Suite Encounters

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “Sold, to the salesman in the sexy suit,” I hiss, mussing his floppy hair with my sibilants. I pull at his tie, loosening it, while he rolls me over and takes an extended kiss from me before hauling me to my feet.

  Our progress to the bed is like a bad tango, feet everywhere, but when we fall on top of the ancient duvet, the dance takes on an intense choreography. His tie comes off, then my jacket, a kiss, a slap on the seat of my skirt, stretched across my ass, a pinch of his neck, heavy breathing, steam. His jacket clinks when it hits the floor and loose change rolls under the bed but I am on him, my palm flat on his fresh white shirt, taking my fill of the heat of his chest and the savagery of his mouth. His arm clamps me tight and he gets me underneath him, pinioning my legs with his knees, fingers working briskly on my buttons while he pants into my face.

  “You’re getting it,” he informs me. “Hard.”

  “Harder the better,” I say, reaching down to squeeze the bulge at his crotch. “Oh, hello. You meant that, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t say it if I don’t mean it, darling.”

  “Call yourself a salesman?”

  But my shirt is off, and he is winning the undressing race. I need to up my game.

  “Why the fuck are you wearing a waistcoat?” I complain, snagging a nail in a buttonhole. “How am I supposed to strip you down?”

  “Wish I’d known…” he said. “Didn’t know I was gonna be… fucking you…”

  He silences me with another kiss, his hands all over my bare stomach and ribs and arms, moving toward their goal: my breasts in their sheer-cupped black bra. The waistcoat goes the way of the jacket but I’m buggered if I know what to do with those cufflinks. I focus instead on his belt—heavy leather, my favorite.

  My movements are slowing, the drug of lust working its toxins into my blood, fogging my brain. The urgency is still there, but I’ve reached a tipping point and now I want the sensuality, too. I like the way he feels and the way he tastes. I want to savor it.

  The removal of the trousers is slower, almost languid, but he shows no signs of breaking pace, almost tearing the lining of my skirt in his haste to get it off.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper during a brief absence of his tongue from my throat. “There’s no rush. We’ve got all night if you want.”

  He kneels up between my legs and looks down at my matching knickers and suspenders. His hair, so perfectly in place before, is standing on end and falling over his forehead. Crumpled shirt, boxers and lurid purple socks. I feel something unwelcome—tenderness?

  “I’m making a mess of you,” I say, squeezing a strong thigh.

  “Oh, just you wait.” He’s trying to sound intimidating but I find it strangely sweet.

  “I can’t.” I pull my bra straps down over my nipples, deliberately roughly, so that I have to bite my lip at the chafing sensation.

  Waiting is off the agenda. We wrestle with fabric and elastic, hooks and eyes, snaps and cufflinks, until no barrier is left between us, except the one provided by an additional wrestle with latex. On top of his earlier scent, there is rubber and sweat and melting hair gel and sex. He seems to be made of these things and I can do little else but crush my face into his chest and breathe him in while he works on the condom he keeps hidden inside his handkerchief. Clever boy.

  “How much do you want it?” I ask him. “How much do you want to win?”

  His fingers drive inside me, finding me wet, finding me ready.

  “I want to win. I’m a winner,” he says. “You want it, too. Don’t deny it.”

  My body provides the evidence, opening up for his fingers, taking them in. His face is a thing of wonder, his eyes shining with that “Is this really happening?” exhilaration.

  But I have to stop humanizing him.

  I arch my spine and spread my legs wider, cupping a breast with one hand, sneaking the other beneath his balls.

  “Let’s touch base.”

  He stares at me blankly.

  “What?”

  “I mean, fuck me, soldier. Give me all you’ve got.”

  He understands that all right. He launches himself on me, filling me good and deep from the first thrust home. I clench my muscles tight, squeezing him, grabbing his ass and urging him to go faster, harder, digging my nails into his firm flesh.

  He gets hold of my arms and twists them away until I am held down; it seems he doesn’t take kindly to my attempts to control his angle of penetration.

  “I hate men like you,” I say as he powers back and forth.

