Elaine stood next to me at the hotel bar with a
bemused twinkle in her eyes that was probably in part
due to the fact that thirty minutes earlier we’d been
fucking like crazed weasels in the hotel room.
I would have been happy to stay in bed and order-in,
but Elaine had wanted to get some fresh air. She
twirled her drink with its little red straw and leaned
forward to whisper conspiratorially, “I’m leaking like
crazy. Maybe I should have worn underwear.”
My cock began to stir.
Elaine leaned against the bar, sipped her drink, and
smiled mischievously with those piercing blue eyes.
It didn’t seem as though she was blaming me, even if I
did have the lion’s share of responsibility for what
was leaking. It was Elaine’s idea to forego wearing
her panties. “It makes me feel sexy,” she’d said.
And now here she was, her bare legs extending below a
thin, tropical dress festooned with gaudy flowers,
looking about as sexy as a woman can look, panties or
no panties.
I locked my eyes to Elaine’s and mused silently about
what was going on between her legs. We’d arrived in
Los Cabos a few hours earlier for short, four-day
jaunt. It hadn’t taken long to discover that Elaine
had done a severe bikini trim of her normal thicket.
She’d left a thin mustache on each outer labia and a
small, furry red-haired patch above. My face hadn’t
detected any stubble.
“So,” I said. “How’s your drink?”
“Mmm,” Elaine purred, taking another sip. She leaned
forward again. Her breath was moist in my ear. “I
can feel it moving down the insides of my thighs.”
She paused and nipped my earlobe. “I’m not sure I’ll
be able to sit down at the table.”
“There’s always room service,” I reminded her. Her
body remained close to mine, swaying gently to the
beat of the music in the next room. When she casually
brushed a hand across my hardening bulge, it might
have even seemed accidental to an onlooker. I knew
Elaine well enough to know it wasn’t accidental.
She put her drink down on the bar. “Or maybe we can
come back down.” She smiled a wicked smile,
“Afterwards.”
It took only five minutes to get back to the room.
Less than one minute of that was spent in the
elevator. Elaine directed my right hand underneath
her dress, and she stood there brazenly, her feet
apart, as my fingers explored her slippery thighs and
the slick wetness of her still-pouty cleft. Once
inside the room, Elaine pulled her dress up and off,
tossing it across the back of a chair.
I hadn’t noticed when we’d left the room that she
wasn’t wearing a bra, either. Now I noticed.
Elaine was in a glorious, rutting rush. She yanked up
on my shirt while I shucked my pants and underwear,
then she then grabbed my hand and pulled me over to
the rumpled bed. I managed to slip off my loafers on
the way, one after the other in an almost comical
stumbling dance.
Elaine tumbled onto her back, her ass barely making it
on the bed, and she kept pulling at me as she wriggled
more solidly to the middle. She was all giggles and
busy hands, and her legs wrapped firmly around my
thighs to line me up.
She was still wearing her shoes. They were red, open-
toed sandals with two-inch heels and lacings wound up
to above her ankles. Fuck-me pumps. “Come’ere, big
boy,” she growled and tugged at me.
My erection found her sweet split, and suddenly I was
inside her, slick and hot. I gasped at the raw
sexuality of it, and of her.
“Oh, fuck!” she murmured and wiggled her hips from
side to side to bury me deeper. “Sometimes I feel
like such a slut.”
We eventually did make it down to the restaurant that
night. Elaine wore her panties.