It’s a common fantasy, the overnighter in a cheap hotel. You can get quite excited, out there in hotel land where no one knows you and you can do as you please, but when the sexual romps don’t materialize, expectations plummet.

I was in one of those moods at this place in Fort Lauderdale. It was Sunday night and I had been traveling all day. I checked into the room and had a quick shower, but I didn’t know why; I wasn’t anticipating anyone getting close enough to notice how sweet I smelled.

I went down to the bar anyway and found it populated by a couple of grim-looking middle-aged women sitting on stools at the counter, a group of adults and children all dressed up for a wedding that presumably was now history and a plump thirty-something woman with what looked like her husband and adult son. She was wearing a quite shapeless black dress that had silver decorations below the waist. The skirt hung straight like a squaw’s little number.

I checked out the menu and it looked dire, so I headed for a restaurant I had noticed as I drove in. The meal was nothing to get excited about, but it was edible and nourishing and I needed nourishment. I downed a couple of glasses of Californian red – that’s as informative as the label got – and padded back to the hotel. The wedding party had gone, as had the two dubious women, but the other three were still there and the woman was now dancing to whatever was on the radio.

She looked at me and I looked at her, both with a little flicker of recognition from earlier, and I ordered a scotch from the bored, yawning girl behind the bar. As I sat and drank it, the woman in the dress and I exchanged glances several times. There was something about the way that skirt hung that made her thick white legs look good. But I wasn’t getting my hopes up because she was apparently spoken for.

Over the next twenty minutes, she danced with increasing abandon and moved closer to where I was sitting. She looked up at me and smiled and I smiled back. Then she stopped dancing and came over, leaning on the bar to get the girl’s attention.

“You’re a great dancer,” I said, and she was, too. It’s all relative and she was no professional but I liked watching her. Unselfconscious, lithe, inventive.

“Well thank you, sir,” she said in a southern drawl and we shook hands softly. “Nice to be appreciated. My brothers just find me embarrassing. I’m Julie-Ann, by the way.”

My ears pricked up. Brothers? That changed everything. I bought her a drink and we talked about this and that. She was intelligent, and while that may seem an odd or condescending thing to note, it’s important to me – one of the most attractive things about a woman. Kindness and decency turn me on too. A beautiful, sexily presented woman is one thing, but a nice, smart one is much more appealing.

The brothers soon went to bed, but she showed no sign of following them.

“I’m a big girl,” I heard her tell the older one.

We moved to a table with comfortable seats and shot the breeze for another half hour before Julie-Ann said she was getting sleepy. Would I be so kind as to walk her to her room?

“Normally I wouldn’t ask, but I’m a pretty good judge of character and you seem like a decent sort of guy.”

Of course I obliged, trying to look as if I wasn’t expecting anything, but when we got there she invited me in.

“The boys are right next door,” she pointed out. For a second I thought she was going to knock on their door, but no. She sat in the one comfortable chair and gestured to the office-type one for me. From her suitcase, she took a bottle of Southern Comfort and poured us one each, no ice.

“I like your dress,” I said. “Is a man supposed to say something like that or is it a women-only thing?”

“What do you like about it?” she asked.

“The silver bits,” I said. “And I like the way the skirt hangs.”

“The way it hangs,” she mused.

“It’s sort of straighter than you’d expect,” I explained.

“You’re not gay, are you?” she said sharply. “I thought I could tell that sort of thing…”

“Because I noticed the shape of your dress?” I retorted. “It means I was admiring the way it hangs on you and the way your legs look in it. And your ass.”

“And you approve?”

“You look great. You look…”

“What?”

My mind scrambled for a compliment that was both honest and constructive, and which would help my cause.

“You look warm and friendly and kind and gentle and you’re beautiful and sexy and…”

“I can’t possibly be all those things,” she said, but kindly.

“So which ones aren’t you?” I teased.

“I’m not beautiful and I’m not sexy.”

“That’s purely your own assessment,” I said. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so I’m entitled to my opinion, and as for sexy, I would like to…”

“Yes?”

“I would like to get my head between your legs and lick you and stay there all night.”