  Without breaking his stroke, he grunts, “What?”

  “I hate men like you.” I try to keep the words clear, but it isn’t easy. “I hate you. That’s why I want to fuck you.”

  “What kind of psycho bitch are you?”

  He stops for a moment, braced above me on his elbows, screwing up his eyes to avoid the sweat that’s running down his forehead.

  “Do you care? Does it matter?”

  He looks over his shoulder, as if for an assassin, keeping his hands over my wrists.

  “I don’t understand. What’s going on? What’s all this about hating me? Why did you invite me back if you hate me?”

  “Because it turns me on. Finding myself on a motel bed, stuffed full of some anonymous arrogant bastard’s cock really does it for me. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “Good, because I don’t.” He sounds offended and I wait for the critical moment to come, the moment where they either up and leave or just shrug and carry on.

  “If you know I hate you, and you carry on fucking me, I will come. But you have to know that I hate you.”

  “That’s so fucked up I can’t even—”

  “I know. So don’t try. Just keep going.”

  “Crazy bitch,” he says, and I half close my eyes and sigh.

  “That’s it. More of that, you dickwad.”

  Uneasily at first, then with growing confidence, he resumes the in-out.

  “So you want fucking so badly you’ll do it with any Tom, Dick or Harry?”

  “That’s right, you creep.”

  “Dirty slut.”

  “Sleazy dog.”

  “You must need it bad.”

  God, he’s good. I feel my tight inner core start its slow unfurling, my self-control given leave of absence by his softly spoken obscenities.

  “I do. Otherwise I’d never let a twat like you past first base.”

  I wrap my thigh around his hip, pulling him in deeper, giving myself up to him.

  “But I’m here now, balls deep in you, sweetheart, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  It’s growing. It’s spreading from the base of my stomach, creeping up slowly.

  “I want to slap your face so hard.”

  “You can’t slap anything while you’re flat on your back full of my cock, darling, can you?”

  “Oh, god. I’m so close.”

  “You need to know who’s boss around here, love. And it isn’t you. Take it, go on. It’s what you wanted.”

  “Fuck youuuuu.” But I am coming now, hard, bucking and twitching beneath him, my vocal curse all caught up in my orgasm. He knows I hate him. He made me come. I have what I want.

  He stills for a moment then rides me hard to his own climax, holding me so tightly, he bruises my wrists. I love to watch their faces when they come, so full of bizarre pride and helpless overwhelming, caught up in something bigger than themselves—a concept they all find problematic.

  When he falls, face-first, into the pillow, still on top of me, I put a hand on the back of his neck and kiss his hair.

  “Thought you hated me,” he mumbles.

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “My head’s fucked. Why are you doing this to me?”

  “How can I hate you? I don’t even know you.”

  He turns tired eyes to me. His expression of profound confusion melts my heart.

  “Okay. Don’t say any more. I give up.”

  “I hate what
you represent. A particular type of man. Self-assured and overconfident, chauvinistic, ambitious, full of tacky charm.”

  “Thanks.”

  ”I’m not saying that’s what you’re like. But you look as if you might be.”

  “So, do you do this often?”

  I sigh. “Yeah.”

  “Like…for fun?”

  I’m quiet for a while.

  ”I wouldn’t call it that. It’s kind of…my thing. That’s all. I go from motel to motel looking for easy prey. There’s a lot of it about.”

  “Well, yeah. No-strings sex. Most men aren’t averse.”

  “I know that. I think that’s the problem. I think, deep down, I hate that they aren’t averse to it.”

  “Yeah, if it’s revenge on mankind, I don’t think you’ve thought it through. Hot sex in a motel is the kind of revenge most of us could live with.” He pauses. “Perhaps it’s not the men you hate.”

  Damn. He’s sharp. Most of them have plankton levels of insight.

  “What does it matter?”

  He leans up on an elbow, frowning. “It matters.”

  “You think I should make love not war?”

  “If you want to put it that way.”

  “I tried it once.”

  “Once. Not a scientific sample then. Try it twice.”

