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?

Hot Shower at the Kabuki Hotel

Saturdays are meant to be lazy. You sleep in nice and late, then take a long, hot shower. Even here in Suite 69, after yesterday’s electrifying story, we all needed a morning in bed to gather our creative energy.

And now it’s time to get wet.

Today’s feature is a steamy little hot-el vignette from Erobintica, another talented newcomer who makes the erotica world such a fun place to be. This piece was originally written from a prompt over at Alison Tyler's blog--the hotbed of many excellent quickies. Robin also took inspiration came from a Japanese-themed hotel, the Kabuki in San Francisco. I love her photo of the shoji windows—there’s nothing softer and sexier than light filtered through fine Japanese rice paper. The story, too, has a definite Japanese flavor, the silences as eloquent as the words.

Our refreshment is, appropriately, the dainty snack that always greets you when you check into a hotel in Japan. This includes a pot of fresh, hot tea and a sample of the local sweet, often something similar to a high-class fig Newton with a baked covering and a filling of sweet bean jam, although interesting variations are common. So snuggle into that hotel robe, sip your tea and get wet with Erobintica.
I tend to take pictures of hotel rooms where I've stayed (well, the nice ones), and I have several shots from our stay at the Kabuki in San Francisco last summer. But I've only once before taken a picture of the shower and that was ... a long time ago. The shower at the Kabuki was large enough to host a decent size party - it was probably 5 X 10 feet or so - the controls were at one end and the nozzles at the other. My husband and kids thought I was silly getting so excited about it (if you saw my shower at home you'd understand). I actually took several shots - but this is the best. Only problem was ... my right arm was in a cast and having a garbage bag over one arm is decidedly unsexy. But I'd bought this giant waterproof mitten thing (in a stunning blue color) for swimming and though not much more attractive, it did require the assistance of my husband. We had some fun, but it would have been easier without the cast. I didn't want to break the other wrist!

Pulsating Jets by Robin Elizabeth

As the sun crept around the heavy hotel drapes, we snuggled. Sleeping clothed is unusual for us. Though sometimes we wear something to bed just to have something to take off. But thanks to a screw up in reservations we had to share a room with your business partner and his wife. They weren’t happy about it. Neither were we.

While our roommates snore, you caress my arm, slide over my tummy, brush my upper thigh. I can feel your arousal nestled against my butt. We rub feet together, wordlessly communicating the longing we both feel. What I wouldn’t give for a wall and a door right now. But you break away and get up to shower. I don’t dare join you.

I lay touching myself as I listen to you turn on the water and adjust the spray. The sounds emanating from the shower are subtle at first. Could easily be mistaken for washing hair or soaping arms. But soon they become more regular, last longer than it should take to wash any single body part.

Listening, I see you in my mind’s eye, water coursing over your body, your hand moving faster and faster. I wonder what images are jumping your synapses. I hardly breathe, straining to hear. Part of me is sad, wanting to be your fist, be the water. The sound is insistent now.

Then, just the steady sound of the shower, the gurgle of the drain.

Swiss Tease at the Hotel Bellevue

The party in Suite 69 has been a buffet of delights, and I'm sure the many talented writers who've already shared their stories will be as happy as I am to know that our tales have brought back fond memories for many of our guests and inspired new writers to step up to the "naughty chair" and share their treats with us.

It's a particular pleasure to introduce this very provocative piece by Isabel Kerr that offers us another perspective on the hotel experience--that of the management who seem to find the milieu just as sensually inspiring as the guests. Isabel herself has gotten my imagination sizzling with her hotel memories of the Swiss lakes, surely one of the loveliest and sexiest places on earth, not to mention this gorgeous photo which has my fingers inching toward my passport. I'm very much hoping to read more of this electric hot-el story soon! Please!

Our refreshments today? Cognac. Just cognac. And a Maitre d'Hotel named Olivier. Do you really need anything more?

Hotel Bellevue by Isabel Kerr

It was early evening and her day was not even close to finished. There was a full list of bookings in the restaurant to attend to and important guests called to say they would arrive later than expected. She had been there since seven in the morning. It was not unusual. The position of Director of The Hotel Bellevue, a five star hotel on Lac Leman in Switzerland, required long hours and unusual dedication. Sometimes she felt chained to the post. She walked quickly and breathed deeply and tried to take her mind off of work for a few minute’s brisk walk along the lakeside.

