What I Did at the Hotel That First Night

Miguel was sleeping face down when I got up. It was a quarter past six, and there was no point trying to sleep any longer. We’d been together seven years, and there was something reassuring about seeing his unmoving back beneath the sheets, though that morning even that gave me no comfort. My first flight as a flight attendant was in four hours, and my stomach was in knots.

We’d fucked the night before, more because of my nerves than any real desire. Miguel had hiked my nightgown up to my tits and shoved his cock into me from behind with two short thrusts, with barely any foreplay, and he’d come inside me in less than five minutes with a muffled grunt against my nape. I’d been left wet and half-finished, his cum trickling down my thigh while he was already snoring. I cleaned myself with a towel in the bathroom and went back to bed knowing I still wasn’t going to finish this time either. I lay there staring at the ceiling, thinking about emergency procedures, wondering if I’d forget something during the safety briefing, wondering if the passengers would notice it was my first time.

The flight was Barcelona-Milan. Two hours and forty minutes, a night at the hotel, and back the next day. I’d been told about the two pilots: Alejandro Ruiz, young, known among the flight attendants for reasons that were not exactly professional; and Roberto Salas, a veteran with more than thirty years’ experience, serious, unsociable, and on the verge of retirement.

I was assigned to work the economy cabin alongside Mónica, a blonde my age with green eyes and an energy that filled the whole aisle. From the very first moment she made things easy for me, showing me everything without making me feel clumsy. When the plane picked up speed before takeoff, she stretched out her arm and squeezed my hand, whispering a “welcome” just as we lifted off the ground.

***

—Have you noticed Alejandro? —she asked me when the passengers had already been taken care of and we were cruising at altitude.

—Not much. I was nervous during takeoff...

—He’s a hell of a man. —She smiled, leaning her back against the bulkhead—. We’ve crossed paths three times already, and tonight I’m hoping he doesn’t slip away from me. After dinner we can meet up with them for a drink, that’s the usual thing. But I need you to come with me, I’d be embarrassed to go alone.

I agreed because I had no good reason to refuse. I had a boyfriend, yes, but a drink with the pilots wasn’t exactly a disaster.

—And the other one? Roberto?

—Good guy, I guess, but he’s had a funeral face for months. His daughter died a couple of years ago and since then he’s been a ghost. Before, he had a reputation for being very... active. —She lowered her voice—. They say he fucked every new flight attendant and had a monster cock. But now he’s over everything. All I know is we’ll have competition. Cristina, the first-class attendant, is after Alejandro too. She’s a bitch, you’ll see tonight.

***

At the hotel, they set dinner for the four of us together. Cristina arrived in a strappy dress that had nothing to do with the occasion but had exactly the intended effect. Mónica wore a fitted shirt with the top two buttons open. I’d put on dark trousers and a linen blouse, with no greater ambition than to look presentable.

The pilots were dining at another table. Alejandro greeted us with a gesture when he saw us come in. Roberto didn’t even lift his eyes from his plate.

During dessert, Cristina announced in her shrill voice that she had a date with Alejandro afterward. The look on Mónica’s face said it all, though she smiled with a calm that was hard to believe.

—We had plans with him too —she said.

—Oh, I didn’t know.

The fourth attendant, Beatriz, excused herself right away, saying she was tired. I tried to do the same, but Mónica grabbed my arm.

—Just one drink. Only one, Valeria.

***

The two pilots were in the hotel bar. Alejandro stood up the moment he saw us. Roberto was still seated at the counter with his broad back and slumped shoulders, staring at his glass as if it held something more interesting than whiskey.

We toasted with cava. Alejandro was as attractive in person as Mónica had made him sound: strong jaw, big arms, that quiet confidence some men have when they know exactly the effect they have on people. Roberto remained detached from everything, answering in monosyllables when anyone included him in the conversation.

The dynamic between Mónica and Cristina was exhausting. The two of them orbiting Alejandro, brushing his arm, laughing at everything. When they suggested going out for a walk around the city, I took the opportunity to say goodbye.

—Good night. —I set my glass on the bar, beside Roberto’s elbow—. Don’t stay up too late, you have to get us all back tomorrow.

It was an innocent remark. He turned and looked at me for the first time all night with tired gray eyes that settled heavily on me.

—Do you want a drink? —he asked.

Say no. Go upstairs and sleep.

—Yes, sure —I answered, and sat down beside him.

***

Roberto Salas was a man hard to describe. Big, with completely white hair, a shirt half untucked from his trousers, and hands that looked made for another era. He had the face of someone who had slept little for decades and no longer expected to recover the lost sleep.

But he knew how to talk.

For half an hour we talked about destinations, about the years he’d been with the airline, about how much it had cost him to travel so much: two broken marriages, daughters who barely knew him, a life he’d enjoyed too much and paid for with what mattered most.

