I Went Down for Water and She Was Still Alone in the Lobby

I had left Seville at six in the afternoon convinced I’d arrive before midnight. The traffic on the motorway, an hour lost on the way out of Madrid, and two gas-station stops turned that calculation into a fantasy. When the hotel lights appeared by the Tordesillas exit, I had been behind the wheel for more than eight hours, four coffees in my system, and my legs numb from the thighs down.

It was a good hotel for the middle of nowhere. A lit garden with strips of soft light placed with care, a modern façade of glass and stone, and inside, beige marble and some bronze sculpture nobody had asked for but that gave the lobby an accidental air of dignity. The receptionist had the discreet efficiency of someone who’s been awake all night and has no appetite for small talk. He gave me the key to 212 in less than two minutes.

The room was spacious and quiet. A two-meter bed, adjustable lighting, a desk nobody would ever use. I kicked off my shoes, stayed in my T-shirt and briefs, and lay down. I took out my phone, read four headlines without taking in a single one, opened my dating app more out of habit than hope, glanced through it quickly, and closed it. Nothing worth the effort. Sleep wouldn’t come. The coffees were still doing their job with irritating punctuality.

At quarter past one I decided there was no point in staring at the ceiling. I put on my jeans, a T-shirt, grabbed the key, and went down for water.

***

In the lobby, next to the small courtesy coffee maker in the corner, there was a woman.

She was about thirty. Blonde, dyed but well dyed, wearing dark Lycra jeans that showed off her hips and a light gray knit sweater, one of those fuzzy-soft ones that look like they’d keep you warm just by looking at them. She still had her heels on at that hour, brown with a barely perceptible leopard pattern on the toe. Her makeup was still intact, which meant she either hadn’t had time to go upstairs and take it off or had decided not to. She held the coffee cup with both hands, fingertips at the rim so she wouldn’t burn herself. When I came in, she looked up at me with very dark eyes that were neither cold nor especially warm: they were attentive.

The receptionist handed me a bottle of water without my asking. I sat in the armchair nearest her, because it was the only one in the corner, and said hello.

“Good evening,” I said.

“Good evening,” she replied, and brought the cup back to her lips.

I must have looked hopped up on caffeine, because she immediately asked if I’d come from far away. I told her about the trip: leaving Seville, the hours on the motorway, the time estimate that had gone to hell. She was from the city. She had spent the afternoon in a hotel meeting room with several colleagues, preparing a trial for the next day. The others had already gone up. She had decided to stay a little longer, alone, to sort out her thoughts before trying to sleep.

“If I’m bothering you, I can leave no problem,” I said.

“You’re not bothering me. Sometimes it’s good to change the conversation.”

We introduced ourselves. Her name was Silvia. We went on like that for a long while, with that empty kind of conversation that serves more to occupy silence than to say anything real. I looked for topics and she answered easily, without seeming bothered by anything. I looked at her more and more. The sweater fit her body in a way that made it hard to look at anything else. She had that kind of figure that doesn’t fit any standard size and is much more interesting than any exact measurement: generous hips, a marked waist, tits that pulled the wool knit tight every time she took a deep breath, a physical presence that filled the corner of the lobby without effort.

At some point I pulled the room key from my back pocket because it was digging in, and set it on the little table in front of us.

“I think we’ve got rooms near each other,” she said, looking at the number. “I’m in 217.”

“And I’m in 212. They could’ve given us the same one by mistake.”

“Those are hard mistakes to make,” she replied. And she smiled slowly, as if the smile needed a second to decide.

We kept talking. In one pause, without thinking, I made a comment about her sweater: whether all that texture didn’t make her itchy. As soon as I said it I knew it was the stupidest thing I could have said. But she lowered her gaze, ran her open hand over her chest, lingering a second too long over the bulge of a nipple clearly showing through the wool, and kept sliding her hand down her sides to her waist, with a slowness that was anything but casual.

“It’s very soft,” she said, and looked up at me. “It’s late already.”

“Yeah.”

We stood up at the same time.

***

In the elevator the air smelled like her perfume. I stood to her left and closed my eyes for a second. I asked if it was Lancôme.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Could it be La vie est belle?”

She turned her head toward me with an expression that mixed surprise and what might have been amusement.

