Hotel rooms are curious things. They range from the grey and mundane to the opulent, from the single-bed-and-Good-News-Bible to generous suites with all the conveniences. They all share one thing—that deep thrum of possibility suggested by their otherness. Places outside the world where anything goes. Where one might be anything one wanted, be anyone, live out a hotwife sex fantasy. They are powerful, and dangerous, and sexy as hell.
The email tumbled into her inbox among the steady drip-feed of dross, the copyings-in, the arse-covering, the bake sales. It was not in any of her current projects so it vanished for a while into the folder Flick had entitled ‘meh’. Not spam, but not a priority.
Felicity Kepler settled back and, prior to a wander, and a wee and a coffee checked the meh folder. Well, wow. Kelvin in accounts had adopted another baby. There was a car parked across the line in the back carpark and an invitation to a knitting klatsch and a Crossfit cult newsletter. No cakes though, which was a shame. She fancied a cupcake. Sugary coffee would have to—what was this?
There it was. A simple query.
Would she represent Brane Solutions at iFOAM in Barcelona, in April?
Would she? Her heart rate shot up and her mouth went dry. A thrill of pride and swiftly behind it, arousal. The words made her shift and unfold and throb behind her knickers. A week, on her own. Being HER, not Mum, not Wife and not merely Flick the QM from QA. She’d be her own captain. Free.
A whole week in BCN too! Mountains, and ruins and sea and the piled up higgledy-piggledy masses of the old city and the broad palmy boulevards elsewhere. She would be Brane Solutions by day, but her by night. Revisit her that still lived there, a different her, one that had not come home, one that had allowed herself to be seduced, to live in a sexual fantasy if only for one night. Her knickers shifted deliciously at the memory of the sweaty clubs and hurried fumblings in doorways. The hot spill of come on her bare thighs. That night on the beach, a whole gang of them in the waves, young bodies, group sex gilded by far-off streetlights and the flashes of fire from a storm over Minorca.
Her turn this time. Tom was always escaping the endless drudge by going on trips and conferences. The cleaning, the washing up, the school uniform. The constant battery of food. Always food. Her head and hips filled with a fierce glee and the day passed in a fugue of half-distracted work and occasional touches of herself. The hot, fluttering ridges of flesh through the separating fabric of her knickers, reading the signals of arousal that spilt across it like the radio-music from the stars.
Home was frantic as usual and it was not until later, children in bed, sitting amid the wrack and ruin of supper and with elbows on the table and a glass of wine, that Felicity was able to tell Tom.
“iPhone?” He said, distractedly, while clattering the plates together in a pile.
“No, iFOAM”
“Foam? How’s that relevant?”
“It’s—”
“No—I get it. One of those shoehorned acronyms isn’t it?”
“Yup. The international Federation Of AI Management.”
“And it had to be foam, because—”
“The quantum foam, yes.”
“Hmm. Maybe there are better ones. You know, I, Felicity—”
“I Fuck Older Attractive Men?” She took a swig of Aglianico and raised an eyebrow, as Tom choked. Laughed.
“That, too. But do they have to be older?”
“Oriental? Ornamental?…Otherworldly?”
“Onanistic?”
Felicity fixed Tom with a fierce, serious stare.
“Onanistic, huh? Oooh, would you like me to onanise you?” She stood and leaned against the table next to him, and he pushed his chair back, flushed. She grazed a fingernail down his fly. Felt the thickening beneath it.
“You do know,” she said while increasing her pressure and bringing more fingers into play, “that I am going to fuck, don’t you?”
Tom nodded, with that peculiar hunger in him that she loved so much. Her knickers filled again, and the pressure of the table was delicious at her crux, hard along the backs of her thighs. She began to squeeze.
“And you don’t mind?”
“Mind!?” Said Tom, thickly. “I fucking love it. Love you and your…” his voice trailed away waving a hand at his wife.
“My…? My hunger?”
“Your fierceness.” He gasped. Felicity had him in her fist. Was rolling him, squeezing, pumping. He spoke.
“I—I can’t give you much, but I can give you this.”
Felicity knelt and, laying her face along his trousered thigh, unzipped him.
“Keep talking,” she said, gruffly. She gazed at the ridge of him, pulsing under his boxers, and reached out a hand. Tom spoke on.
“Uh…mmm… yes. God. See. There’s more to fidelity than only this.”
