The Hotel

By: trixie67

Chapter 1, A sub and her Master spend a weekend away.

Chapter One: The Arrival




I require your arrival at the Hilton at 4 p.m. You will wear your trench coat, a garter with stockings, and your shoes. You know the ones.


That’s all the text said, but I know what to do. Pulling my supplies together, I lock my front door, get into my car, and begin the drive into the city.


I pull into the hotel parking lot, choosing a spot not too far from the front entrance, but still off to the side and slightly hidden by trees. It is just after 3:30 p.m., and it is raining, just a little, but I am grateful. There’s nothing more conspicuous than a woman in a tightly-buttoned trench coat on a bright, sunny day.


I’ve chosen this semi-secluded parking space for a reason; I need to change. I slide the driver’s seat all the way back, then toe off my flats and unzip my slacks, lifting my hips to push them down to my knees, then tugging them all the way off. I fold them as neatly as I can, then tuck them into one side of my over-sized handbag.  With my slacks off, I straighten my garter, check that the clips holding my stockings are secure, then tug said stockings back up and tighten the satiny ribbons attached to the clips. That should help keep the stockings up – but not for long, I know.


I peel my shirt off over my head, fold it, and place it in my bag with my slacks. I zip the compartment closed. Then I reach for my coat, which is folded over the back of the front passenger seat. I shake it open and swirl it around my shoulders, leaning forward to allow me room to maneuver my arms into the sleeves. The coat is bunched up between my back and the seat, but that will fix itself once I step out of the car.


Checking to make sure I have all I need, I pick up the cell phone in the cup holder and send a short message to my Master – I am here, Sir.


I receive a reply almost immediately.  Very good, Kitten. Room 312.


I shove my flats back onto my feet and push open the car door and step out. When I stand up, the coat falls into place; it is long, coming to mid-calf, and when I button it up against the rain, all that shows are my lower legs (with my sensible shoes) and a small patch of skin at my throat. I bend down and reach into the car, nabbing my bag by its handles, which I sling over my left shoulder, and picking up my phone, which slips into my right coat pocket. I grab the keys from the ignition, pressing the Lock button, then stow the keys in my left coat pocket. I shut the car door, pull up my hood, and make my way across the parking lot to the hotel’s entrance.


Stepping through the sliding glass doors, I pull my hood back and shake my head, taking a moment to observe the lobby and locate the elevator. Ah, yes, there it is, past the check-in desk and to the right, opposite the small dining room where I presume continental breakfasts are served. The lobby is empty, save for the desk clerk, and I smile at him as I walk past, greeting him with a soft, “Good afternoon.”

I press the button for the elevator, and the door opens immediately. I step in and press the button for the third floor. The doors close with a soft “whoosh,” and now, alone in the elevator, I begin to feel nervous. My mouth is dry, I suddenly realize, and I wish I had thought to bring along a bottle of water. I fish in my bag for a small tin of wintergreen breath mints, and pop one into my mouth as the elevator stops and the doors slide open.


I follow the sign on the wall toward room 312, noting that I pass the ice machine on the way. The hall is deserted, and I stop outside room 310. I unbutton my coat, revealing that I’m wearing nothing but a garter, but leave the coat on. I unzip the other side of my bag and pull out a pair of strappy, 3-inch heels – my “fuck-me” shoes. I toe off my flats and slip the heels on, zipping them up the back, and shove the flats into my bag. I hike up my stockings again – they always slide down, it’s so annoying – and totter the few remaining steps to room 312. I see that the door is cracked open, but I knock anyway, to announce myself.


‘Come in,” he calls, and I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and push the door open.


The room is set up like a small suite, I see. The bathroom is to my immediate right, then there’s a small closet. Beyond that is a small sitting area, with a couch, a desk and chair, and a small coffee table.  Facing the couch is a TV built into the wall. And beyond that is the bed, separated by a half-wall. Directly across from the foot of the bed is a low chest of drawers, with a second TV on top. The TV is on, but I pay it no attention.


My focus is on the naked man on the bed, lying on his side, his head propped up on one hand, looking back at me.


I say nothing, just look at him, and after a long minute of silence, he suddenly speaks.


“Hello, Kitten,” he greets me. “Are you ready for me?”