“How did you guess that?”

“It’s really stuck in my head. And it couldn’t be anything else on someone like you.”

She looked at me. This time the smile didn’t vanish so quickly. She dropped her gaze for a tenth of a second to the bulge showing in my jeans, lifted it back to my eyes, and said nothing. No need to.

***

In the hallway, she walked ahead of me. Her heels sank slightly into the carpet and she moved slowly, with no hurry, with that cadence of someone who knows her ass is being watched and has decided not to stop it. Her hips swayed with a looseness that wasn’t studied, it was simply the way she walked. Each step set the rhythm for something that still hadn’t happened. The Lycra outlined the two round cheeks of her ass, separated by a line the motion underlined with every step, and I felt my cock growing harder and harder, squeezed inside my jeans. I passed 212 and kept walking beside her until we reached 217.

“Silvia, I’ve got tea and herbal infusions in the room. If you want one last sip before bed.”

She stopped. Shifted the weight of her bag to her hand, looked at my door number with the same calm with which she looked at everything.

“Oh, yeah?” she said.

“Come in, you’ll see.” I opened the door and gestured for her to go in.

She went in.

***

I closed the door. When I turned around, she was less than a meter away, looking at me. I didn’t think about it: I stepped in, wrapped an arm around her waist, and kissed her. Badly. Too much tongue, too much urgency, pressing her against the wall as if time were about to run out at any moment. She pulled away.

“If you keep going like that, you won’t get anything,” she said. No shouting, no anger. With the same calm she’d been talking with all night. Her dark eyes were anything but uncertain.

I let go of her.

“You’re right. Sorry.”

“Do you know how to kiss?”

It wasn’t entirely a question. She came closer, looped her arms around my neck, and kissed me slowly. Lips first, soft, a touch without pressure. Then tongue, just a little, coming out and retreating, tentative. I felt her breath. From that distance, the perfume was different, warmer, mixed with something that didn’t come from any bottle. I put my hands back on her waist, this time carefully, feeling the texture of the sweater under my palms, the curve of her back.

She pulled back a centimeter.

“Don’t you like it better this way, Andrés?” she said.

Obviously yes. And over the sweater I could already feel her nipples pressing into my chest, hard, marked, asking to be paid attention to.

***

I unbuttoned her pants and pulled them down to her ankles. She was wearing lace panties that matched the bra I glimpsed when I pulled her sweater over her head. Her brown skin against the cream lingerie made such a precise contrast that I paused a moment just to look at her, in heels and underwear against the wall of my hotel room. I kissed her neck, her collarbone, the edge of her bra while I stroked her back with the tips of my fingers. She arched her hips toward me, rubbed her pussy against the bulge in my jeans, and rested the back of her head on the wall.

“Fuck,” she murmured. “I’ve been feeling your cock through your jeans since the coffee.”

“And I’ve been noticing your tits through the sweater ever since you ran your hand over them.”

“Then take them out for me.”

I took off her bra, sliding it slowly down her arms, and stood frozen for a second looking at her tits: big, heavy, naturally drooping with that weight that fills the whole hand, the dark nipples already hard in the air, pointing upward. I took them both in my hands, first slowly, weighing them, then squeezing harder, sinking my fingers into the flesh while I pinched her nipples between thumb and forefinger. Her belly tightened and she let out a low, rough moan of pure heat. I bent down and sucked one nipple into my mouth whole, licked it with a flat tongue and then the tip until the whole areola went rigid. When I nibbled the other one, she blew air out through her nose and shoved my head with one hand, demanding more, not less.

“Harder. Bite them.”

I did what she said. I ran my tongue from one to the other, sucking hard, biting the nipples just enough to make her knees buckle. One hand wandered on its own to the lace of her panties. Through the fabric I could already feel how hot and soaked she was. When I slipped two fingers under and sank them into the wet lips of her cunt, she gave a long groan and spread her legs as far as she could with her jeans still around her ankles.

“You’re dripping,” I told her, pulling my shiny fingers out and showing them to her. “Look how wet you got in the elevator.”

“Well, then do something about it.”

