Postcards from Jeremy Edwards

Mardi Gras is the perfect day to begin our party in sumptuous suite 69! Our first raconteur is the delightful Jeremy Edwards, who's confessed his own hotelphilia in private to me and in public to the world in so many steamy stories set in rented lodgings. But don't take my word for it--here's Jeremy!

The quiet elegance and modest luxury of a boutique hotel are so sexually stimulating for me. To my eye, the decor of a simply but artistically appointed hotel room is like a set of lingerie—there’s not much there, but every thoughtful detail is aesthetically pleasing. A cozy, attractive hotel room is a favorite place to rock the bed with my delicious wife ... and a favorite place to dip into a crisp, new volume of erotica. And I don’t mind admitting that it’s also a favorite masturbation setting for me. The exquisite private space within a cheerful public building; the pleasure-focused mindset of a vacation environment; and the inevitable thoughts of all the sexy women in other rooms and other buildings ... on sidewalks and subway platforms and in bedrooms and bathtubs ... it all makes me relish every moment with a special tingliness, and makes me want to dance with cosmopolitan ecstasy in the charming afternoon hotel-room light.

[“Architectural Photography,” posted at Alison Tyler’s blog]

Oh, that was the hotel in Phoenix, with the cartoonish turrets. I remember gazing down on the courtyard from our window while you hugged me from behind, frigging your bush against my buttocks and teasing my backbone with your nipples. You humped me like that till my erection pointed skyward; then you held it. I think you must have put your other hand between your legs, because as you stroked me off the sound of your breath became dense. I could smell your heat.

That one is from Chicago. Don’t be fooled by the size of the building: as you may recall, the entire block was composed of one immense complex, of which our hotel was only a sliver. There was barely room for the obligatory revolving door. Looking at this picture, what I really see is you with your ass in the air, your knees sinking into the super-soft mattress we had. That night, I went around and around in the revolving door between your thighs.

The picture next to it is the place we stayed at in Boston, of course—when they were in the middle of restoring the façade. Look how the painted-on tulips appear to be gradually resaturating from left to right! The shower in that hotel was a perfect aquatic sex-nest, just large enough for two to squeeze, really squeeze, together, without banging against the soap caddy. The steam enveloped us, and I could see it floating right into your pussy. I followed the steam.

***

[from “Pack the Essentials,” published at Oysters & Chocolate]

When I awoke in our sunny hotel room, my wife was reading a travel guide in a large, comfortable armchair, her bare feet together on the seat and her knees bent out from her body. Seated in this position, wearing a minidress, she was giving me an intimate view. Her narrowly clothed crotch took center stage, framed by the creamy curtain of her thighs and the cushion of her bottom. I noticed how the slim gusset of her lavender panties lay clingingly in the center of her slit, leaving the outer parts of her femininity visible. The lewd effect was crowned by the cute straw sun hat she had put on, in preparation for the day’s tourist activities.

As morning consciousness pushed out the haze of sleep, I remembered how our evening had begun. “Are you busy?” she had called to me from the bed, while I made some notes at the neat little hotel-room desk. “Because I was hoping you might come over here and kiss all the invisible hairs on my bottom. I’m situated just right, see?” Her eyes had lit up her otherwise impassive face as she gracefully flipped the back hem of her short, silk dressing gown to reveal the soft curves of her naked cheeks. They were radiant with anticipated delight. I had approached her and watched her derriere wriggle in a brief, involuntary spasm of pleasure. Her slight lime underpants, which she had peeled down silently while I had been absorbed in my work, nestled politely on the carpet at the foot of the bed. A minute later, I was feasting on her, watching the flesh of her hills drink every squeeze, every playful little slap, every tiny kiss; and seeing her roll into each titillation of our bedside feather up and down the sensuous crack.