I ordered a cosmopolitan without thinking much about it and drank it too quickly.

—Do you have a partner? —he asked at some point.

—Yes. Seven years.

I crossed my legs and, through the fabric of my trousers, I felt him lower his gaze for a second before lifting it back to mine. It wasn’t obscene. It was just honest.

—Alejandro told me during the flight that he found you very attractive —he said—. That he would have preferred you were with them tonight.

—He already has company.

—Yes. —He turned his glass on the bar—. Although tonight you were the one who interested him most. He told me he’d like to eat your cunt while Cristina sucked his cock.

I choked on my drink. I looked at him, expecting the smile that would soften it, but it didn’t come.

—I’m not interested in any pilot —I said, and it came out harsher than I wanted.

—Not even an old one? —He smiled for the first time. It was a small smile, almost involuntary.

It made me laugh despite myself. We kept talking. He ordered another whiskey and I accepted a second drink when he offered it. At some point the conversation drifted toward something I wasn’t quite sure how we’d gotten to.

—You’d be more interesting with that button open —he said suddenly, nodding toward my blouse without touching it—. The third one. Just that one.

—I’m not going to do that.

—I know. —He took an olive from the little dish they’d set out for us with a toothpick and brought it to my mouth—. Open.

He said it with a calm that didn’t allow for objection. And I, without fully understanding why, opened my mouth. The olive rested on my tongue. I chewed it without taking my eyes off him.

He smiled. This time the smile lasted longer.

Then he turned toward the bar and raised his hand, asking for another drink for himself alone, almost turning his back on me, as if the conversation were over.

—Didn’t you want anything else? —he said without looking at me.

I got to my feet furious.

—I didn’t give you any right to take those liberties. From now on, I’d ask you not to make any more comments about my body.

—Are you staying or leaving?

The audacity knew no limits. I was reprimanding him and the only thing he could think to ask was whether I was having another drink.

—I’m leaving.

Then he wrapped one arm around my waist. Not violently, just weight and heat and a presence I hadn’t expected to feel that close. I found myself trapped against his body, feeling small in a way that was not at all unpleasant, and that scared me more than anything else that night. I felt the hardness of his belly and, lower down, something thick and firm pressing against my hip through the fabric of his trousers. He made no move to hide it. I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t felt it either.

—Don’t leave angry —he said—. I can apologize if you want.

I slipped free carefully, took my bag, and left without answering.

***

In the room it took me ten minutes to calm down. I took off my shoes, drank water from the tap, and sat on the edge of the bed with my hands between my knees.

I should call Miguel. Tell him what happened and laugh about it. Because nothing happened. An old, rude pilot who doesn’t know how to deal with a woman. Nothing more.

Then I heard Alejandro’s voice on the other side of the wall.

It was unmistakable. Mónica had gotten what she wanted and the two of them were in the next room doing exactly what anyone could imagine. First laughter, then a tense silence, then the wet, rhythmic smack of a mouth sucking a cock. You could hear perfectly how she was sucking him, the short blows against her throat, Alejandro’s muffled gasps every time he shoved her head down.

—Like that, don’t stop. Swallow it whole, fuck —he said.

I closed my eyes.

I heard gagging, saliva, and then Mónica’s voice asking for air a second before he silenced her again by shoving it all the way back in. It made no sense for me to get turned on like that. But hearing that in the dark, with the bed still unmade, made me bring a hand to my stomach without thinking, and from there I slowly moved down until I felt I was already wet over my clothes.

The noises changed. Now it was the rhythmic creak of the bed frame, the bed banging against the wall, and Mónica moaning louder and louder, as if he were pounding her from behind. Alejandro was saying something in a low voice that sounded like an order. She obeyed.

—Fuck me harder, harder —Mónica begged him—. Break me.

—Shut up, whore, they’ll hear you.

—Let them hear me.

The blows of the headboard against the wall grew sharp and quick. I had already slipped my hand inside my trousers, the elastic cutting into my wrist, and I was rubbing my clit with two fingers in small circles. I was soaking. Every time Mónica let out a cry, I pressed harder.

—Stop or I’ll come —he said minutes later—. Now turn around. Get on all fours and spread that ass wide.

—Not there, you bastard —Mónica protested.

—Shut up and don’t move. I’m only putting it in a little.

There was a silence, then a short moan from her and a “wait, wait” that he didn’t wait for. Mónica’s scream when he fucked her in the ass was long and hoarse, half pain, half something else, and it reached me through the wall as if it were happening to me. I slid one finger inside, then two, and arched my back against the mattress. I could hear every thrust, every slap against her ass, every “like that, slut, like that” from him.

I caressed myself slowly, eyes open on the ceiling, listening to every sound coming from the other side of the wall. And at some point, without looking for it, I thought of Roberto. Of the way he had looked at me. Of the olive. Of his arm around my waist. Of the bulge I’d felt pressing against my hip.

