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Her Late Night Hotel Outcall

She was leaving tomorrow and she wanted it hot tonight
It was Em’s last night in Paris. Tomorrow she was going to be on a plane home after a whirlwind business trip. She’d had no time to herself at all, not even for the nice hot massage she always liked to reward herself with on a long-distance trip. She was basically packed for the journey. She didn’t want to go out. It was already seven o’clock and chill outside. 

Her plan was to eat in the hotel and then return to her room and have a nice hot shower and go to bed with Vic. Vic was her lovely vibrator. Em was very fond of Vic. She ate as planned, just a light single course meal and one glass of wine. It amused her that this act of self-deprivation seemed at first to cause more chatter among the other diners than the fact that she was dining alone.

Em assumed that the patrons of this particular hotel, which was nicely upmarket, were unfamiliar with the benefits of one’s own conversation. Or perhaps, she thought, they had concluded (this was Paris after all) that she was someone’s mistress and had been stood up. She smiled sweetly at any of her companion diners she caught in the act of surveillance. She was rewarded with several embarrassed eye shifts and one or two nice smiles that, in other circumstances at another time, she might have assumed to have been invitations. 

She loved Paris. Its inhabitants believe themselves to be superior beings, but in fact, they are all gauche. She smiled at her own little joke.

The little hotel she was staying at was on the Rive Gauche, in the heart of it in fact. Em liked the ambience of the area. It wasn’t quite bohemian but it resonated with all sorts of things that could be done there. She knew about that. She’d done quite a few of those things. 

It was then that the thought occurred to her. It hardened her nipples and moistened her pussy. She’d been done there too, and very nicely, on a business trip a couple of years earlier.

It was just down the road, too, where a couple of years before that, she had been fabulously done by Luís, lead guitarist of a Latin American rock group, all over her bed one hot afternoon. That had been on a holiday with Ambrose, who was out for the afternoon and into the early evening. 

Em was now considerably aroused.

She ordered another half carafe of Medoc and coffee and considered her situation. It was eight o’clock. Check out was noon tomorrow. She was due at Charles de Gaulle airport at two pm for her flight to Amsterdam and onwards to the other side of the world. She was packed, more or less. It would take no time in the morning to complete those formalities. So she could afford to wake at nine am and order breakfast a la carte in her little courtyard suite and still have plenty of time. 

Her nipples hardened further and her mouth felt a little dry. She had an opportunity to book outcall sex. The establishment took a liberally Gallic view of such activities. Half the hotel’s guests were probably paying to shout loudly and come in their beds tonight.

Em drank her coffee and swallowed the wine. She ordered another coffee and a cognac.

While she was waiting she thought about an occasion a year or so ago, in Milan, where she had acquired the paid attentions of a lovely young man who had taken her to heaven twice in the course of the ninety minutes that was the allotted span of his life in her orbit. It had been very hot indeed. She had until then never been fucked quite so well in her stockings and her undone bra. Her stockings had ended up rumpled just below her knees and her bra around her neck. Her cocktail dress and her little lace thong and her shoes were strewn in an untidy little heap beside the bed. She had made a lot of noise, she remembered. So had he, when she pulled off his condom and rewarded him with a cock sucking the like of which he had plainly never enjoyed before. 

A waiter interrupted her reverie. Her repeat order of coffee and the cognac had arrived, with more chocolates. She loved France. While she was drinking and munching, she fished out her cell phone from her evening bag and used Mr. Google to search for services of a certain kind in or near the area in which she was situated. 

As always, Mr. Google found several immediately. Em immediately discarded all but two and finally selected the one that said it catered exclusively for ladies looking for hot action with a solo gentleman or lady, or both. She rang the number. Em was proficient enough in French to book an outcall and specify her precise requirements. The cost was horrendous but by this time Em didn’t care. It would be on her personal card not the corporate one. Ambrose never queried her spending. 

It was eight-forty-five. Alain, a tall and well built young man with dark hair who was a graduate or something or other (Em didn’t catch it and didn’t care) would arrive at nine-fifteen. If extended time was required thereafter, a simple phone call would fix it.

