Room 803
We have been fucking from across the Atlantic Ocean on WhatsApp for about two weeks now. He is traveling to New York City on a direct flight from London so that we may probe and explore and taste one another, finally. I am standing outside of the cafe next door to The Marlton Hotel, where we will passionately pound one another into a pulp of oblivion, in the actual flesh. I am plump with his attention, ready to burst at the seams. We have only 24 hours together. Tomorrow afternoon, he will jet back to the UK, I will drive back to New Jersey—each of us back to our families.
~~~
It all started with an apology. An apology in the chat section of a women’s liberation sex site where I’ve been exploring my sexual boundaries and inhibitions. It was the 11th of February 2020—a year with a name. I apologized for feeling a strong attraction toward his online profile, while not sharing close enough geographic coordinates in order to feed the attraction. Click-- next, click-- next, click-- next, click--....stop. A black and white photo of a composed man in a jacket and fitted work shirt. What made me freeze on him? His wonderfully structured head of curls? His phone held up horizontally by his gorgeously large hand, hiding his eyes behind his want for discretion? I wondered what they looked like. Would they match the intensity of his chiseled jawline and hard chest? I wanted to trace my finger along that line that formed beneath his bottom lip. My mouth wanted to pull down that lower lip—and give it a gentle suck, a playful nibble. I wanted to lower that phone with my wrist—I needed to know: Who is he?
GJames
My apologies-- I know you’re a long way across the pond—but I was just
browsing through and found myself stuck on your profile—curiously
wondering about the shape and expression of your eyes beyond my obstructed
view. Can you help me with that?
Seel888
Don’t apologise! I love your profile text. Are you a writer?
Here is a photo with my eyes in.
There they were. Earnest, intense—and somehow familiar to me. Cool and gray. His eyes evoked my interest in such a powerfully irresistible way, it was like I’d looked into them before. Like we’d known one another before, in some other distant time and place. A past life—natural and untied and free and harmonious and safe together. Like we were a symphony, once.
GJames
Fiercely gorgeous. I am.
I mean YOU are fiercely gorgeous, and I AM a writer.
Seel888
Lol. Don’t worry. I had taken that understanding. Not: “Fiercely gorgeous, I am.”
Although, of course, you are.
GJames
Tell me more about you. Just a tumbling out of words that describe what makes
you GO. What drives you-- motivates you?
He told me how experiences make him GO. Things he’s never done, things he’s always wanted to do, things he wants to get better at—living life to the full and enjoying the journey, he told me. He enjoyed people—women in particular. Women who strike a balance of being similar to him in some ways, and opposite in others. He values the privilege of intimacy. A shared secret. A closeness. A new exploration together. Seen and felt partly by himself, but also with someone from a different background, with a different history, he expressed. Then he attached a shirtless photo of himself. His upper body carved into expertly trained muscles. He worked hard there and I was all too happy to see it, because, so do I.
In two weeks time, our text thread grew. It could have reached the moon and back—we were constant throughout the day, as if right next to one another. Comfortably connected. Sharing childhood stories, and exchanging photos—sexy photos, photos of me where I’m flat and where I’m round, in all the right places...photos of me in new strappy black lingerie, photos of me anchored on all fours with my back arched and ass sitting high in the air for him, smooth skin, firm muscles, hair flaxen and willowy. Photos from high school, photos of close friends, photos of him wearing glasses, photos of him not wearing glasses, photos of his new Ducati, photos of childhood relics found in old storage boxes, photos of where we’ve been, and photos of our lives now, with our children.
We shared fantasies, and videos of me fingering myself, videos of him attempting what he called “press ups”, videos of me doing fitness and track workouts, videos of making pancakes, and videos of our family dogs. We swapped confidential affairs, and created secrets of our own together, too. We talked dirty to each other. Intimately dirty. We’d make each other cum then send photos of cum-laced fingers and licking them clean.
Together, we traveled through a 90’s time warp holding hands and, eventually, a Spotify playlist was originated in honor of us, titled: 90’s Rewind Commute: Shoulda’ Been Us and it would include Sabotage and Intergalactic by the Beastie Boys and Little L by Jamiroquai. We became bonded. Over text we would kiss, fuck, grip, press and hold. We would grind, writhe, sweat, slink and suck. I’d hold my breath and cry out, “Baby, please?!” begging him to let me cum until he granted me permission. He would cum inside me—deep, holding, rasping, pressing harder, pelvic bones bruising and grinding harder still.