Sonia stepped through the door into the rich belle époque interior and looked back to see that the distant yellow lights surrounding the lake had begun to flash. It was a warning that there was very bad weather coming and all boats must return to shore. The placid lake was deceptive.

The trees and tall shrubs at the lake side were swaying wildly and the tall lights of the promenade projected the frantic shadows in the interior.

She returned to her office and sat at her broad antique desk reviewing the day’s activity when the head Maitre d’Hotel tapped at the door and entered carrying a silver tray with a bottle of cognac and two snifters. He quietly slid the tray on the desk and leaned forward so that the edge of the desk indented his perfectly creased trousers at the top of his thigh.

She looked up and smiled gently.

“I do apologize for my outbursts this evening. You know this important arrival has made me very nervous, in addition to the impending electrical storm,” she said taking a deep breath and gazing intently into his blue eyes.

“That’s all right, you know I’m up to the punishment. There is indeed electricity in the air, but I’m not sure it has anything to do with the storm,” he said.

She shifted forward so that she was leaning against the desktop. Her silk blouse was pulled taut across her breasts and he could see her nipples hardening . Olivier poured their cognac, walked around to where she was seated, handed her a glass, and half sat on the edge of the desk. He crossed his legs and Sonia could see the swelling in his trousers.

The wind was howling on the lake outside her office window and rain slammed against the building. With a great crack the first bolt of the lightening lit up the room. The lights flickered and went out.

“We should take care of that,” she said.

“Won’t Serge see to the generator?” he said with a confused look.

“No, I mean this,” she smiled as she slid her hand up his thigh.

Welcome to Hotel Guacamole

EllaRegina is a relatively new presence on the erotic scene, but she's already a monumental presence. We first met when we shared the TOC in Best Women's Erotica 2008, which is still a bestseller on Amazon--and I'm certain one of the main reasons is EllaRegina's fabulous story, "The Lonely Onanista." Today, she's agreed to entertain us with some south of the border hotel fun. The refreshments? Margaritas by the pitcher, a tub of fresh gaucamole with a big, fat stirring stick, and plenty of freshly fried blue corn tortilla chips. I just can't stop chowing down on those puppies, the more guac, the better...which is just how I feel about EllaRegina's delectable erotic tales. Here she is!

I live in a city boasting an abundance of hotels, motels and Holiday Inns -- to slightly paraphrase the Sugarhill Gang -- from the tawdry to the refined. I have never bunked in any of them, however, though I have visited people, and when I say visited I don't mean it with quotation marks. EllaRegina has neither hanked nor panked in a Manhattan hotel room, much to her chagrin, mostly because she has her own apartment.

My hotel story offering for Suite 69 is a fun feverish frolic in sunny Mexico, inspired by the ever-awesome Alison Tyler and written for one of her famous flasher contests. In this case we were presented with a lovely Post-it note sketch by the artist behind the website Naked Chicks on Post-it Notes and asked to write a short piece based on what we saw.

Naturally, being the nutty broad I am, I wrote a story involving a man and a woman, then realized -- duh -- we're tawkin' naked CHICKS, yo, so went back and produced a green tale of Lesberotica. (Frankly, I thought the figures looked quite androgynous, myself...) Here is the hetero flasher, slightly edited. This nutty broad always has some loose nuts and bolts to tighten.

Ñ-joy!

EllaRegina


"FUCKING GREEN" by EllaRegina

We were fucking green. And it wasn't the food or the water. Yes, we were in Mexico so it could have been either but it wasn't. For starters, the bed in our hotel was made up with sheets the color of guacamole.

And tonight, after a few too many Margaritas, we decided to go all the way. I knew it was only a matter of time before this would happen.

"Call Room Service," said Frederic, "and order a tub of guac."

"Tub?" I asked, wanting to be sure. "You mean a 32-ounce container, like what I buy at Whole Foods?"

"No, I mean tub, as in industrial size. Their entire pantry supply. Whatever they have. The other guests are going to be guacamole-free tonight, I'm afraid."

Twenty minutes later a small man carried a white plastic bucket half his height and twice his width into our room and set it down like a sacrificial animal. It was identical in size to the gigantic pail of drywall compound the construction workers had brought to our loft when we were remodeling.

