There are around a dozen men sitting at or near the hotel bar when I walk in. A few of them glance up and notice me. I ignore the way their eyes linger, searching, hopeful. If he’s here, he won’t be that obvious.
I slide onto a stool and order a vodka martini—Grey Goose, Noilly Prat, very dry, one olive, no twist. The young barman nods like he’s impressed, but I can’t tell if he actually knows what I’m talking about or if he’s just reacting to the way I say it. Either way, it’s a little disappointing. He’s cute. On another night I might have let him flirt, might have taken him upstairs just to feel something reckless. Tonight, though, I have other plans.
He sets the glass in front of me. It’s perfect—ice-cold, strong enough to sting. I drink half of it in two slow sips, savoring the burn. When it’s nearly gone, I catch his eye again.
“Another one, please. Send it up to my room.”
“Of course, madame. Room number?”
I smile at the note of hope in his voice, scribble 714 on a napkin, and leave it with a twenty-pound note. Then I pick up what’s left of my drink and walk out, feeling a few more pairs of eyes on me. None of them are his. I’d know.
In the lift I watch the numbers climb to seven. The hallway is quiet, the carpet thick under my heels. I slide the keycard he sent me into the lock—red to green—and step inside. The room is plain, anonymous. Exactly what I asked for. I shut the door, drop my bag on the sideboard, and finish the martini in one last swallow.
White blouse, charcoal pencil skirt, bare legs, black patent heels. Minimal makeup, just the Cartier, the thin gold bangle, the hoops. My rings are at home, locked in the jewelry box where they belong tonight.
I strip quickly, leave the heels on, and take the roll of black bondage tape from my bag. Two inches wide, matte, unforgiving. I start just under my arms and wind it tight around my torso, covering my breasts, working downward until the roll ends mid-thigh. In the mirror I look obscene, gift-wrapped for someone who doesn’t bother with bows. My pulse is already racing; I can feel myself getting slick.
I climb onto the center of the bed, knees sinking into the duvet, and text him.
I’M HERE.
The reply comes fast.
~ARE YOU DRESSED AS I ASKED?
YES.
~ARE YOU EXCITED?
YES. VERY.
~I CAN IMAGINE PEELING THE TAPE FROM YOUR BODY, SLOWLY REVEALING YOUR NAKEDNESS. I WANT TO TAKE MY TIME. I WANT YOU TO BECOME DESPERATE FOR ME TO RIP THAT TAPE FROM YOU, TO RAVISH YOU AND PLUNDER YOU, TO MAKE YOU COME AND THEN TO FUCK YOU.
OH GOD.
~BE READY FOR ME. CARESS YOURSELF UNTIL YOU’RE JUICY AND SWOLLEN, BUT DON’T COME. YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO MAKE YOURSELF COME. I WILL MAKE YOU COME, WHEN I THINK THAT IT’S TIME.
I WON’T COME, I PROMISE.
~GOOD. I’LL BE THERE SOON. THREE MINUTES.
My hands shake as I set the phone aside and take out the black silk scarf. I knot it over my eyes, lie back, and let everything go dark. I slide one hand between my thighs. I’m already soaked; two fingers slip inside me without resistance. It would take almost nothing to push myself over—just a few circles on my clit and I’d be gone. I don’t. I promised.
I hear the keycard in the lock.
My fingers freeze, then withdraw slowly. I let my arms fall to my sides and wait, blind, breathless, every nerve screaming.
The door opens, closes. The chain slides home. Heavy footsteps cross the carpet and stop at the foot of the bed.
“Very nice,” he says, low and rough. It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice in real life and it shoots straight through me.
Silence after that. I want more words, want anything, but he gives me nothing. So I give him something instead.
I draw my knees up, plant my heels, and let my thighs fall open wide, offering everything the tape doesn’t cover.
A guttural sound tears out of him—half growl, half groan—and then he’s on me. His shoulders force my legs farther apart; his mouth clamps over my cunt like he’s starving. No teasing, no gentle licks, just raw hunger. His tongue lashes my clit, then plunges inside me, fucking me with it while I cry out and reach for his hair.
He grabs my wrists hard and pins them to the bed. The strength in his hands makes me dizzy. I can’t move, can’t do anything except take what he gives me, and it’s too much, too fast. My orgasm hits like a fist, ripping a scream from my throat loud enough that someone in the hall probably hears it.
I’m still shaking when he flips me onto my stomach. I hear his belt, his zip, the rustle of fabric hitting the floor. No slow unveiling, no patience. His knees shove my thighs apart and then the thick head of his cock is nudging at me, sliding through my wetness—bare, no condom—and before I can catch my breath he drives in to the hilt.
I lose the ability to form words. He fucks me hard, fast, punishing, every thrust slamming the air from my lungs. The slick drag of his skin against mine tells me he feels how ready I am, how easily he owns me right now. I should tell him to stop, should say something about protection, but the thought dissolves under the next brutal stroke.
“Oh fuck,” I gasp. “Oh fuck—oh fuck—”
My second climax barrels down on me. I come clenching around him, screaming into the pillow, and I feel him lose control at the same moment—his cock jerking, pulsing, flooding me with heat. I want it. I want every drop.
After a few seconds he pulls out. I hear him dress quickly, the sounds sharp in the quiet room. Then the door opens and closes, and he’s gone.
I untie the blindfold and roll onto my back. The room looks exactly the same as it did twenty minutes ago. The only evidence is the keycard on the duvet, the ache between my legs, and the slow trickle of him leaking out of me.
Exactly how I wanted it.
Exactly how I’ll want it again.
