"Do you smell that?" I asked. "I'm not making it up, am I?"

The cute, curvy front desk clerk sniffed and made a face. "No," she said. "I smell that too." She leaned a bit towards me and waved a finger towards a vent in the bathroom. "A lot of people think they can get away with smoking in their bathroom, especially when it's cold like this outside. I'm so sorry it's drifting into your room."

After countless stays in countless hotel rooms, you learn to shrug off the countless little problems: not enough towels, loud teenagers, bad lobby coffee. But when it comes to cigarette smoke, that was a hard line for me. I had to say something.

Thankfully, the front desk clerk and I had developed a friendly relationship, since I visited this hotel frequently for work in Boise, but we had nothing more than light chats about the weather, a few conversations about my work, and some about hers: she was in graduate school, plugging towards law school while working here, usually with a book of intimidating size opened on the check-in desk, her bent over it with a highlighter in hand.

She was a cherubic dream: she only came up to my shoulders, her brown hair usually wrapped in pig tails or a quick, messy bun. Today was a pig tails day. Her small, pouty lips were glossed with chapstick, her light brown eyes sparkling; her hourglass figure was wrapped in a light blue camisole, showcasing more cleavage than I was able to politely ignore, with a tight white button-up blouse over it. Her blue jeans looked painted on to her, a giant cell phone sticking out of her back pocket in a bright yellow phone case, drawing attention to a bottom so round and thick that it made my heart skip. I wanted to use her as a body pillow.

But I didn't want to make her feel uncomfortable, now that she was currently in my room, responding to my complaint about the cigarette smoke. I wasn't about to pay the fine most hotels have of stinking up a room with cigarette smoke, especially when it was someone else's habit. She laughed at my "Can you smell my room?" down at the front desk, placed her highlighter down in a giant tome of a book, grabbed the wireless front desk phone, and followed me upstairs.

"I can move you to another room if you'd like," she said.

I had a month-long stay, which meant, even though I had my travel-packing down to a science, I already went through my militaristic routine of sorting and unpacking all of my things into the drawers, cabinets, and closets of the space.

"Do you know if they're staying long?" I asked. "I'd rather not go through the pain of moving."

"I totally understand. I think the guest confidentiality might not let me tell you, but…" she winked and stepped a little closer, which was surprising. "I can check," she whispered. She smiled, tilted her head. "Again, I'm so sorry you have to deal with this." It was then I noticed that she had placed her hands behind her back and was twisting slightly at her waist, as if waving her chest at me.

"It's…no problem," I said, and I couldn't help but feel a flush of excitement. Was the front desk clerk flirting with me? The step to me. The twisting. The smile. All those tiny little conversations at the front desk. I tried to calm my sudden rush of dirty thoughts and smiled back.

"Well then," she said, her eyes glittering. "Is there anything else I can do for you in the meantime? Anything at all?"

Then she looked down at my crotch, and back up into my eyes. Now that is a sign.

My heart was pounding. I'd kick myself if I lost this opportunity, but I also didn't want to look like an idiot if she was just being overly friendly. I took a chance: I smiled back at her with strong intent and made a show of looking down at her chest and back up at her. Volleyed the ball back into her court. "What can you offer me?"

She straightened her spine ever so slightly to arch her breasts upwards. My mouth was suddenly very dry. "Well. I know that business travel can be very, very stressful, especially when you have to deal with inconveniences like this," she said and took her hands out from behind her, used them to indicate the smell, and then started to unbutton her blouse. "I think I can relieve some of that stress."

I felt an erection throb in my pants. There's no way this was truly happening. But she looked down at her unbuttoning, and once she was finished, looked up at me and pulled off the blouse and flung it out of the bathroom and onto the bedroom floor. I stepped to her and put my hands on her hips, and then slid my fingertips up her sides until I could feel the underside of her enormous tits, which caused her to draw a breath. She then put a hand on my chest and gently pushed me back, while biting her lip.

"Some rules," she said.

I complied. Oh, if she took the lead on this, I would be ever so grateful: this surprise seemed to be two steps ahead of my thinking, so I was happy to take the back seat and let her drive. "Fire away."

"We're not gonna fuck. You try it, I'm gonna scream bloody murder while I rip your dick off. Understood?"

"Understood." There was a moment where we looked at each other. "What else?" I said.

