sometimes music in the sounds of fucking....

Twice a year I travel for work. I pack next to nothing, and I spend a couple of months moving from place to place. It’s a business thing, and part of my routine, and I’ve done the same thing for years, so I’m pretty used to it.

When I started out I’d stay in cheap B&B’s and seedy little hotels. The food was consistently terrible, the sheets nylon (and often a depressing grey), and the walls were usually so thin you could almost hear what a stranger was thinking in the next room. Though, at intervals, that would be drowned out by the sounds of fucking. The sounds never lasted long – that’s the nature of anonymous hotel-fucking, it’s quick, and angry, and long forgotten before the sun comes up again.

These days I stay at slightly better class of hotel; the food is a little better, the sheets, cotton and not so grey, but the walls are as thin as they ever were, and the sound of fucking is just as joyless. Now and again, but not often these days, I have been known to indulge my sexual appetites between those flimsy walls. Of course it’s easy enough to meet some fellow traveller who’s looking for a quick fuck. Any hotel bar, on any given night, is a fertile ground for the sexual predator – of either sex. For that very reason I normally avoid hotel bars.

However, three weeks ago, while staying at a pretty hotel in Stockholm I broke my own rule. I wasn’t looking for sex. It had been a long day and I needed a drink more than I needed company. It was late and the bar - at first glance - appeared empty, so I pulled up a stool and ordered myself a double. Aside from the barman, and myself, there was no-one else in the room except a pleasant looking older couple at a table by the window. They seemed attentive and absorbed and I hardly even noticed them to begin with. But it wasn’t long before the man made himself known; offering a half a smile, and a nod in my direction, which I only half-returned. Empty as it was, the bar seemed, suddenly, a little more crowded than I had hoped. I took my drink to a booth on the other side of the room and made a study of the bad Kandinsky print on the wall (Composition… some number or other!).

“May I sit down?”

In some ways I had been expecting her. There had been something in the husband’s smile that I would have recognised - if I had cared to look more closely.

“Your husband sent you…!”

It might have been a question, if I hadn’t already known the answer.

She was not a plain woman… exactly. Like a lot of Swedes she would probably have been rather delicately beautiful up until the age of around twenty-five. In the thirty years since, the Nordic climate had taken more than its pound of youth out of her pale flesh. There was a touch of salt in her blond hair, and her eyes were flint blue. She did not strike me as frail, not in the least… but there was something brittle in her manner, and, when she smiled, there was little warmth in it.

“He sent me,” she said. There was even a suggestion of flint in her voice.

“But I chose to come over…”

Then she sat down and told me that her husband was a silly man in many ways.

“He thinks it’s a kindness to allow me to offer myself to a stranger.”

When I looked in his direction again I could see that he was wearing the grin of a silly man. He almost waved at us with one his huge hands, before he thought the better of it.

“He had the most beautiful… cock… once,” she almost whispered, her hands folded neatly on her lap.

“But it doesn’t… work these days… and it is my… birthday. And… you don’t have to… sleep with me… obviously… if you don’t want to.”

It was her coldness, and her genuine indifference, that encouraged me to accept her proposal.

In my room she undressed, and folded her clothes neatly on a chair.

“He’ll ask me what you did to me. And expect me to tell him every detail of our… encounter.”

“Do you want to take notes?” I asked, only half-joking.

“Probably not,” she said, and she smiled as she slipped her skirt down over her sturdy legs, and stepped out of the crumpled hoop that it had made around her ankles.

She picked up the skirt and straightened it, and laid it carefully over the stiff back of the chair. Her underwear was… cotton and sensible rather than seductive, and there was nothing obviously sensual about her as she moved around the room.

“Would you prefer me on the bed?” she inquired, politely.

I said that I thought the bed might prove a little too… intimate, for what we had planned.

“It will be warm in the bed, and you’re not looking for warm are you? You really just want a cold, hard, whore-fucking… don’t you?”

She tried to look shocked but we both knew the truth of it. This was to be a spite-fuck. She had only come to my room to confirm (to herself at least) that she could no longer truly love a husband who would subject her to an ordeal such as this. She was quietly determined that this would be the last thing that they would ever share – their mutual humiliation at the hands of a stranger. I could read it in her icy eyes, that she almost welcomed the opportunity to going back downstairs afterwards - bruised, and reeking of bad sex - and she would not sparing that silly man one sordid detail. He had given her to another man, and she would punish him for that.

“He covered my mouth and forced his cock into my arse, and I tried to make him stop but he wouldn’t listen. And then he put it into my mouth and make me taste where it had been....”

I knew exactly what she would say, and I told her as much. She seemed a little surprised that I should know her so well when we had only just met.

“You want him to hate himself for what he made you do…! Yes?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And to know that you took no pleasure in it…”

Again, she conceded that that was the truth of it.

“Then why not just wait here for an hour and then go down and tell him what was done to you without having to… suffer the act itself.”

“You’d let me do that?”

“Why not?”

She paused as though considering it as an option.

“But it wouldn’t be… the same…”

“No! But it would spare you the… indignity.”

Her brow knitted itself around this thought for a moment or two. I could feel her examining me from the periphery of her flint eyes. She had been so sure of my compliance when she had followed me to the room, but now she seemed a little at a loss what my motives might be.