"OK, Mami, follow me," commanded Frederic, hauling the delivery of green.

We went into the bathroom and stood in the shower. First he covered me, every part of my body except my pony-tailed sun-washed hair. Then I slathered him, finishing with his heavy cock which immediately gave me a stiff green salute. The guacamole was the perfect consistency. Not too many chunks, nicely thick. It was like getting a full-body facial. And avocados are good for the skin.

All coated, Mexican Martians, we ran to the bed and jumped into the green cotton, some guacamole going splat onto the multicolored tile floor in the process.

Frederic was inside me before I could say ayuda.

His guacamole stirrer fucked me hard. The sound was amazing, like a cartoon inventory of squeaks, slurps and drips. Frederic normally did more than fill me up but this was dinner and a show. The guacamole gave his cock an indescribable additional texture.

I was already wet. This made me wetter, and spreadable.

We were all over each other, really messing up the dip. It rubbed onto the sheets but was invisible, being of the same hue. We scrambled in a south-of-the-border guacamole-mud wrestle.

Frederic licked my every inch -- he was a big fan of avocados -- and when he arrived at my pussy, he got a refreshing midnight snack along with my indigenous flavor. He fucked me until we both came in a psychedelic dream of green. I felt him shoot into me, mixing with the guacamole, and the sensation of it all -- the cool pulpy ooze, his hot offering, cock in war cry shiver as he gave a primal grunt -- was overwhelming. I thought we would both die on the spot. I imagined the hotel staff finding us the next morning, dead, limb-locked in an embrace, streaked with slimy green patches, shaking their heads over yet another pair of guacamole-crazed American tourists. I wondered if the color of our lifeless flesh would go well with avocado green.

Sexy Hotels and a Taste of "Room Service"

I just wanted to mention that another juicy bit of excerpt from "Room Service," my story in Do Not Disturb is up on Rachel Kramer Bussel's blog along with some of my musings on sexy hotels around the world, my favorite part of a hotel room for erotic encounters, and other hot-el related secrets.

Check-in time is now, baby!

Motel Sex and Dangerous Women

Kirsten Monroe is a dangerous woman. I’m an easily distractible kind of girl and Kirsten’s lovely blog, Aphrodite’s Table, is always serving up the kind of distractions that are mostly likely to…distract me. There’s the lush, provocative images to intrigue the eye. The mesmerizing musings on life and art to feed the spirit. The luscious tidbits and links to her sizzingly sensual prose, such as her latest story in Lucrezia, “Blessed Hellride,” to get some other juices flowing. And last, but not least, there’s the food porn, oh, god, the recipes, the descriptions—through Kirsten’s words and her obvious passion for sensual pleasure of the culinary kind (which is the Siamese twin of eros, imo), I’m lost. But sometimes distractions lead to wonderful things, like the sumptuous blog progressive dinner Kirsten and I co-hosted back in darkest January and February of this year.

Naturally food is a highlight in Kirsten’s offering in our celebration in Suite 69. She’s brought us a charming picnic: a crustless egg salad sandwich (home-baked bread and the best egg salad you’ve ever tasted with fresh dill and fresh mayonnaise), rum & Cokes (the combination works, especially in motels), and a selection of sweet coconut treats, among other things, for dessert. She’s also brought a delectable story in a flavor that’s very nostalgic to me—the English lesson that turns into something much more. And of course, these photos are courtesy of her, each a snapshot of inspiration, a narrative in themselves. Without further ado, I’ll pass the mike to Kirsten. Sit back and enjoy!

When Alison Tyler put out her contest call for Motel stories I immediately thought of Miami. Then I thought about Miami in the 1950s, which led me to imagine an old library, a hot librarian, a Cuban boy, a red Bel Air, Cinderella pumps, yellow chiffon, dark skin on white marble, tacky bedspreads, and English lessons. Of course I thought of food too. Sandwiches in waxed paper bags pulled from a little picnic hamper. Rum & Coke to soothe the nerves & untangle the tongues. Older woman, younger boy. Illicit sex. Teaching moments. Naughty and sweet, tacky and literary. That's how this odd little tale came about.

Rubber on Paper by Kirsten Monroe

Manny Cruz is sweating. His hand is India ink on the white marble countertop. A damp pool of it. I look up at him, sternly, through black-framed cat-eyes.