She smiled. "That's it. For now." She pulled off her camisole and her breasts tried to bounce free from a small bra that was doing all the literal heavy lifting. She whipped that off as well, which at first felt like a shame, as sometimes, having tits squeezed into a bra is a huge turn-on for me, but when they dropped out I let out a gasp. Giant, glorious, clear-skinned balloons that rolled to their natural nadir. Tight, tiny nipples. She dropped the bra, picked her tits up with her hands, squeezed them, pinched her own nipples, and dropped them. Then she used her upper arms to push them together as her hands converged on my waist to begin undoing my belt, each gesture causing a ripple in her breasts. This close, I could smell her perfume: a faint touch of vanilla.

She pulled my belt off, dropped it. Undid my pants button. My zipper, slowly. She looked up at me with a bit lip as she wiggled my pants down around my hips, causing her breasts to slosh from side to side. I tried to catch my breath, but I was too shocked, so I just made eye contact, smiled, and watched her tits splash about with her movements.

I pulled down my pants, my erection unmistakable in my tighty-whiteys. She looked down and raised her eyebrows. "Oh," she said. "You're going to need a lot of customer service."

Not much, I thought to myself, if she kept this up. I was so hard I was worried the slightest breeze would make me cum.

She pulled my underwear down, squatting, and giggled when my dick bounced out and nearly slapped her in the face. Biggest dick on the planet? No. Smallest? No. So her giggle made me a little nervous at first: this whole episode seemed so random, so one-in-a-million, it felt like anything could upset it.

"It's perfect," she said, eye-to-eye with it. She took her finger and traced the underside of it, from the base to the tip, causing it to twitch and me to gasp. She stood. "Take off your shirt, sir." Now I stood naked, rather awkwardly. But she took a hand and touched my face, ran her fingers down my neck, down my chest, down my torso, my cock twitching the whole way. She stopped at my belly button, traced around it, pulled her hand away.

"You're not a weirdo, are you?" she asked.

"What?"

"You're not going to become a weirdo, are you? Like, start to stalk me or friend me on Instagram or something? Or think this is going to happen again? You cool?"

"Sure. Yes. I'm cool," I said, realizing how uncool that sounded.

There was a moment where she was looking me in the eye, thinking, and made a decision. "Okay. Good. Here's what's going to happen," she said, looking at my hard-on, once again taking her tits in her hands and kneading them. Squeezing them. Dropping them. She looked up at me, and said, as if giving me the next step in a tutorial on bread-making, "We are going to have some intercrural sex."

I tilted my head, a genuine reaction. "Some…what?"

She giggled again. So terribly, painfully cute, this curvy woman. Her pony tails fell off her shoulder, her tits jiggled. She put her hands on her hips. "A thigh job. Sir."

"Oh," I said, and while I had heard of it, I never experienced it, so I was now completely in the dark as to where we were going.

She saw my thinking. "That's a good thing, right?" she said.

"Oh yes," I said, hurriedly, so as to not break our momentum. "Absolutely. Yes. Tell me more."

She pulled out her cell phone and placed it on the sink, unbuttoned her jeans and pulled them down. I watched every single move in order to permanently etch it into my memory. Underneath her pants, she was wearing black, glossy, waist high stockings, making her voluptuous legs look shiny, almost wet. She kicked off the pants. I was mesmerized. She stepped back, put her hands on the back of her hips, pushing her tits out, and presented herself. No underwear: I could see a thick puff of dark hair under the tights, between her thighs. Then she turned around and I watched her incredibly shapely ass piston as she went into the bedroom, and started shifting my (unmade) bedsheets around. Her ass was so round and perfect, her hourglass waist so small. The tights gave it all a sheen that made me just want to grab and squeeze every bit of her.

"My tights stay on," she said after making the bed a little more presentable. She turned back around, traced her hands up her waist, then slid her fingertips down into her thigh gap. "You fuck my thighs." She turned, bent over the bed, leaning down on her hands, looked over her shoulder as she waggled her ass at me, the luster accenting her voluptuousness. Then she crawled onto the bed, lay down, turned over, scooched her butt down to the edge of the bed closest to me, and sat up on her elbows. "Now come on, sir." She spread her legs and the daylight from the window lightninged down the stockings. I could see through the stockings the feint features of her pussy.

My hard-on pulled me over, and before I reached her, I stopped. "Where can I touch you?" I asked.

She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. "Ver-ry good, sir. Very respectful. Here." 

She circled the middle finger of her right hand atop her dark triangle of hair. "Lay that gorgeous cock of yours on top of my pussy. Here."

I complied, she scooched a little more to adjust, and lifted her legs straight into the air, opened slightly so I could still see her. As I pressed against her I immediately felt the warmth of her butt against my thighs, my balls against her, the slickness of the stockings on the underside of my dick, paired with the prickle of her bush poking through.