I left her against the wall, finished pulling down her jeans and panties, and knelt in front of her. I lifted one leg, resting her heel on my shoulder, brought my face to her shaved pussy, and opened her with my thumbs. Her clit was swollen, peeking out between the glossy lips, and she smelled of perfume mixed with her horny female scent. I ran my tongue all the way from bottom to top, slowly, and felt her head go back against the wall.

“Ah, fuck…”

I licked her pussy unhurriedly, taking in every bit of what she had to give me. Then I focused on her clit, trapped it between my lips and began sucking it in a steady rhythm, while I slid two fingers deep inside her and moved them, curling them upward, looking for the spot that would make her press her thigh against my face. I found it quickly. She started pushing her hips toward my mouth, grabbing my hair, fucking my face without a shred of shame.

“Keep it there, keep it there, don’t stop, like that, like that, fuck…”

She came against my tongue with a shudder that shook the whole leg resting on my shoulder. I felt her cunt contracting around my fingers, tightening, releasing a warm gush of slick that ran down to my chin. I held her there a moment while she kept moaning softly, head thrown back, mouth open.

When I let her go, she straightened up, took my chin, and licked the remnants from my face herself, slowly, looking me in the eye. Then she kissed me. Her own taste in my mouth seemed to turn her on even more.

“Now you,” she said.

She pushed me to the edge of the bed and sat me down. She unbuttoned my jeans, pulled my briefs down to my knees, and stared for a second at my cock, already fully hard, throbbing against my stomach. She licked her lips. She knelt between my legs, not caring about the rough carpet, took me by the base with one hand, and gave me a first long lick from my balls to the tip.

“God, you’ve got a good one,” she murmured. “So quiet, and with this hidden away.”

She took me all the way in in one shot. I felt myself going into her throat as far as she could take me, her lips tight around the shaft, her tongue moving at the base. She came off with a wet sound, spit a little on top to make it slick, and started sucking me properly: up and down, hollowing her cheeks, looking me in the eye every time she came back up. The disciplined blonde from the bar had disappeared. The one between my legs was a cunt with a mouth full of cock, handling me as if she’d spent years training for exactly that.

“Like that, fuck, like that,” I muttered, grabbing her hair and gathering it into an improvised ponytail with my hand.

She went down to my balls, licked them one by one, took them into her mouth, sucked them slowly. Then came back up. She took my cock out of her mouth and jerked me off against her lips, rubbing the tip over her cheek, her chin, her tits. When she saw I was about to start bouncing on my own, she stopped. She knew exactly what she was doing.

“You don’t come in here,” she said. “You come inside.”

***

We finished undressing each other at the edge of the bed, without the urgent awkwardness of the first few seconds. Her body was generous in every sense: wide hips, soft belly, tits that were fuller than any expectation and swayed loosely whenever she moved. I stroked her side, the inner part of her thigh. She took my hand and brought it back to her pussy, without apologizing for it.

“I don’t want to wait anymore. Lie down.”

She pushed me onto my back on the mattress. She climbed on top astride me. She settled herself slowly, took my cock in her hand, and ran it over the lips of her cunt a couple of times, coating it, coating herself, before starting to open over me with fierce confidence. I felt her come down centimeter by centimeter, squeezing me, the hot elastic cunt swallowing me whole until her ass settled against my thighs. She braced her hands on my chest, closed her eyes, left her mouth slightly open. She stayed still for a moment, adjusting, feeling me.

“You fuck me so good,” she said.

“Ride it.”

And she started moving.

Not up and down, but forward and back, with her hips, a slow, continuous rocking that concentrated the friction of her clit against my pubic bone in one very specific spot. She knew exactly what she was looking for and how to find it. I put my hands on her waist and let her work, while I watched her tits swaying heavy right above my face. I slid my hands up and took them both in full, squeezing them, playing with her nipples, and she sped up the rocking. Her gasps were short and irregular, and every time she got close to some place she pressed her fingers against my chest and closed her eyes harder.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming…”

“Come on top of me.”

She came. I felt the contractions of her cunt squeezing my cock in waves, the spasm, a hotter gush of slick running over my balls. She didn’t stop. She took three breaths, clenched her teeth, and kept moving with the same rhythm, searching for the second one. When it came, her whole body trembled on top of me: belly, thighs, tits swaying out of control while she bit her lip not to scream. And she started again.

