a wallflower.
He groaned, pulling me closer. In the time hidden away in the hotel suite, we’d talked as well as exchanged the gift of orgasms. No concrete information was shared: I knew no more about his job than I did when we met at the bar. He had no idea what I did, or who I was, and I didn’t think that he was that good an actor to pretend he didn’t recognise me. My best known character had dark hair though, which automatically made me look very different, and I’d had no make-up on since I’d left the set.
In this room, I’d just been me. Unfiltered. Smiling. Happy. It had been perfect and the end of the storm meant this was coming to an end too.
“We should. Alternatively, I can see if I can extend the booking and we can tell everyone back home that we were in some micro-climate where the storm carried on for an extra week.” I snuggled back into him.