There is a rustle of yellow chiffon against calf as I reach for my stamp. I press wet rubber to paper and mark the due date. My recommendation. I know what he’ll ask next.

“English lessons?” His accent is molasses and honey.

I nod, then whisper, “Tomorrow. Sweet Coconut.”

It’s tacky and so outrageous that it’s discreet -- the Sweet Coconut. All burnt-orange bed spreads and Pine-Sol twang, a couple of haggard old palm trees in front.

We shower. Manny feels me up slowly, eyes closed, trembling. I press the small yellow soap between his cheeks, across his chest, under his balls. He is taught and smooth and hard. I tell him no. Not yet.

I open a hamper, hand him a crustless egg salad sandwich, mix a couple of rum & cokes. The boy can’t learn on an empty stomach.

“Now,” I say, climbing onto the bed in a black babydoll and Cinderella Lucite pumps. “Read.” He cracks the spine. Dirty words leap from the page. A month from now he’ll understand them -- after I untangle his tongue and smooth out his diction.

He reads slowly, his twisted words like tantra music. I moan corrections, touch myself to show him. His heavy, dark cock swells against his belly. I take it, spread my lips, lower myself onto him, and the words come tumbling out.

Your Very Own Complimentary Suite at the Plaza

Suite 69 is a lovely place, but it’s rather difficult to describe the décor. Maybe that’s because it keeps changing every day as we travel around the world, in more ways than one. Today we find ourselves in the Big Apple, the stomping ground of D.L. King, when she’s not off in Blackpool cavorting with other erotica writers, hosting spanking parties for visiting West Coasters or at her desk editing Erotica Revealed. I got my first delicious taste of D.L.’s New York stories in her haunting and appropriately named “A New York Story” in Best Lesbian Erotica 2008. Today D.L. takes us on a teasing tour through time and space to that prime bit of real estate, a suite in the old Plaza Hotel. There's no room service at this fading beauty, unless you bring your own picnic, but I guarantee when you feast on this juicy appetizer, you’ll be begging for more! And now, D.L. King in her own words:

Here’s the beginning of a short story I wrote about the closing of The Plaza Hotel in New York. It’s since been reopened, but it’s not the same. Now there are apartments going for between four and eight million. There are still some hotel rooms, too, but things have changed; an era has ended. Before the renovation began, they closed the old Plaza and let all the staff go. (There were waiters who had worked there for more than forty years.) This story is about saying good-bye to a piece of New York that will never return. But however sad that thought might be, this isn’t a sad story; it’s just another New York story. Hope you like it.

“I told you, I have a master key. Who’s gonna know?”

I couldn’t help being sceptical. There stood my bride of thirty-six years, right in font of me, hand on her hip, getting more and more pissed off by the second.

“It’s your last chance to be a part of New York history. Look, I worked there for thirty-eight years but I’m not old enough to retire. You know what that means? That means I get crap. What do they care? Where am I supposed to go now?

“Mira, I really want to do this. I dreamed about it forever. I want it to be with you, Papi, but if you won’t come with me, I’ll go by myself. Where’s my fucking vibrator?”

Immaculata rummaged in the drawer of her bed table, pulling out various items; a flashlight, an eye mask, a pair of handcuffs, a paperback... “Fuck, where is it?” Finally she found the blue vibrator with the pearls and the little rabbit on it. It was her favorite.

She pointed it at me like a gun. “Last chance; Mami’s still pretty hot, don’t you think?” She turned around and wiggled her ass at me, then turned back to face me again. “Don’t you want to fuck in a suite at The Plaza?”

She was so hot. I think she was even hotter than the day we got married. Standing there, in her black suit and those red stilettos, her hair in a bun at the back of her neck, she was scary-hot.

“¿A qué le temas? I can’t get fired, Baby.”

“I’m not scared of nothin’. All right, come on, I’ll go with you.”

“Good, go get your jacket, I’ll be right there.”

Sure, she couldn’t get fired, but we could probably get arrested or something. She was right, though; I’d never seen anything more than the housekeeping offices and one of the kitchens. I’d always wanted to see the upper floors and the fancy rooms and now that they were closing the hotel, this would be my only chance. Besides, Immaculata always knew what she was doing.

