DO NOT DISTURB

The hotel bar was more or less exactly as I expected it to be, The usual gaggle of businessmen, brokers and touristy types, their general uniformity broken only by the occasional girl who might have been a hooker, but was as likely somebody’s mistress, tarted up for a night of naughty passion with some guy she only suspected might be married. I ordered a drink and a salad and took a seat by the window, wondering what a lone woman in a strange city was supposed to do when she didn’t know a soul.

I pulled out my book, and was glad that the front cover didn’t really give too much away, at least to anyone passing by. Editor Rachel Kramer Bussel’s Do Not Disturb doesn’t completely hide its light beneath a bushel, the subtitle “Hotel Sex Stories,” is clear enough if you look. But two bare legs on a bed could be anything in these days when book covers have so little to do with their contents, and when I opened the book, my fingers covered the words. I know, because I checked.

Hotel erotica is a peculiar beast. Bussel’s introduction sets the stage, by telling us all the options that could be open, and hinting at a few of the ones that will be taking place. But the first and third stories once the book gets underway Amanda Earl’s breathtaking “Welcome To The Aphrodisiac Hotel” and Stan Kent’s “From Russia With Lust” don’t really go in the expected directions, as they concentrate more on the voyeur than the vice girl in us all; Earl’s heroine watching and willing a couple to hook up; Kent standing at his window, masturbating while he watches another couple fuck. And there’s more in “Mirror Mirror” too, although Andrea Dale’s darlings aren’t the strangers in a strange town, meeting for the first time in a tangle of unfamiliar limbs. Because that’s what hotels are really all about, and that’s why I bought this book with me. When in Rome, after all....

I turn back to my paperback, the first I pulled from the teetering pile of erotic books that live by my bed, and leaf back to a story I’ve already read. Author Tess Danesi at “The Royalton.” A high class call girl on her latest assignation. I gazed across at the woman who had just entered the bar, and was standing in the doorway, her eyes uncertainly searching the room. She is dressed in the same way that Danesi writes, not outwardly of course because it’s too public for that, But “lace topped thigh highs and delicate lacy undergarments” would suit her to a tee and maybe she catches the light in my eyes, or maybe she just doesn’t want to share any of the other half vacant tables. A few lonely-looking salesman types, a couple with a rambunctious baby... she looks around and makes her choice.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

I shook my head. “Please….”

She was stunning. Taller than me, with reddish hair that cascaded to her shoulders, perfect features, perfect figure. Her top was tight enough to show off the swell of her breasts, her pants framed legs that went on forever. I wanted her more than I had ever wanted any other woman; wanted her like the two women in the book wanted one another, Elizabeth and Maxie in a cheap hotel, one newly married and convinced she is frigid, one older and gay with a psych degree. “Heart Shaped Holes” by Madlyn March, I wondered if my companion had one of those? And what it would taker to fill it?

Her name was Lisa. We talked, we laughed, we got on well. We took a walk through downtown, we stopped at a liquor store and picked up some wine, and then back at the hotel, we agreed to take our party up to her room. And with my heart in my mouth, I kissed Lisa for the first time as we sat dialing channels on the hotel TV, feeling just like... I flicked through the chapters in the book in my mind. The housewife on the sequestered jury showing off her sex toys to a fellow captive? No, not her. Teresa fantasizing tropical grottoes in a snow-swept Massachusetts motel room? Not her, either.

I closed my eyes and wrote my own story, Jenny in a hotel bar being swept to paradise by a girl she’d never met and maybe that was the most exciting part of it all. In all the stories I’d read and grown wet to, there was always that one point where you just know that something’s going to happen. A word, a gesture, a glance, a something. Like in “Tightly Tucked,” when the cleaner comes along and catches Elian alone with a boner. You just know she’s going to want it, even before you know that he wants her. That wasn’t what was happening here. Neither of us had said, or even hinted, at anything more than a drink and conversation, but the wine we’d been sinking since we got here knew otherwise. It just seemed the right thing to do.

Lisa kissed me back; the remote control was forgotten and her hands were on my breasts, first through my blouse and then in between the buttons. She moved swiftly but gently – my attempts to caress her felt clumsy by comparison, and she knew it. “Lay still,” she whispered. “Let me….”

I obeyed. Off came my blouse and the skimpy bra I’d been wearing, and her mouth was playing magically across my flesh, licking my nipples until I thought they would burst, and then sucking them hard, till my back arched and my pussy screamed for a taste of the same treatment. She knew it, too, and a hand sank between my legs, gently stroking me through my sodden panties, until suddenly she had whipped them off and two fingers slipped effortlessly inside me.

Lisa’s mouth was on my abdomen, my tummy, my waist. She was taking her time, and every minute stretched out into hours of exquisite tease and tension, until at last her face was between my legs, breathing me in and purring as I bucked my hips towards her, crying out with impatience and lust.

“I lifted my ass and thrust against her mouth... she sucked and licked and nibbled my pussy like she’d been doing it all her life. Maybe she had.” A line from Kristina White’s “The Other Woman,” and when I read it on the plane home, when tonight was all just a memory, I knew exactly what she meant when she wrote that. “This was real and hot and I wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything in my life.”

I reached out too, to touch her where she was touching me, to feel her and taste her and drink her in…. She moved away quickly, but I moved even faster.

My hand clasped her pussy – and something else. A strap-on. She was wearing a strap-on. My mind jolted for a moment, wondering when she’d put it on. Or had she been wearing it all evening? And did it even matter? My right hand held her face to my cunt, my left hand felt her toy’s length and thickness, and wrestled with her pants to free it from its cage.

She was still struggling to get away, but with less and less conviction as her buttons finally parted and I pulled her towards my mouth, breathed in and… it wasn’t a strap-on. It was a cock, a long, hard, beautiful and very real cock. As real as the bare breasts that she’d revealed when she undressed me, and which she’d let me suck on just a few moments earlier, as real as the orgasm that was building up inside me. I pulled her into my mouth and sucked.

I gripped her length, guess-timating how much of it I could comfortably fit in as she started to move, and now she was fucking my face, the thick meaty helmet thrusting inside me, her movements matching my own as I moved closer and closer to my climax – and then I released her shaft and slapped both hands to her ass, pushing her deep inside my mouth as my entire body shook to my final explosion, and she came as well, a flood of cum that poured down my throat, so hard and fast that I barely even felt it, but so thick that I tasted it backing up in my mouth, for me to swallow more luxuriously as her pounding slowed down and our bodies calmed.

The book was forgotten, my mind drained of its contents because it was drained of everything. The threesome that got me so hot on the plane, and the short trip to Memphis that sucked me so deeply into author Gwen Masters’ plot that I actually had to put the book down and remind myself that I was only going to Dallas. All the stories were forgotten because I was living them now, and who cares about plot when you reach the denouement? “My body felt like liquid fire,” Masters declared and that’s not a feeling you get every day. “I exploded... with a cascade of color behind my eyelids.” Yes! That’s it exactly.

And afterwards… Lisa tried to explain, but I hushed her. I didn’t care. Later, I wished I had asked more questions; later, I wished we'd swapped cell numbers of e-mails or something, wished I'd handed her my copy of Do Not Disturb for to scribble her info on the fly leaf, in the knowledge that she could disturb me whenever she wanted. And I still regret that we didn't.

But one thing is for sure. I love this book, and I love the things it reminds me of. Lisa is still one of the most beautiful women I have ever met. And she owned one of the most beautiful cocks.