This all-consuming, wonderfully warm and invasive penetration.
This sharing and melding of bodies, this grinding of hips against hips, this marvelous sweet melty sticky merging of flesh and fluids. And he’s pounding so hard into me that I don’t feel any pain at all, merely the sweeping of a rushing vortex, and bliss, and the glorious moist velvet expansion of his flesh within mine. And it’s a cocoon that I want to dwell in forever, and oh –
Oh
Oh!!!
Ohhhhhhhhh!
I cry against his lips, and he holds me even tighter as my body shudders and contorts into a helpless mess, and I can hear him cry out against my neck as well – an explosion of sound within his chest – and the vibration of his chest wall against my br**sts. His molten liquid se**n geysers suddenly into me, and it’s –
Oh no
Neither of us has used any protection.
But my mind is running too much of a marathon to care, and I’m still riding on the crest of some infinitesimal heavenly wave, and I’m imploding, and exploding, and fusing, and defusing . . . and I’m collapsing against him, and he’s allowing me to collapse against him, and he’s holding me so tightly as he pumps out the last of his hot se**n into me.
We are both panting and descending as he withdraws his c**k from me. And I look down at his organ for the first time – that wonderful rod that has been inside me – and see that it’s large and red and dripping with white cum. And there’s a streak of my dark blood amid all that goo, and my heart quails and simultaneously swells at the sight of it.
His underwear and pants are not even off. They drape around his ankles, and he’s letting me down on the floor now. At least, my feet are touching it. But he still holds my waist to support me, as if he’s not sure he can let me go yet.
A funny look comes over his blue-green eyes as he looks at me, and he’s suddenly embarrassed. Like he’s looking into the eyes of a stranger.
Which I essentially am.
As he is to me.
“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, bending down to pull up his pants. “I don’t know what came over me.”
I can only pant in reply. I’m still not grounded, I think. I’m still floating in that eyrie of consciousness between orgasm and its slow aftermath.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. There’s a hint of regret (oh no) in his eyes as he zips up his pants and gathers his clothes from the floor. “I should have used a condom.”
I can only watch all this in a vague haze. I get the impression that this is a man not used to regrets, or helplessness, or anything he would consider ‘weak’. Indeed, even as I gaze upon his features, they rearrange and recompose themselves.
He puts his shirt and jacket back on and he’s a mask again. His shoulders are straightened, and now fully clothed, he’s a portrait of Adonis. Virile. Studly. In control.
“I should get going now,” he says. That hint of uncertainty that he has only momentarily revealed to me is gone. “Thank you . . . it was nice.”
He doesn’t look at me. Without another word, he hurries out of the stall.
I can only stare helplessly at the open door as his footsteps pad away. The handle of the main restroom door wrenches open and the door shuts with a firm thud.
That’s the last I will ever see of him.
I lost my virginity to a gorgeous stranger.
Was it worth it?
Hell, yes.
The strength drains out of me in torrents, and I slowly sink to the floor on my naked haunches, shivering.
What have I just done?
2
I had a one night stand, that’s it.
So I’ll never see him again. Guys like him would never be seen with a girl like me out in the open. I get that. I’m totally all right with that.
I’m back to reality.
I’m cleaning toilets again, and this time, I have Cassandra Pelicano with me, making sure I don’t stray and accidentally make love to another gorgeous young man in a public restroom. To make fully sure, I put up not one but TWO ‘Cleaning in Progress’ yellow barricades in the doorway.
As if that’s ever stopped anyone.
“Did you hear?” Cassandra says.
“Hear what?”
“The Presidential suite is swarming with security.”
“Why? Is the President coming?” Again? He must really like the restrooms in this hotel.
“Nah. There’s some European royalty, like a king of some small but rich European principality or someone important.”
“A king. Oh really?”
I’m not really paying attention to Cassandra. She has a tendency to shoot her mouth off about the most trivial of things – especially concerning the guests, which I don’t think is that appropriate. I mean, you don’t want to crab about your customers, right? Word might get around.
“Yeah, and he’s got his entire entourage with him. They are holding a party in the Grand Ballroom on the Mezzanine tomorrow night. Mangorean says we might have to get involved if banqueting’s short.”
“Overtime?” That mightn’t be such a bad idea.
“Yeah.”
I’m thinking of the tips. European royalty, huh? I wonder if they tip in Euros.
“Only if banqueting’s short,” Cassandra warns, “so don’t get your panties in a twist.”
“I’m not.” Besides, I really have to study.
If I only knew how Cassandra’s ‘panties’ remark would come back to haunt me.
3
I’m changing out of my maid’s wear in the locker room when Mangorean barges through the door.
I squeal as I duck behind the open locker door. I’m in my bra and panties. No – not the same bra and panties that got so casually ripped off by Gorgeous Stranger. I’m not the type to save soiled panties as a memento or anything (the thought is icky to me.), so I put those in the washing machine and let the grime and my blood wash away.
Oh yes. I bled after that. For minutes, I think. He must have ripped my hymen up good. I don’t feel any pain, but I still bled.
It’s a good kind of bleeding, I convince myself. It was time I got laid anyway.
Anyhow, Mangorean has no notions whatsoever of laying me (ugh, that’s another icky thought) as he points his finger at me behind the door and barks, “Anna called in sick. You’re on.”
“On what?” I grab my T-shirt and quickly bulldoze my head through one of its holes. (I’m not even sure which one, but my head seems to fit.)
“Banqueting. In the ballroom. Now.”