She came out of the bedroom with her sexy leather jacket and sunglasses on, carrying her black Coach bag, and we were out the door. We rode the train downtown to the park and got off. I followed her half-way down 58th Street, to an unmarked door which she opened with a key. We didn’t meet anyone else as we walked down the dim corridor, finally arriving at the deserted housekeeping offices.

“The supervisory staff is the last to go. The maids are long gone and now there are only three of us left. I doubt anyone’s here tonight, so relax,” Immaculata said. “The top floors haven’t been stripped yet. We’ll take the service elevator.”

“Ms. Rivera!”

We both turned around to see two men entering the offices. Emmie seemed unfazed as she greeted one of the department heads.

“Hello Mr. Williams. This is my husband, Juan. I wanted to finish the floor inventory list before I forgot. Is this your son?”

“My son? No, Mr. Malone is, ah, interested in the hotel plumbing fixtures. Nice to meet you Mr. Rivera.” They headed off toward the service elevator. “Don’t work too hard,” Mr. Williams added from down the hall.

After they’d gone up, I turned to Immaculata. “That was close Emmie, maybe we’d better—Aye, Mami!“

“What’s the matter, Baby?” she said. Her hand had found its way inside my pants after taking the zipper down. Her fingers were cold, but warming up fast. So was my cock. “Let’s go,” she said, leading me to the elevator.

“But Immaculata, Mr. Williams...”

“...Is already upstairs. I’m so sure they’re interested in plumbing; well, maybe each other’s plumbing. Anyway, he’ll probably be going up to 19; we’ll go to 15. Have I got a view of the park for you!”

MY Dirty Monday

One of the best parts of Monday for me is popping over to Sommer Marsden’s Smut Girl blog to check out her latest review of sex toys. Sommer’s blog is not a bad place to spend the other days of the week, too—she’s guaranteed to satisfy you over and over again. And nothing gets my heart going pitter-patter faster than the sight of "Sommer Marsden" in the table of contents of the newest erotica anthology. That’s because I know her stories are always funny and always hot, hot, hot.

Just like this hot-el flash that Sommer so graciously shared to make our Monday very dirty indeed. Today’s refreshments in Suite 69? One of those high-protein energy bars that you cram into your mouth when you need physical stamina, but don’t really have time to eat a meal. Because you’ve got something important to do during your lunch hour….

The dizzying, this-isn't-quite-my-real-life-but-it’s-gorgeous-and-I-can't-get-enough photo is again courtesy of the talented Nikki Magennis.

Temporary Amnesia by Sommer Marsden

I. Will. Not. Do. This...

I count the words off in my head, measuring them against each tap of my heels on the marble. I smile at the bellhop and resume my internal chant.

I call the elevator still convinced I will turn back.

I enter with the key that was delivered to my office today. I. Will. Not. Do. This.

I can hear the shower running. I go into the bathroom and start to take my clothes off. With each item I discard, I say the words in my mind. The words suddenly mutate. I. Cannot. Do. This.

“This is the last time,” I say out loud as I step in.

Liar.

“I know.”

And then he’s on his knees, running that fabulous tongue along the seam of my ass. From asshole to the small of my back. My eyes roll back, and I try to remember what I have said. This. Is. The. Last. Time.

Then his fingers are in me. Two to start—that’s how ready I am. A third joins the fray. That tongue is still there. Working its magic and it all starts to grow fuzzy around the edges.

I plant my hands on the cold marble, suck in the dense air while fingers are replaced by cock. And I see that he is just as ready for me. He is just as willing to forget. To bend time. To welcome the shift in reality.

When we move together, I ignore the glint of the diamond on my hand or the sheen of the band that matches. Forget that reality. Forget that this is the last time I will do this. And that hitch in my throat that tells me I’m about to come makes me welcome the temporary amnesia all the more.

Blackpool Holiday

It's Sunday afternoon, spring is in the air. What could be more proper than a trip to the seaside to stroll the promenade, admiring the beauty and grandeur of nature to one side and the glitz and glamour--not to say grime--of human creativity and commerce on the other? Thanks to the wonders of the blogosphere, the famous resort of Blackpool is but a blink away for the partiers in Suite 69. Naturally, I'd only enlist the aid of the very best guide, the witty and wonderful Ashley Lister, whose contribution to the canon of smart erotica that always brings a smile to your face is truly immeasurable.