~~~
From the airport, he texts:
Seel888
Running behind. Got pulled in by an immigration officer!
No doubt suspicious of his story—flying to the US for a one-day visit to see “a friend” he’s only ever met on a sex website.
I take a seat inside the cafe and order a bottle of water. My abs are pulled tight, my pussy contracted. I’m holding it together, but the anticipation of him is fizzing over inside. To smell him, recycle his breath, and feel the texture of his skin rub up primal and slick against mine, creating a new, shared scent together, are my most compulsive desires. My mind is racing with all the everything we’ve promised to do to each other.
My overnight bag is ready at my side, packed with lingerie, heels, minimal make-up, restraints, toys, and my lucky pair of dice chiseled from green onyx, tucked into the side pocket in a black velvet drawstring pouch. As I feel around for them, I spot the profile of his tall frame, all 6’4 of it, unexpectedly walk past the front window. Scandinavian model-esque, he’s wearing a navy blue jacket with red piping along the collar worn popped-up. His slim jeans fit him right. His Nike Internationalists, with yellow on them, tie it all together. The eyes. The curls. The perfectly shaped nose. The broad, strong, squared shoulders—the pronounced erectness of him. He’s headed towards the hotel and I want to run to him but I am not breathing. My body: frozen. My mouth: gaping. My pussy: deluged with wetness. I shift my weight in my seat to even out my moisture. He excites me. I grab the handles of my bag and head over to the hotel bar. There, I wait patiently for his ready signal.
The butterflies in my belly flit around. The green box on my phone screen chimes.
Seel888
Should I come down now?
GJames
Yes. I’m here. By the side of the bar.
Seel888
Are we still going with the wordless kiss plan?
GJames
Yes.
Seel888
Ok, but there will be smirking.
GJames
Yes, of course. Lots of smirking. And eye-fucking. I have butterflies...
Seel888
Calm those butterflies. Coming down now.
My worry becomes ephemeral as he appears before me. We walk toward each other, this stranger and I, as if we’ve been lovers for a lifetime. We pull one another in, and like a slow game of Tetris, our lips fit snug and match tempo. Our contours suction tightly together at the right places, and loosen for an appropriate amount of tongue flicking and curling. They dislodge with timeliness back into a breathy nose-clasped kiss. His breath is something leafy green and manly-fresh with a splash of Mezcal. Together we are lush.
I feel him swirl the small of my back with his long fingers as he pulls me deeper into his pelvis with longing. His arms are strong, his body hard. We exchange and recycle one another’s air on Heavy. His hand slides down the curve of my lower back onto the roundness of my ass. He places one finger, stiff with pressure, in the crack of my ass over my jeans. He gives me a confident squeeze as his other hand palms the side dent of my other ass cheek. I am now wet with impatience, his cock is hard with anticipation. We make for the elevator. Room 803. Our private cove of love-making until morning.
I watch his hand reach into his pocket to slip out the room key. He glides it in smoothly to make the green light happen. As it blinks in acceptance, he looks over his shoulder into my eyes. His look turns serious and the wingspan of his arm presses the door open for me. I move past, gaining a whiff of him. His scent swirls into my nostrils and I feel puffy and wet again in my panties.
The room is tight, but the side mirrors facing the windows are angled at the head of the bed, reflecting the crisp white linens, and cool, colored velvets draped throughout the space. The ceilings sweep high to create a stateliness meant for two.
“It’s perfect,” I sigh. His hands stroke the sides of my shirted breasts down the gentle curve of my waist and I can’t help but jump on him, clutching on with my thighs. He turns to press me against the room’s wall as our bodies writhe in passion. His pelvic thrusts are tuned rhythmically to my own. We grind out the most beautifully aggressive tune together—we’re reading off the same sheet music. Our crescendo grows as my hands find holds in his muscular shoulders, my fingers dig through the cotton threads of his shirt, seeking to split into the fibers of his muscles.