"Good Lord, I might cum right now," I said.

"You better. I have to get back to my desk," she said. She reached up and traced a hand down my chest. I kept eye contact but continued to clock her tits wobbling about with her movements. "You're pretty fit for someone as old as you."

"As old as me? Watch it now, I'd hate to have to spank you."

She bit her lip and let out a small moan. "Maybe next time. Now," she said, lifted her legs, and brought her ankles together, closing her thighs around my cock. I took a deep breath: this wasn't going to take long. The warmth of her thick thighs, the smoothness of the stockings, the itchiness of her bush. My cock was wrapped tight by her thickness.

I moved my hands to her ankles, which were up by my face, but stopped before I touched them. "May I?"

"Yes. Please." She let out a moan, laid down, took her hands and squeezed her tits together, then stretched her arms out above her head. "Ohhh your cock is so fucking hard. Mmm. You like that?"

"Yes," I managed.

"Now. Fuck my thighs, sir."

I started slowly, feeling the length of the underside of her legs against my stomach and chest, which I had angled slightly off to the side so I could watch her tits and see her mischievous smile. I caught her light vanilla scent mixing with the unmistakable scent of her pussy. I slowly worked my dick in and out of this tight crevice as I lay my head against her ankles, then ran my hands up and down the sides of her smooth legs while I could feel all of my pleasure focused at the tip of my penis, rubbing and thrusting, slightly faster now as she moaned and smiled and cupped her tits up at me.

"Mmmm you like these tits, don't you, sir," she said.

I nodded, smiling, biting my lower lip, trying to focus on my breathing so I could keep this sensation for as long as possible. I took my hands from her ankles and slid them slowly down her calves, then thighs, feeling the smoothness of her stockings, then placed my hands on her ass, her round, full ass, and started to thrust a little faster now, looking down to watch my hard-on slide in and out of her thighs, to which she said, "How do you like fucking my thighs? Does that feel good, fucking my thick fucking thighs?" through her teeth as I began to slam into her now, moving my hands to her hips so I could take hold.

Every thrust brought a sloshing of her incredible tits, which she squeezed in-between her biceps as she held her arms down to place her hands on top of mine at her thighs, faster and faster now, a rhythm causing the unmistakable slap of our bodies together as she encouraged me along with a steady stream of encouragement: "Yes, daddy, fuck me yes yes fuck me do it do it do it you gonna cum? You gonna cum all over these big fucking tits? Come on daddy come on" and when I finally couldn't hold any longer, I told her I was going to cum.

She flung her legs apart. Sat straight up. Took my cock in her hands. She used her biceps to again elevate and smoosh her tits together. Stroked stroked stroked. I looked down and came with a grunt, my first shot right into her cleavage, then another shot as she whispered "Yes yes yes ohhhh fuck cum on my tits, do it, yes," then another shot, and another. I finished. She looked up at me as she let go, bit her lip and began to spread my cum all over herself.

"God, your hot cum feels so fucking good. Does it look good?"

I nodded, looking down, catching my breath.

She squeezed my cock again—hard enough to cause me to gasp—and then stood up. She massaged my cum into her tits more, and I wanted nothing more than to bury my face in them. To grab her, carry her to bed, rip off her stockings, and eat her out. But that didn't feel like the vibe, here. 

She turned professional, and stood straight, shoving her cum-slathered tits out at me. "I hope that was to your satisfaction, sir."

"Yes," I managed. "Is there anything I can do for you?" I asked, hoping that she'd invite me to take hold of her and return whatever favors I could.

"Sir," she said, with another scrappy smile. "Personal relationships are unprofessional." 

She began to assemble herself again: pants, which she pulled over her stockings in a performative way. Her bra, over her cum-slicked tits. "I think I'm going to wear your cum today." She made a show of getting them wrangled, at one point even leaning towards me as she shimmied the sides of her bra up in order to make it all fit. She put the camisole on, picked up her blouse, put it on, started to button it up. She went into the bathroom to check herself out in the mirror, pulled out a chapstick, applied. She turned to me, looked down at my cock, now fully flaccid again after its experience, stepped over, reached down, grabbed by manhood, and kneaded gently. I could feel an erection not too far off, already, but she let go and looked up at me.

"Have a good day, sir," she said, picked up the wireless phone, turned on her heels, and left my room, but not before turning back and saying, "Please let me know if there are any other problems with your room."