  I put a finger to his lips.

  “Sh. You’re sweet. Too sweet for me.”

  “Show me what’s in your suitcase and I’ll show you how sweet I am, darling.”

  I laugh out loud. The suitcase isn’t full of saucy underwear—I’m not a saleswoman, I’m a secret shopper for a consumer magazine.

  Still, I think there might be something in there to interest him, so, for the first time since I took this job on, I go over to the cupboard and haul it out.

  BUSINESS EXPENSES

  Elizabeth Silver

  The birdcage cart wobbled the whole way from the main hotel to the beachside bungalow, pulling left toward its bad wheel just enough to be annoying. It had been a long couple of weeks, and Javier’s mood matched the thunderclouds rolling in offshore in a dark and rumbling way that even he recognized as a sign that he needed to relax or risk striking out at the wrong person. But relaxation was a long way off, especially with Marco still out sick and back-to-back conferences killing all of Javier’s days off since the month before.

  By the time he reached his destination, Javier had managed to curse everyone from the reservations manager, for overbooking for this particular conference just enough that the hotel had to put a few of the “important” people in the luxury bungalows; to the airline for losing the luggage just long enough that he was somehow the only one around to deliver it, even if he’d already clocked out; to whatever guest that had felt it so necessary to pack two enormous suitcases for a four-day business trip in the first place.

  When he had taken this job after graduation, Javier had envisioned long, lazy days off on the beach and parties in the penthouse suites when his father was away, but it turned out that being the owner’s son made him the one who had to work the hardest to prove himself. He’d been made front desk manager because of his last name, but every day, every crap job he had to do because there was no one else available and it needed doing, it was all part of showing the rest of the staff he kept the position all on his own. Which wasn’t strictly true, but at least his lunches weren’t coming in burnt to a crisp anymore, so Javier was pretty sure he’d been making progress.

  Which was to say, days like this made him wish he didn’t have so much to prove. The last ten or so feet of the path were uphill and covered in gravel, and he took one look at the recalcitrant cart and decided there was no way that was happening. Hefting one suitcase in each hand, Javier carried them the rest of the way, glad that the one thing he had made time for had been use of the on-site gym. Damn cases must have pushed every weight and size limit the airline had.

  Javier set one of the suitcases down to knock, but wasn’t surprised when there was no answer; the conference people were having a mixer of some sort. The ballroom had been buzzing with people when he’d walked by earlier. Using his passkey, Javier let himself in, maneuvering carefully so as to not bang the cases or screw up the walls. He’d just leave the luggage in the bedroom and then go home, take a shower, maybe jerk off to let off some steam.

  But when he got in the bedroom, he stopped cold.

  Working in the resort, he’d seen a lot of guests naked. It was surprisingly common for them to get locked out when chasing down the housekeeping cart for extra towels, and then there were the skinny-dippers—both in the ocean and the house pool—as well as the occasional conference attendee who had yet to realize that just because there was an open bar did not mean you had to drink until it closed. But this—this was different.

  The king-sized bed was in complete disarray, blankets and pillows all over, and in the middle of it all there were two women. One was pale, her auburn hair twisted up to show the creamy length of her neck as she bent to lick between the dark brown thighs of her companion. The one on her back moaned softly, kneading her own breasts slowly as she squirmed under the other one’s mouth.

  “Fuck me, that’s hot.” The words escaped Javier’s mouth before he realized it, and then it was too late.

  The two women froze and turned to look at him, and Javier stood there for a few long seconds wondering if this was the one thing that would get even him fired. Probably.

  He cleared his throat and set the suitcases down as gently as he could. “Your luggage,” he said, stupidly. “I knocked, but. Um.”

  The redhead snorted. “Yes, we see.” She crawled up to cover her lover’s body with her own, never once looking away from Javier as she treated him to a slow once-over that couldn’t possibly have missed the semi he was still sporting.

  After a long while, Javier realized he was still standing there. “I’ll go now,” he said, backing away. “Sorry to disturb you.”

  “Wait.”