She did it three times. Three orgasms in a row, one after another, without getting off me, without changing position. Each time she stopped for the smallest moment, breathed slowly, and resumed the rhythm without saying a word, with all the concentration in the world, while I gripped her ass with both hands and dug my fingers into her cheeks to keep her seated on me. I wondered how it was possible I hadn’t come already. The bed was soaked beneath us both. Her cunt was dripping down my thighs.

Then she leaned forward, completely melted, laid her tits on my chest, and kissed me slowly on the mouth, still panting. I slid one hand between us, moved it over her belly until I found her soaked, slick, open, and slipped two fingers inside without taking my cock out. She let out a fuller, dirtier moan as I moved my fingers inside her together with my cock and kept kissing her with my tongue.

“Son of a bitch,” she panted. “Don’t leave me like this, I can’t take it anymore, fuck me for real.”

“How do you want it?”

“On all fours. Hard.”

***

She got off me with a wet sound when I pulled out, and got on all fours at the edge of the bed with her head on the pillow and her ass lifted high. Round brown cheeks spread apart, her pussy open and red from coming so much, shining, and a little higher up the asshole tight and clean. I knelt behind her for a second, spread her ass with both hands, and ran my tongue all the way from her clit to her asshole, slowly, licking everything. She let out a choked cry into the pillow.

“Fuck, you son of a bitch…”

“So you won’t forget.”

I stood behind her on the floor. I took her hips and started to push my cock in slowly, enjoying the way her cunt opened for me again, centimeter by centimeter. But she pushed back before I’d finished the motion and swallowed me whole in one shot, as if she wanted to make it clear who was setting the pace even in that position.

“I said hard.”

I grabbed her hips with both hands and the rhythm became mine: faster, deeper, with that dry sound of hips against ass that fills the silence of hotel rooms like no other sound. She moaned without holding back, face buried in the pillow, moaning louder and louder, muttering curses muffled against the fabric. I wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her toward me. My balls hit her clit with every thrust. Her cunt gripped me with a hot wetness that drove me insane, her whole thighs soaked.

“More, more, harder, fuck me, like that, deeper…”

I spread her ass cheeks with one hand and watched as she swallowed me whole, shining, my cock going in and out smeared with her come, while I ran my wet thumb over her asshole and massaged it with every thrust. That lit her up even more. She started pushing her ass back, crashing against my hips, seeking me out herself, riding it in reverse. I fucked her harder, until I heard her say my name with a broken voice mixed with a string of “fuck me, son of a bitch, fuck me, like that, fill me.”

“I’m coming,” I panted. “You come first or I come inside.”

“Inside, inside, let it all out inside, fill me.”

Three more thrusts, all the way in. I came inside her with a sharp shudder that left me empty and hot at the same time, shooting load after load of semen into her cunt, gripping her hips so I wouldn’t fall. She felt the first hot surge throbbing inside and came again, the fourth time, moaning into the pillow, milking me with her contractions until the last drop came out. She kept moving for a couple more strokes, slowly, face crushed into the bed and ass still lifted, squeezing me dry to the end. Then she went still, breathing deeply, back arched and thighs open while I slowly pulled out of her and the semen stayed inside her and slowly dripped down the inner side of her thighs, mixed with her own fluids, forming a shining thread all the way to her knee.

I ran a finger along that thread and lifted it back to her cunt, pushing it inside. She let out a tired laugh into the pillow.

“You’re obsessed.”

“You’re the obsession.”

When I was done I collapsed beside her. The kind of exhaustion that has nothing to do with hours on the road.

***

There was no tea. There was no more conversation. At some point we fell asleep, with the lights on and the duvet half on, her naked face down with my finger marks still showing on her ass and a shiny trail drying between her thighs.

Her kiss on my cheek woke me up. She was fully dressed already: sweater on, heels, bag slung over her shoulder. Makeup redone as if nothing had happened. Only a pink mark on her neck, almost hidden by the sweater collar, gave the night away.

“I’m going. Good luck with the trip north, Andrés.”

“And good luck with the trial.”

She smiled. She closed the door carefully, like someone who doesn’t want to wake the rest of the hallway. I stayed lying there, listening to the sound of her heels receding over the carpet until they disappeared somewhere and the silence became complete again.