“You don’t want to fuck me,” she offered at last.

“Well, you seem… reluctant, and a more than a little disgusted at the thought, so… I feel obliged to ask myself what I gain from it? You get to punish your husband for being so foolish. And, either way, you intend to leave him. So you get your freedom too. I, on the other hand, only get to fuck a woman who loathes even the thought of me…! It’s not a very… balanced arrangement….”

“But if we don’t… do it… then what would I tell him? I don’t know what you would do to me…! I couldn’t just make that sort of thing up… I don’t have that sort of imagination.”

“Oh I’m sure you’d manage… something…!”

I picked up the clothes she had folded over the chair and proffered them to her. She refused to take them. For the first time since we had met she looked me directly in the eye. They were the same striking blue as I had first noticed, but now seemed less of flint and more of cornflower. A smile, not quite sly, traced itself across her lips.

“I’m a terrible liar,” she said – lying.

“He would know that I was making it up and… that would… hurt his feelings. And not in the way that I would want.”

I took her hair in my fist then and, un-gently, pulled back her head to expose her winter white throat.

“He won’t believe that I was a brute? That I pulled your hair and forced my rough hand between your legs and pressed it to your wetted cunt?”

“How could I lie about a thing like that?” she said, almost breathless.

“He wouldn’t believe that I would tear open your knickers, and through your tights, and thrust my rough fingers between the delicious lips… almost threatening to stick them inside you, to spread you wetly all the way from the jut of your clit all the way back to tight little knot of your arse hole…. He wouldn’t believe that...?”

“He might think that I was…”

When my fingers were slippery with her cunt I fed them over her tongue to silence her, and I pressed her down onto her knees. We did not break eye contact as I drew her face towards my groin and let her feel the hardness of my cock against her flushing cheek.

“Will you tell him that I forced you to smell my cock before I made you take it out and rub the wet tip of it around your mouth?”

She could only nod then as my fingers slipped over her tongue and almost to back of her throat. I brought her back up onto her feet and bent her over the end of the bed. He cunt was raw and swollen, and appeared all the more so, as it glistened out from the shreds of her tights and knickers. Her wetness, almost like tears, ran down her inner thighs and my fingers slipped, almost too easily into the heat and pulse of her. I could clearly see the knot of her arse-hole loosen as I massaged around it with my thumb.

“Will he believe you when you tell him how I made you my whore?”

“Yes!” she said, as she stretched back to unbutton my jeans.

My cock stiffened and twitched as she loosed it from my pants and stroked the fat bulb of it until it dripped with pre-cum. She collected the flavours of it onto the tips of her fingers and pinched them to her nipples, and writhed to the sudden chill of them. I took her wetness from deep inside her and painted the cheeks of her arse with it, before plunging my fingers back inside her.

Because she begged me, I permitted her to take the full length of me into her mouth. I could feel her pulse quicken, and hear her breath shorten. Her arse slackened under the pressure of my thumb, and her cunt crushed at my fingers. The walls of it closed in, as her tongue pressed my shaft up onto her soft palate, and there was something melting in that moment – as there often is. Our rhythms altered, the flavours intensified, and, almost without warning, she was seized, like by some unseen hand, and folded into series of increasingly violent convulsions. (Experience ensured that I had taken the precaution of withdrawing my penis her mouth before the convulsions set in.) I could hear the grind of her teeth as she bucked on the end of my thumb and fingers and pressed back on them until they filled her.

“Fan!” she said when the first wave had begun to retreat.

“Fan! Fan…! FAN!”

My Swedish isn’t what it ought to be, but I able to translate that much without too much difficulty.

My cock (mouth wetted) ached from tip to stem. The veins of it were pronounced and the tip of it oozed with clear and fragrant pre-cum. Hungrily she strained to tip her tongue to it, to taste me again, but I held her head firmly away. I liked the sounds of her hunger too much to have it sated too quickly. Like a wild and wounded thing she fought to have her fill. As I felt her clit stiffen again I let her take me back into her hot mouth, but her hunger was more than that. She forced her mouth onto me, and took me all the way to the back of her throat so that she gagged and almost choked as I shifted my hips so that I could press my cock deeper inside her. I spilled into her at last and she told me later that the hot gush of it would have made her cum again, if she hadn’t fought the urge to just let go. She said that she was saving herself because she knew by then that I would find some even more exquisite way to please her. And I’m conceited enough to believe that I did just that.

The nights are long in Sweden at this time of year and it was still dark when she dressed to leave. She chose not to shower, or even wash the crust of cum from her face.

“I want to be able to convince him of my… humiliation,” she said simply.

“Though I don’t think I will tell him any of the… details,” she added, as she slipped on her shoes.

“It all seems rather too… unbelievable… and… precious, to share.”

She smiled then, and it was almost a sweet smile – if not quite innocent. Then she shook her head and said:

“I should have left him years ago of course.”

She placed her card on the bedside table, kissed me lightly on the cheek, and left.

I couldn’t help but wonder how many others would be making their shaky way out of Hotel rooms in Stockholm that morning. Or how many would even remember the names of those they’d fucked?

My own ‘companions’ name was Agda E., and I won’t be forgetting that in a hurry.

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