Felicity freed him from his boxers, slick and ready, skin parted from his head, bright beads of precome reflecting the many kitchen lights. Felicity pressed her face against his warm and rigid shaft, felt the skin shift on the muscle underneath. Breathed him in. God. She was soaking. As Felicity parted her lips and reached for him with one hand, her free hand reached down, beyond the lace that covered her slick and aching cunt.
“There’s all of this, too.” Felicity sensed his hands waving around at the kitchen, the whole house, all the quotidian dimensions of their life together, house and housework, children, debts and laundry. She lowered her head over the tip of his glossy cock. Salt, earth—A hot flavour of summer fields after rain. She swirled her tongue, both capturing and creating more of the salt-sweet taste. His hands settled in her hair, on her nape. She relaxed into him. And as his words fled him, and the incoherence came, she let him fill her mouth, her throat, let herself sink onto him and drift. Breathlessly, she reached down stroking herself until she was seeing stars.
Soon, they were upstairs and fumbling naked on the bed, play-struggling as she tied his hands and feet with stockings, faces bumping and teeth clashing in bruising giggled kisses.
With Tom bound, his cock straining at the cool evening air, Felicity played and teased and sucked until she could wait no more and straddling him, impaled herself. Her mind seemed to unspool itself a little, leaving her riding Tom and filling the room, as if she and the air that truly filled it were one, surrounding Tom and centered on the blaze of his hot, fat, cock.
She rocked and rose and ground herself upon it. Spreading herself tight until her clit throbbed like a star at the centre of a swirling nebula. Out of this ringing cloud of arousal, she spoke, not without difficulty.
“Last time—I was in—Barcelona—
“I took—
“A tin of—
“Condoms.
“12 Durex. You remember?”
She leaned forward, pressing on his shoulders and arching her back, rolling her hips.
“Ran out by Tuesday. God.
“Four of us.
“Three boys and me.
“Twelve condoms.
“Mad times.
“Fucked each other.
“Orgy—
“In. The. Sea. Surf.
“Different cocks, lovely—
“Cocks.
Upright again and with her hands practically tearing at her breasts, mouth open, snarling, biting her lip.
“This time. Ah.
“Own room. Gonna—
“Fuck anyone I please.
“Waiters, waitresses—
“CEOs bellhops geeks nerds.
“Rip up the sheets.
“Going to—
“Show you—
“Send you pictures—
“Come on my face, tits.
Abruptly she shifted, reached around. Squeezed. He twitched like a fish, an eel in her grasp.
“Not now, Tommy, not yet. You’re mine, tonight. Do as you’re told.”
Only snapshots of memory remain. She certainly came, and hard while riding his cock, and again while watching him wank with one released fist. Maybe again, but that’s uncertain. She does remember them both sprawled on the big white bed with their mingled sweat and come cooling on them as it dried.
Since then Felicity had denied herself release. Every day she walked a little more loosely with a liquid hunger in her hips and a simple longing for the Hotel Room and its space outside of time. It’s offering of time that was hers, and hers alone.
The room did not disappoint. It was an outrageous, bizarre rococo affair all flounces and cornices and mirrors and drapes. On being shown it she had almost laughed in the porter’s face but had instead tipped him generously and lain down on the bed. It was just the right kind of firm. She allowed herself a luxurious stretch and slowly teased herself by undressing there, squirming slightly at her own electric touch, until her slickness and her heat were near unbearable. She would have a shower and get ready for dinner, and then probably go to town, find a small restaurant and a dark, gruff, waiter. Maybe fuck him in an alleyway in the Old City somewhere. Felicity was only half surprised to find that throughout this reverie, she’d been fingering herself, her inner lips wrapped up in a pinch of eager digits, her clit an upright pearl, aching to be touched.
Felicity slid off the bed and stood on slightly coltish, trembling legs. She walked around, checking the minibar, and the huge shower-room, gazing naked out at the dark, inviting, sparkling city as if in a brave new world. She caught sight of herself in the many mirrors, and in the dark glass, and felt a new and unexpected thrill. She’d never been shy, and was happy in her skin, was perhaps an exhibitionist, but she’d never thought about eyes upon her, of the heat of a voyeur’s gaze. She watched herself and liked it. The meta-ness of it, watching her own fingers fluttering at her slit, glossy, fast, but through a series of reflections, so not somehow quite in sync. It was like watching someone else, or another Felicity beyond the veil of some other dimension.
