Banker's Lunch at the Roosevelt Hotel

The party in celebration of Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, is winding down in Suite 69. I've so enjoyed peeping into hotel rooms around the world--each day a new vacation, a new indulgence. Before we check out, though, I wanted to share one more naughty scene of my own before the chambermaids take over (believe me, you'll want to hang around discreetly for peek at what they do when no one's looking).

Let's travel back to New York again, the hotbed of so much ambition, so much lust and greed. The financial crisis has brought the titans of Wall Street to its knees, as described most recently and eloquently by Jon Stewart in his interview with "Mad Money" Wall Street shill, Jim Cramer. But sometimes, a banker on his knees isn't such a bad thing, especially when you lure him to a midtown hotel room and take total command. Today's refreshments to accompany this snippet from a "woman in her prime takes charge of her life" tale? Provided solely by the hostess herself, of course. Time for lunch!

From “Banker’s Lunch” by Donna George Storey

The sheets had barely warmed around her in the hotel bed when she heard the soft click of the card key in the slot. The door opened. In another moment her afternoon lover was standing at the foot of the bed, blinking in the dim light, an animal unexpectedly set free from its cage.

“You had something you wanted to discuss?”

She liked the hesitation in his voice. A touch of fear, perhaps? She sat up, giving him a glimpse of the red satin corset. She waited a moment before she spoke, savoring the look of surprise on his face.

“We don’t have to talk at all if you’d prefer silence, Mr. Flynn.”

“I’ll let you decide. It pretty clear you’re the one calling the shots here,” he said. Not that he seemed to mind it.

Lauren smiled. Taylor P. Flynn was right. In bed at home—in her ordinary life--she liked to be dominated, although more and more she chafed at such attempts in other parts of the house. But here she was totally in charge, a woman in the prime of life who knew what she wanted and took it. Selfishly. One day at a time.

She stood and walked over to him, her fingers grabbing the lapel of his jacket as she leaned up to kiss him. The cloth was cool and smooth, yet vaguely irritating to her skin. She resisted the urge to tear at it, pull away the shell to uncover the warmer, more vulnerable skin beneath it. She would defile it—and him--in a different way.

“First I want you to turn off your Blackberry. Then take down your trousers,” she said. “I’m going to suck your cock.”

His eyebrows shot up. At her tone or the brazen abruptness of the request, she wasn’t sure, but he went for his zipper without protest. She watched as he stepped out of his trousers and boxers, privately delighting in the fact he was already hard. For her. Which was foolish because penises were notoriously impersonal in their loyalties. His cock would stand to attention for any female in a red corset, no doubt, his admin, a prostitute.

“Don’t take off the jacket yet.”

He stopped, hands on his lapels, and immediately dropped his arms to his side as if to await her next command.

She knelt to take his bobbing erection in her mouth. It tasted…different. Faintly bitter, smelling like money, and yet it was a flavor she craved. It was the first time she’d ever sucked off a man wearing a jacket and tie and the perversity of it spurred her on to a new vigor, lapping and circling the head with her tongue, gripping the base with her hand and she swallowed him and began to hum.

“Jesus,” he whispered, his hand, the one with the wedding band, stroking her hair.

She pulled away. “Do you like that?”

“Yes. Very much.” His hand brushed the corset. “I like this. Where did you get it?”

She sat back on her heels and gazed up at him. He towered over her, and by all rights, it should have been a submissive position, but, oddly, it didn’t feel that way today.

“No questions from you, Mr. Flynn. Just answers. Are you telling me that you are glad you took time off from your esteemed job at one of our nation’s finest banks to do naughty things with a hussy like me?”

“I can’t deny it,” he replied, his lips twitching.

“Then we’ll proceed. Take off your jacket. Not the shirt or the tie. I want you wearing them while we fuck.”

His brow creased in a faint frown. Naturally a fastidious banker would be worried about a mess on his nice, proper uniform.

“I won’t get them dirty. Just a bit of pussy juice on the shirttails maybe, but you can tuck those into your trousers. You won’t mind a little souvenir of me, will you?”

A smile playing on his lips, he shook his head obediently and took off his jacket, tossing it over the desk chair.

“Good boy. Before you put it inside, though, I want you to lick me. With proper deference. Get on your hands and knees, please.”

The smile shifted back to surprise, but he did as he was told.

Lauren sat at the edge of the bed and parted her legs. The garter straps tightened over her thighs, dark against her pale skin. “Come here. Let’s see how wet you can make me.”

His cheeks were flushed now as he crawled the three steps to her, his tie dragging on the carpet. If only the bank president could see him now.

Positioning himself between her thighs, he looked up, as if for a sign to begin. Lauren nodded. His tongue darted out, teasing her clit with quick little flicks. But this felt strange, too. New.
She closed her eyes. She had to get past the strangeness, the chill of this anonymous room, the unusual position, the glint of bright noon sun peeking through the window. Afternoon used to be her favorite time to do it, before her daughter was born. How many times had she wanted just this, a banker licking her twat for lunch?