Em finished her coffee and cognac, signed the bill and left the restaurant. She smiled to herself. From their smiles and behind-the-hand commentary, it seemed that the patrons, almost to the man (and woman), had now decided she was a call-girl who had just clinched the evening’s deal. She loved Paris. Everyone assumed you were emulating the very public private lives of the country’s leading politicians. 

She reached her room. At eight-fifty-five she was in the shower. At nine pm she was powdering and perfuming. At nine oh five she was sitting on the sofa in the suite’s living area with another cognac in her hand. She was wearing her blue Chanel suit again, and charcoal stockings. Under the suit was a red blouse, open to the third button, a little lace bra just visible, and beneath the short skirt the tiniest little white string you could imagine. 

Tonight Em had decided she wanted to be undressed. Sometimes she liked “hurried but decorous” on a first-time basis. She also wanted her pussy to be licked on the sofa until she came and for her nipples to be bitten, gently, also on the sofa.

It had happened like that once in Washington, though that was with her dinner date, a nice young embassy man.

Tonight she wanted Alain to perform at the sofa and then to strip her entirely naked, carry her to the bed, and fuck her brains out. It had happened that way in Washington too. Also, she reminded herself, in London. The young man on that occasion had also been a paid performer. Oh god, how he had performed.

The door chime sounded. Em stood up and on a whim undid the fourth button of her blouse. That exposed the bottom of her extraordinarily tiny bra. She was now feeling fully sexed and urgently in need of cock.

She checked over the intercom and then opened the door. Alain was indeed a tall young man. He would be well over six foot and he was built to match. Em’s knees felt wobbly when she imagined the delights she had in store when she or he liberated his undoubtedly strong (and long) cock from his trousers.

She imagined it sliding hotly and urgently into her cunt. That did her knees no good at all.

Alain took Em’s elbow and they moved to the sofa. He seemed to know instinctively what he was required to do first, before the main game. He stripped her immediately of her Chanel suit jacket and settled her into the sofa.

He unbuttoned the red blouse completely and undid her bra. He pushed the bra up and licked her rock-hard nipples. Then he bit them, gently, while his hands went up her skirt and hooked the little lace strap of her tiny little string and pulled it away from her pussy, down to mid-thigh before taking off her skirt. He looked with naked lust at her pussy and the little irregular patch of pubic hair she was at the moment keeping above it. He took off his shoes, then his socks, then suit jacket and then he undid his tie and unbuttoned his shirt.

His chest was hairy. His nipples were erect too. His tummy was flat and tensed for action. He unzipped his suit pants and kicked them away. He was wearing a very brief black thong. It had an enormous bulge in it. He tore off his shirt and pulled down his thong. Nine inches of hard, thick cock thrust out. It was rigidly horizontal, pointing directly at Em’s pussy. 

Above it, Em noticed, he kept a two inch manicured square of black hair. She licked her lips, imagining how she would nibble that later. Alain's cock was pulsing with anticipation.

Em’s cunt was a river. Her pussy lips had parted widely. The hot black hole of her entrance was fully open. She ditched her game plan. She wanted it now, hot, hard and fast. They could catch up on the play sequence later. 

She kicked off her string and then spread her legs wide, lying back into the sofa, and took hold of Alain’s cock. It pulsed strongly in her hands and pre-cum wetted her fingers. She pulled him forward by the cock. She stroked it and said, “Later I will eat that.” It pulsed again, strongly, in reply.

Alain rolled an ultra-thin ribbed condom onto his shaft. She guided its full hard length towards her entrance and whimpered with intense pleasure when it parted her pussy lips and pushed its fat width deep into her. 

Alain fucked her wildly on the sofa. He was shouting and so was Em, her legs high in the air, when he ejaculated inside her the first time. Then he lifted her up, his cock still hot inside her, a gentle finger up her ass, his tongue hungrily licking her nipples, and carried her to the bed. 

There, he settled her down gently, fucking her softly all the while, and then curled into the small of her back. He rolled on a new condom and resumed his frantic thrusting. Em watched entranced while his big cock ravaged her. She heard his cries when his cock suddenly grew even bigger and his thrusts faster and harder and watched and felt him come in the condom. Em came loudly and fiercely, her delightfully invaded vagina and her nipples on fire.

He did her again just before he left.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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