“Oh my God,” she said. “You’d better come over here.”

As she said that she moved the two steps to the bed and lay there on her back.

I climbed on beside her and we kissed slowly and erotically. I moved down and reached under her skirt to grab her knickers. She lifted herself to help as I pulled them down and off. Then she pulled the skirt up and off to reveal a full pubic bush.

I slid like a snake up between her legs and pushed her thighs apart a little more. Her pussy lips lay wrinkled and glistening quietly, that strangely haphazard invention of a divine designer who had also come up with buttocks as a defense and seal for the anus. I parted Julie-Ann’s lips with my thumbs and her inner pinkness beckoned me.

I drew in the intoxicating scent of her crotch as I looked at the wonder of her femininity.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” I said.

“In what way?” she replied. “A woman’s parts are not pretty.”

“I didn’t say pretty,” I said. “You’re beautiful. Your crotch is a beautiful piece of human engineering, your pubes are like soft grass in a lovely garden. Your labia…”

“Shit. You’re a poet? And a Latin scholar?”

“Your pussy lips are as cute as… well, they can’t be described. And the scent of you is better than my Mum’s Sunday roast.”

“My genital area reminds you of your mother?”

“It reminds me of food,” I said.

“Then get eating,” Julie-Ann said decisively.

I approached her then as if she were the most expensive dish in a very swanky restaurant, and really there is a great similarity. We are accustomed to seeing sex as all about the sense of touch, but a woman’s crotch spread before a man’s face is much more than that.

I licked her hole. I poked my tongue into it as far as I could get. I licked her lips and took them one by one into my mouth and stretched them with my suction. My nose rubbed her clitoris and her little piss hole. And all the time her succulent smell curled up my nostrils and found its way right down to my cock, which was rigid with excitement.

“Do you like having your ass licked?’” I ventured. She sighed.

“Ohhh, I do,” she said languidly. “Are you going to give me that exquisite pleasure?”

“It would be an honor,” I replied.

“On my knees?”

“Of course.”

She assumed the position.

“Man, no one has done that to me since I was at college. And I think he found himself there by accident.”

I parted her substantial buttocks and found a dark purple circle surrounding her little pinprick hole. It struck me that assholes have sort of areolas, like breasts, and some are wide, others narrow.

I feasted on my lovely Julie-Ann’s ass, stroking it and kneading it with my eager tongue. She growled with the simple, primitive pleasure of it, although from my point of view the pleasure was all mine. The fact that she enjoyed it too was a wonderful bonus – and yet not a bonus really. It was half of the whole experience, because love is about giving as well as receiving, and licking a woman’s ass is, for me at least, very much a love thing.

“You intend to stay down there all night?” she asked whimsically.

“I would love to,” I said. “But I don’t suppose it would be practical.”

“You can stay there as long as I’m awake,” she promised, reaching back to stroke my head. “You’re a real romantic – in a strange sort of way. I want you to alternate between my pussy and where you are now.”

“Can I do your armpits?” I asked.

“Well, yes,” she replied. “I wasn’t going to push my luck by suggesting that, but it is kind of the same territory. Show me how that goes.”

She lay on her back and I lifted her left arm up over her head and pinned it there as she squirmed initially at the actions of my tongue. Her deodorant had faded and there was a nice element of herself there. I licked her from the side of her breast right through the valley and out at the top, then followed the path to her neck. She writhed with the compelling ecstasy of it.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” she said. "I want you to go back down and lick me where I know you love to, and then I want you to cum. In my armpit. Okay?”

I returned to her delectable vagina, which ran with her love juice, until she shivered on the edge of orgasm. Then I turned her over and plunged my face into her ass. My long, firm licks took her over the edge and she gasped.

“Oh my God. You dirty man.”

When she had finished trembling she lay on her back again with both arms raised and I knelt beside her and masturbated. She shaped her left armpit into a reservoir and I pumped my semen into it.

Julie-Ann giggled and dipped a finger in it, then sucked the tip.

“God, if people only knew,” she sighed. “All the conventional sex in the world, which can be lovely, of course. But there is so much more if you think outside the box.”