I’d returned from the track, showered, changed into something more comfortable, and descended three floors to the hotel bar. I was sitting at it, having a drink, when a man came up and sat next to me. We struck up a conversation.
It turned out he was staying at the hotel as well, on the same floor, three doors down. We clinked glasses to the coincidence.
After three drinks he slid his right hand onto my left thigh. And left it there. I began to get a hard on. I’d changed into panties after my shower, and the feeling of my penis swelling in the scant microfiber was sensual, sensational. We’d talked about many things: the race weekend, the track, where our seats were, how many times before we’d been here. Where we were from. At some point, maybe during the fourth drink, I leaned over and whispered that his hand on my thigh had given me a hard-on. He whispered back that he had one too. Swiftly, he reached over and gave mine a feel. A squeeze.
He suggested that we go up to one of our rooms. We could always order room service. I confessed to him, again in whisper in the loud, crowded bar, that I was a bottom. He grinned and said that was fine with him. He paid our tab and we left.
As I followed him to the elevator I reflected: What luck! I’m 1,200 miles from home, in a strange city, and I’ve met a man who’s going to fuck me!
My room was closer to the elevator so we went in there. I fumbled with the key card. My new friend had to do it for me. I was drunk. Giddy.
My room had a small balcony that looked down on the street. He went over and opened the drapes and walked out. The street had been blocked off and was filled with people. I, meanwhile, had undressed. Down to my panties. He called me out to the balcony and I was drunk enough to obey. He put his arm around my bare waist. We looked down at people gazing up, and waved. “Let’s go inside,” I suggested.
“I like to spank,” he said, while drawing the drapes.
“And I like to be spanked,” I replied, without hesitation.
“Come lay across my lap, panty-boy,” he said, while seating himself on bed’s foot. He was still completely dressed. “I’ll spank you then I’ll fuck you.”
He spoke with a slight, indeterminate accent.
I lay my slender body across his thighs, settling my right hip against his erection. I hadn’t been spanked in ages. I loved spanking. I loved consensual abuse. “Spank me,” I urged.
“Don’t worry,” he said.
The noise in the street rose up through the windows, covering my cries. He spanked me first in my panties, then pulled them down and spanked my bare ass. He spanked me until tears filled my eyes. But I never felt the need to ask him to stop.
“Get up,” he finally said. “I want to take a picture of your red ass. I have a collection.
I stood in front of him, backwards, while he took several shots. Then he showed them to me. He was right. My bottom was a fiery red. “Get on the bed, I’m going to fuck you now,” the man said.
“How do you want me?” I asked. The spanking had sobered me up a bit. My heart was racing, still.
“Do you stay hard while you’re getting fucked?”
“No,” my reply.
“Then on your hands and knees. You have lube?”
“Lube and condoms. In my bag.”
“You come prepared,” he laughed.
“You never know who you’ll meet in a bar.”
I watched from my perch on the bed as he fished around in my travel bag, finally pulling out the tube of lubricant. “I don’t wear condoms,” he declared.
“That’s OK,” I replied, despite myself. He had a nice one, a big one, circumcised, which he lubed up as he walked back to the bed. I braced myself as he put his head to my hole. He pushed in. Then farther. I moaned for the first time as he shoved it in all the way.
“Oh, God,” I said.
He let it remain there like that, all the way in, his pubic hair flush with my crack, before pulling back a ways and pushing in again. His was a challenge, not painful just filling, filling me up and then some, but I reminded myself I was being fucked, another man was inside me, filling me, fulfilling me, and I told myself to try and relax. The fucking grew easier and I scrunched up the pillow my hands grasped and lowered my forehead to the middle knot. I moaned, loudly, with each in-thrust. In fact my mouth never closed. It just hung open, waiting for the next thrust, ready for the next moan.
He had good stamina and fucked me for close to—by the bedside clock—fifteen minutes. About halfway through it turned to pure pleasure, my cries rising a timbre, then two. By the time he came in me I was crying out like a woman.