I pulled my hand away before I came. I lay there trembling, my fingers shining, breathing in short gasps.

He was right, and that was what pissed me off most.

I got out of bed.

I took off my trousers and underwear. I put only the linen blouse back on, with the top three buttons open. I looked at myself in the mirror. Every curve was visible. My nipples were hard beneath the thin fabric. Under the blouse, the dark hair of my pubic mound showed, and lower down, the glossy thighs of my own wetness.

Don’t do it.

I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

***

Roberto was still on the same stool. He didn’t turn when I approached and sat down beside him. I called the bartender and ordered a cosmopolitan.

—You came down without underwear —he said without looking at me.

—Yes.

—Why did you come down?

—I don’t know.

—I’m not going to fuck you tonight.

—I didn’t ask you to.

There was a silence. He turned his glass once, twice. Then he looked at me straight on.

—Have you touched yourself upstairs?

—No.

—Show me your fingers.

I hesitated for a second and held out my right hand. He took my wrist without squeezing and brought my fingers to his nose. He smelled them calmly, first the index finger, then the middle finger. His expression didn’t change.

—Liar. You’re soaked. —He let go of my hand without giving it back, letting it fall onto the bar—. Did you come?

—No.

—Good. Don’t. I want you to still not be wearing underwear tomorrow on the return flight. And I want you to get to Barcelona without having come since yesterday. —He took the drink they’d served me and had a sip before setting it down in front of me—. When you walk through the door of your house, you’re going to pull your uniform panties down, grab your boyfriend by the neck, and ride him like a bitch. You’re going to give him the best fuck of the seven years. And you’re not going to tell him why.

Everything inside me clenched. I took a swallow without taking my eyes off his.

—What if I can’t hold out?

—You’ll hold out. —He left money on the bar and stood up—. Your partner will thank you when you get home.

We walked together to the elevator without saying anything. He pressed three. The doors closed and we saw ourselves reflected in the mirror of the small cabin. I looked down and saw the bulge outlined in his trousers. It was thick and shifted to the left, resting against the seam. I didn’t look away. He didn’t take his eyes off my ass either.

—No underwear looks much better —he said—. Turn around. Put your hands on the mirror.

I did it without thinking. I placed my cold palms against the glass and felt my blouse ride up at the back, leaving my ass bare. He stood behind me, not touching me, looking at me from above through the reflection.

—Open your legs.

I spread them a little. He took a step forward. I felt the bulge in his trousers pressing between my naked buttocks, the rough fabric against my skin, and a big warm hand sliding up the inside of my right thigh until it barely brushed my cunt lips. It was a brief touch, almost accidental, but I was so wet that a long moan slipped out of me.

—Look at yourself. —His voice was right against my ear—. Look at your face. You’re about to come just from this.

It was true. My mouth was open, my eyes glassy, my cheeks flushed. I pushed my hips back looking for more contact and he pulled away just before I reached it.

He raised his hand and gave me a sharp, heavy slap on my right cheek.

The sound filled the elevator.

A moan escaped me just as the doors were opening.

—Good night, Valeria —he said, and stepped out into the hallway without looking back—. Tomorrow don’t forget it.

***

In the room I undressed in front of the mirror. The mark of his hand was still burning on my ass, red and perfect, with all five fingers outlined. I turned to see it better. Then I looked at myself from the front: nipples so hard they hurt, cunt swollen and shiny, thighs sticky all the way to the knees.

I slid my fingers between my legs. One touch and I was trembling. Two and I was already arching. I could come in ten seconds if I wanted to. I could barely hold back, but I remembered what he had asked me.

I don’t want you to do it. That way tomorrow you’ll still be even hotter.

I pulled my hand away. I looked at my soaked fingers and brought them to my mouth, sucking them one by one, imagining it was him who had shoved them inside me. I got into bed face down, pressing my cunt against the sheet, and it took me almost two hours to fall asleep, turning from side to side, feeling the heat radiating from my thighs and suppressing a need I didn’t remember ever feeling so intensely. At some point I rolled over, spread my legs, and let the room air caress me. I stayed like that until I finally collapsed, one hand resting on my pubis, not allowing myself to move it.

The next morning I put on my uniform without a bra or panties, just as he had asked. My skirt brushed directly against my sex every time I walked, and I could feel my nipples outlined beneath the white shirt. When Mónica came to get me for breakfast, she had the face of someone who had slept little and was more or less satisfied with it. She didn’t say much about Alejandro. I didn’t ask either.

It was at breakfast that I saw the email with my next destinations.

The following week. Barcelona-Milan. Crew: Alejandro Ruiz, Roberto Salas.

I looked up toward the pilots’ table. Roberto was already looking at me. He took a sip of coffee without taking his eyes off me and sketched what might have been a smile.

He had seen the email too.