  The other woman rolled the redhead off her and climbed out of the bed, grabbing a resort-issued robe that she didn’t bother to belt up. Tall and curvy, with richly dark skin and her hair kept short so nothing got in the way of her high cheekbones and pale green eyes, she reminded Javier of a panther he’d seen on TV once, stalking its prey. And he sure felt like a bunny.

  “What’s your name?”

  He swallowed. No way. There was no way this was happening. She was probably just getting his info so she could file a complaint. “Javier,” he said.

  “Javier,” she said, drawing out the ah like a small moan. “Javi?”

  “Just…Javier.”

  She smiled. “Well, Just Javier, I’m Tonya. And that’s my boss, Margo.” Tonya rested her hand on his chest, one short fingernail playing with the collar of his dress shirt. “You’re not dressed like a bellboy.”

  “I’m not.” It was a struggle, but Javier managed to keep his eyes on Tonya’s face, instead of the long, smooth expanse of her body, bare between the sides of the robe. “Front desk. My shift was over, so I thought I’d bring your bags out.”

  “How industrious of you.” Margo rolled out of the bed, grabbing a blouse from a nearby chair and pulling it on. She wore small black lace panties that rode low on her hips like indecent little shorts that stood out in sharp contrast to her fair skin. “And yet, you’re still here. Don’t you have anywhere to be besides perving on the guests, Javier?”

  That got him going. He had no business still being there, and his father would have his head if he found out. Javier stumbled backward, stammering. “I’ll go. I’m sorry to have…I’ll just… Sorry.”

  Tonya curled long fingers around his tie, reeling him back in. “Well now, wait a second,” she said. “I don’t mind if you stay. Do you mind if he stays, Margo?”

  “Not at all.” Margo was opening the French doors to the bungalow’s patio, revealing an unobstructed view of the beach. The storm that had been threatening earlier was looking more like a rea
lity about a mile offshore, with faint flickers of lightning throwing the clouds into sharp silhouette. “Especially since he brought my bag with him. You know I like to play.”

  A warm, salty breeze snaked through the room, ruffling the delicate material of Margo’s blouse and lifting the hairs at the nape of Javier’s neck. He waited, unsure if this was really happening, or if they were just messing with him; chances were, he’d finally found the one thing that would get him fired, but if not…well, that tiny chance alone was enough reason to stay put and find out.

  “I shouldn’t have interrupted,” he said. His voice was strangled, like it was his neck Tonya still held. “I should just…”

  “Stay.” The word was whispered against his jaw a breath before Tonya chased it with a kiss. “Don’t you want to?”

  Slim hands—Margo’s—slid around Javier’s waist, flirting with his belt buckle. “Tonya likes it when I watch her get fucked,” Margo said. “And I’ve been looking for new playmates for my toys.”

  “Toys?” Javier stiffened, and not in a good way. “I don’t do that bondage stuff. No one’s getting tied up, or I’m leaving.”

  “Pity.” Margo didn’t sound at all put off, though. “Get him undressed, would you? I’ll get the stuff.”

  Tonya worked quickly, pulling off his tie, opening his shirt, pushing all of Javier’s clothes out of the way in what felt like a few seconds. Before he knew it, Javier was landing on the bed, naked, with Tonya beside him. He kissed her, not sure if it was allowed, but when she didn’t pull away, he deepened it, tasting her more and more until they were pressed close, his growing erection trapped between them.

  Then he felt Margo, warm and nude, against his back. “Tell me, Javier,” she said, kissing his shoulder and caressing Tonya’s hip, “have you ever been fucked by a girl before?”

  The sound Tonya made was somewhere between a coo and a moan, so it had to be good, but Javier shook his head. “I’m pretty sure you lack the equipment to do that.”

  “Do I?” Tonya held up something. He had to twist to see it properly, and it still took Javier a few seconds to figure out what the straps and silicone were all for, where the small knob in the middle would go even as the back of his mind forced a picture of the long, purple dildo spreading his asscheeks and fucking him. He’d heard about strap-ons before, but it still took a long while to register that he was looking at one, and that Margo meant to use it on him.