Felicity thought about this as she showered, her arousal a constant seething now. In her mind’s eye her cunt was full of fire, a crystalline pink light that shifted and roiled. She moaned, a low growling noise as she washed, as her hands touched her— were they hers? Or that other Felicity? It was becoming difficult to tell.
Naked, skin beaded by diamond droplets that sparkled in the candle-lights, Felicity unpacked her toys. There were two on this trip: a rosy glass dildo with smooth swellings and ridges, and a second, a wicked curve of black silicone, with a wedge-shaped tip and simple, unadorned girth. The glass toy represented her husband Roger; the black tusk, her lover Mark. With her two meta lovers cock-to-cock on the bed, Felicity began to dress, turning and twisting to her reflections. She watched the other Felicities pull on their lace, lace that neatly cupped and enclosed, that raised up their bosoms until they shimmered slightly in their cups, lace that darkened as it enclosed the crisply trimmed fur around their slits. A flash of movement caught her eye.
She turned.
Had window-her just snatched an exploring hand away?
She touched a finger to her mouth. In the window did she, had she, licked the tip? It did taste very rich. Earthy and slightly sweet. Behind her, she heard a long-drawn-out sigh. She looked up.
In the endless unfolding of the many mirrors, all her selves were moving now. All those many hers, their hands wandered, plucked and stroked, and they made little noises that made her blood hum. She moved in a daze back to the bed and picked up the two toys, weighing them and wondering which to try. A cool crystal hand took rosy Roger from her and ghostly apparitions of herself coaxed her, first to climb up on her knees, and then to lie on the wide arena of the bed. She stroked herself a little.
Light roughness of lace on her fingertips, fingers that could feel her heat and dampness swelling. Across the room and on a fairytale chair another her ran the rosy crystal dildo into her mouth, moistening it with spit as a free hand dove behind her knickers. A gasp to her left and there, perched on a fanciful chest of drawers was another, stroking one bared breast while looking Felicity right in the eyes. Felicity aped her movements, baring herself, her nipples hard and eager, and, while other reflections watched in rapt attention the three began a curious dance. A dance where the lead passed freely between them, to the music of eager sliding fingers and happy gasps and cries.
Before long, Felicity was everywhere. On the chair, the ridge of the seat tight against the crease of her bottom, the crystal Roger a long slippery hook which dragged at her lips and pressed hard within, sending blooms of warmth across her belly thighs and tits. The slip slap sound of it sliding, the stretch and pop as the balled shaft moved. Slipping her knickers off, boobs hanging out of the bra, fingers flying, buttocks wet on the smooth paint of the chest, watching the bed. The bed where her alter ego spread, fingers and dildo hard at work, the chisel-tip reaching deep as her lips and folds were spread and clenched, her clit pinched. She dipped in and out of these three dancers and among the many watchers too, their hands pressed against the mirror barrier, as the triple women played. It was as if she was sometimes all of them, watching her, a nexus writhing on the rumpled bed, and then just simply her, curled and clenched around the slick black cock, on fire and urgent under their keenly watching eyes.
This delirium, this dissociation now lay well outside any thought of time or any fixed point at all. The rococo room was everywhere and nowhere, all at once and she was connected to all possible Felicities by a hot bright wire through every clit and every bosom, every mind. And with this vision of a shimmering cat’s cradle, her hands touching her other selves and their touch and eyes on her, Felicity’s inner universe began to turn, a galaxy of heat and light all whirling around the blazing center where her fingers drummed. The heavens moved, and faster spun, and in her ears and bones she felt them hum and the signals passing one by one from her to each and back again.
Afterwards she would not recall a single moment of release, of climbing to some simple peak, she remembered more an orchestra, a long crescendo that filled them all with music and which slid away in little chimes and quiet strings and faded from the room with them, just as the stars wink out in the slow change to morning.
Alone again, Felicity soothed herself with little touches. Unconsciously echoing the come-down cuddles and strokes of her husband, she spoke to him as if he were right there.
“Ohhhhhhh,Tom.
“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Frankly, I don’t know if I’ll ever need a cock again (I’m lying, obviously) but…those other Flicks, my god…”
And as she drifted off to sleep, this world’s Felicity half-dreamed and half saw those other Flicks slowly slip and fold away between the onionskin membranes of the multiverse. And, in a niceish house in Dulwich where children slept, a smiling man put his toothbrush away and turned off the bathroom mirror light.
The End