As I wiped his penis clean with a towel afterwards I told him how wonderful it had been. He agreed, telling me I was a good lover—although, in fact, all I’d done was kneel there and receive him. He claimed he was too big for some guys, said it was nice to fuck someone who was so “open.” It came as a surprise to me that, at first, I’d seemed “open” to him.
He pulled on his briefs, and then his slacks, while I found my panties on the floor and pulled them up. He informed me he’d taken a pill before coming downstairs to the bar and maybe he’d be able to go again after a couple of hours. “Sloppy seconds,” he grinned. I told him I’d like that.
He went to my room phone and ordered another round of drinks. “We should eat something,” he said. And we sat down together on bed’s foot, me on my sore pantied ass, and read through the menu. We both decided on cheeseburgers. Cheeseburgers and fries. And we gave our order to the kid who brought our drinks up. He—the bell hop—seemed nonplussed at the sight of one man in panties and another shirtless and shoeless, in slacks. It was good being in such a tolerant society. I tipped him $5.00, in his currency.
“I got the drinks,” my lover had said. “You pay for this?”
“Sure,” I replied. I was more than happy to treat my new friend to a meal.
We sat at the room’s small table to eat. Afterwards I brushed my teeth. When I returned my lover had removed his clothing. His swollen penis was pointing straight out at me.
Accepting the invitation, gladly, I sank to my knees and sucked him. Sucked him until fully hard. When I pulled my mouth away it sprang right up. “Makes you feel 19 again,” he joked.
This time he wanted me on my back, and I wished I was fully dressed for him. In wig and makeup and bright-red lipstick. And wearing a bra and thigh-highs. I’d brought along a couple of pairs of black, lace-topped thigh-highs but it was a little late for that tonight. Maybe tomorrow. I raised my slender legs as he came forward, and wrapped them loosely around his back as he put it in me. It went in easily this time, the head of his cock, I presumed, in the sticky web of cum he’d deposited in me earlier.
He fucked me to the point of boredom this time. He stayed hard but just couldn’t cum. Or wouldn’t. I moaned with each thrust but I was—largely—going through the motions after ten minutes.
He pulled out and told me to roll over atop a pillow, and he finished in me this way, remaining mostly silent until he shot his second load up my red ass. He turned different afterwards. Pulled out and went in the bathroom and came back, a minute later, tossing a hand towel at me.
“I’ve got to get going,” he said, while pulling up his pants.
“I was hoping you’d stay.”
“Can’t.” He said this definitively—as if he had a wife and kids he had to rush back to. Like so many who’d fucked me in the past, at my house 1,200 miles away.
“OK,” I acknowledged, unable to hide my disappointment. I pulled on my panties and followed him to the door. “Everything OK?”
“Everything’s fine,” he said.
I wanted to lean over and kiss him, kiss his cheek at least, but decided against it. “So tomorrow then,” I said. “We can go to the track together?”
“I have to be there early.”
“I like to get there early too.”
He was halfway out the door. “Maybe afterwards.”
“Meet you at the bar?” I asked, summoning up a weak smile.
“We’ll see.”
He left.
Hours later, lying on my back in bed, unable to sleep, crowd noise still drifting up from the street, I knew I’d never see tonight’s lover again. He’d gotten what he wanted—needed—and that was it. He was sated. I’d never see him again. Or if I did it would be fleetingly, in passing, maybe a glance and curt nod thrown my way.
Tonight’s lover was just like all the rest. One and done. I was just a piece of ass. He’d picked me out of a crowd and it had come to pass. Did I have it written on me? A pantywaist? A bottom? Submissive? Hungry for it?
I rolled onto my side, away from the curtains, the sliding doors, the balcony. My ass hurt. That and the cum he’d deposited, was all of him that was left.
I slept, eventually. I dreamed.