I lick my lips, a nervous habit, and swallow, before replying, “Yes, Master.”


He studies me for several seconds more, then abruptly says, “Put down your bag, and open your coat.”


I drop the bag as if the handles have burned my fingers, then use both hands to grasp my coat and hold it open. When he sees my attire – or near-total lack thereof – he smiles.


“Very good,” he says, and I smile, dropping my gaze to the floor in sudden bashfulness.


“I think,” he begins, in a thoughtful tone, “that it would be a very good idea for you to suck my cock.”


“Yes, Master,” I say, then shrug off my coat and fold it haphazardly over the back of the desk chair.  I stumble to the bed (how the hell do women actually walk in these things??) and clamber up next to him, and he rolls his hips to the side, granting me access. I lean down and pull his cock into my mouth, sucking him, rolling my tongue over him. His cock is mostly flaccid yet, but I can feel him growing harder on my tongue as I suckle him. It takes me a minute to reacquaint myself with his smell, his taste, to find a rhythm I can sustain, pulling him into my mouth then pulling away, over and over again, and all the while his cock is hardening and lengthening. I shift my position slightly, seeking a better angle, and he suddenly grabs the back of my head, forcing me to take him deep into my throat.


I freeze, and gag, and I feel my stomach rebelling. Dear god, I do not want to vomit on him, so I close my eyes and breath through my nose and pray, pray, that my stomach settles and behaves. I have a terrible gag reflex, and he knows this, but I think he likes it when I gag, because he makes it happen every time.  My throat contracts and my stomach heaves, and I tear myself away from him and cough, my eyes tearing up.


He grabs me by the hair, then, and asks me, in a deadly whisper, “Is there something wrong with my cock?”


I shake my head as best I can, with his fingers wound into my hair, and say, “No, Sir. Not a thing.”


He releases me, then, and settles back down, then says, “Continue.”


I move back into place and pull his cock into my mouth again, wrapping the fingers of my right hand around him and pumping him while I suck him. He seems to like that, because he groans, and starts talking to me.  “You are a good cock sucker, aren’t you, my slut? Yes, you are, you like it, don’t you, like my cock in your mouth, like feeling me on your tongue. I want you to take my cum, my little slut, take it from me and swallow every drop, do you hear me?”


I pull my mouth away just long enough to say, “Yes, Master,” then bob my head faster, stroking him faster, hollowing my cheeks to suck him harder, and he groans again and calls me his slut, and don’t I love his cock? And I murmur an “mm-hmm” around his cock, working him faster, though my jaw is aching. And then he gets more insistent, bucking his hips up, trying to force his cock in deeper, and he snarls at me, “I thought you wanted my cum, slut; you need to take it from me, do you hear? Don’t you want it? Come on! Take it!”


And it pisses me off when he talks like, that, because he knows I want him, and he knows about my reflex, and sometimes it’s so bad I just cannot perform oral without vomiting. It’s happened before. And he knows I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want it. And it makes me feel that he believes me to be ungrateful, or that I’m not trying …


I try, I really do; but my jaw has locked up, and it hurts, and my saliva is dripping down over my fingers, and his cock slips out of my mouth with a wet, sucking sound. I immediately pull it back into my mouth and suck him as hard as I can, and he grabs my head and pushes, and with a roar, his hot cum is jetting into my mouth and down my throat, and I’m swallowing and gagging, and shaking, my arms are shaking from the strain, and still his seed is pumping from his cock.  My throat contracts and my stomach rebels and I pull away, gasping, coughing, his cum choking me. I manage to swallow it, though; none of it is lost, and I dive back in, pulling his cock back into my mouth and sucking him clean, clearing off all traces of his cum and my saliva.


And then I sag, panting, shaking, and I cough again, and my heart is pounding. His breath is panting, too, and when he speaks, his voice is breathy, hollow.


“Are you all right?”


I nod my head, and whisper, “Yes, Master,” and close my eyes against the tears that form, and damn it all, a few leak out under my eyelids and trail down my face. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, and he says softly, “Good girl. You did well.”


I let out a sob, and lean into his hand; and I feel fragile, like I’m about to shatter, and I don’t know if it’s a good thing, or not.



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