His hands hold my womanly shape like that’s what they were created to do, support me so I can drive myself over and against the hard, wide bulge inside of his jeans. My whole body is engulfed in his flames and I rejoice in the most glorious, orgasmic shiver—there—so soon, held in his arms with him standing. We are still fully clothed. Panting.
“You turn me on so much. I can’t believe this is happening,” he says, breathy, against my cheek. “I know, baby. It feels so surreal. It’s barely started and I’m already anxious about it having to end,” I share honestly.
He sees me to the bed and lays me down gently. One by one he removes my suede shoes as I quickly regain my breath. He leans over me to kiss my mouth. I fumble at his shirt buttons. They are tightly fastened. “Let me help you,” he smirks and straightens his broadness up. I like watching his hands as they unfasten each button with buttery softness, revealing his delineated musculature from his photos—the ones I’ve traced over and over again with my eyes. Now I get to feel them beneath the pads of my fingertips, his fragrance attached.
I sit up to kiss the veins at the side of his neck, running my nose along his short-whiskered jawline. This man was especially put together for me, I think to myself. My temperature spikes, and the room begins to spin in slow motion. The light outside the window has faded to dark, moving deeper into the night. My clothing is off, piled at the foot of the bed. My lover’s head is crowning at my knees which are pinned up and outward to either side of my nipples. He’s deep in my cunt now—eating through each of my pink petaled epithelial layers. I can feel the confidence in his lapping. His mouth bold, eating hungrily from my wet little hole; his head bobbing up and down.
He releases one knee so I can extend my leg high and straight up to the side of my head, the other he has pressed open and out reaching toward the edge of the bed. I feel a deep stretch as I arch my back up and towards him. “In?” I beg, breathless.
“No, not yet, baby. I’m not done teasing.”
“Please! I need to feel you stretch me open,” I plead, “I’ll do anything.”
He grins, and circles the head of his rock hard cock around my pussy entrance. He pops his blood-rushed cap into my wetness, then back out again.
“No…” He shakes his head with kindness, and spreads my pussy lips apart, stretching my hood up to expose my clit to just the tip of his tongue. He presses his fingertips against the bone, deliberately gliding my flesh up along with it. I moan louder than I mean to, but I’ve never felt more turned on. I feel a sudden surge of electricity, “Please-- I need to cum, I’m going to….” I blurt out.
“Try to hold it, baby,” he stops his motion—but I squeeze my ass up to introduce my glistening pussy to his hard cock. “Please, baby! Fuck me. I can’t wait,” I cry softly.
Edged out of my mind, I press my head into the mattress. With approving eyebrows, he’s on top of me—his face happy, wet, and smelling of my juice. It takes no guiding, his cock knows exactly where to go. He slides his fire inside with immediacy, pumping me hard and slow. My pussy walls feel the pressure of every gorgeous curved inch. Grinding our pelvic bones into a bruised feeling of rawness. He lets me milk him, and I accept every last drop of his delicious seed.
Our skin slides slick and smooth, disturbing the perfectly bubbled beads of sweat that have formed atop my abdomen. He crashes into them with every power-bearing thrust. “Cum with me, baby. Cum on my cock.”
Our hands feel for, and find one another to form tightly interlaced fingers. He marks my skin with red until we release together at a shared and gathered pace. With foreheads pressed, my body submits to his pounding sparks.
Steadily, our heart rhythms slow. He kisses me with care. Gently. Still inside me. Breathing deep. Humid mouths making quiet sounds. We kissed until he softens, listless and wet but warm in one another’s arms. He slides out half-way, wet spillage between my legs. Thighs slippery. I confess that I love him—with an open hand—and he confesses it back. Encircled in one another’s arms, we sleep cozily wrapped in our together scent. Bound by a recycled current of shared breathy energy: out from my nose, in through his, and so on like that into the night, in our bed with his fingers in my hair.
~~~
The sun rose that morning, and too soon came the time to kiss and retreat back to our content vanilla lives. Still, we continue to meet in our growing garden of green text boxes where we have scattered and sown the seeds of Room 803 in our secret patch of digitally encrypted soil. We water it with our fantasies and hope for it to bloom a kind of sustenance that will nourish our desires for a future. Something for another distant time, in another distant place.
Photo by Darina Belonogova