Ashley is not just an awesome dirty-story-writer, he's a prolific reviewer, a writing teacher, a journalist and author of the best-selling Swingers and Swingers: Female Confidential, a generous friend and mentor, and last, but not least, an award-winning literature student and poet. He's currently assembling a portfolio of poetry for his thesis, a sampling of which he shares with us today. Naturally, our refreshments today are Blackpool favorites: ice cream cones, sticks of rock and tins of lager, in any order you choose! Here's Ashley on budget lodgings by the sea....

Blackpool, for those of you unfamiliar with the location, is a seaside resort in the UK's north-west. According to Bill Bryson's Notes From a Small Island, Blackpool attracts more visitors than Greece and has more holiday beds than the whole of Portugal. Consequently, because of the high concentration of hotels and the town's status as a magnet for tourism, I feel like I'm on familiar territory when discussing Rachel Kramer Bussel's latest exemplary title: Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories. The poem below is set firmly in Blackpool and is dedicated to the town's legendary landladies. It's something of a historical tradition that Blackpool's hotels and guest houses are run by austere matriarchs: a tradition that has been in place since the days of the First World War and continuing through to the present day. And, just like it's a tradition in Rachel Kramer Bussel's anthology for the characters to get a lot of pleasure from their visits to hotels, it's something of a tradition in Blackpool for visitors to be greeted in a fashion that's similar to this poem:

"The Landlady’s Rules" by Ashley Lister

singles, doubles, twins, en suite
home cooked meals for you to eat
family run for family fun
by the beach and in the sun
near the prom and near the tower
the walk won’t take more than an hour

families welcome – we have cots
chamber maids and chamber pots
breakfast served from seven ‘til eight
you WILL go hungry if you’re LATE.

NO stags. NO hens.
Be in bed by half past ten.
NO heavy petting. NO sub-letting.
We must insist there’s NO bed-wetting.

NO troubling the other guests.
NO parking spaces. And NO pets.
NO fast food inside your room.
NO doing vulgar things with our vacuum.

NO alcohol. NO drugs. NO smoking.
NO exceptions. We’re NOT joking.
NO singing, fighting, and NO swearing.
NO closed windows the rooms need airing.

NO credit cards. NO discount rates.
NO colour TV. And NO complaints.
NO loud music night or day.
And one more thing – enjoy your stay!

New Millennium Sex

Today’s storyteller brings a nostalgic tone to the party in Suite 69. Maryanne Stahl has been my friend and writing mentor since around about the turn of the millennium when I first became a member of the Zoetrope online writer’s workshop. I was immediately struck by the elegant simplicity of MAS’s prose, which was the perfect vehicle for the quiet wisdom of her stories—as is abundantly exemplified in her two novels, Forgive the Moon and The Opposite Shore. I was a brand-new writer at the time and just starting to write erotic scenes. Naturally when she announced she had a flash piece in the “erotica issue” of The Vestal Review, edited by Mark Budman, I clicked right on over and found myself enchanted yet again. When I decided to invite many of the wonderful writers I know to share their hotel sex stories, I remembered this poignant, turn-of-the-century piece, which has really lingered in my memory.

Nikki Magennis again provides the perfect visual of lovely woman poised on the brink of something. A moment of understanding perhaps?

"New Millennium Sex" by Maryanne Stahl

No one wants to fuck Cheryl anymore. That's what she thinks. Cheryl is doing her laundry in the basement of her apartment building, sorting delicates from the regular load. A Greek woman emptying the one working dryer frowns at her. Cheryl has been caught staring at her own underwear. It is the stain on a pair of gray silk panties that has brought this irrefutable truth—that no one wants to fuck her—to mind.

Cheryl wore the gray silk panties on Thursday, when James took her for dinner and then drinks back at his hotel. They "fooled around" (his words) and he came on her behind. He didn't say as much, but he wouldn't actually fuck her and she didn't expect him to. No one will anymore. It isn't safe, these days (who wants to use a condom the first time?). And, with many of the men she meets (married), it is technically verboten.

You aren't really cheating if you don't fuck. You aren't doing anything dangerous. Cheryl knows this is what James thinks. If his wife ever asks, Did you fuck her? he can rightly answer no. He might, depending on the depth of his character, even add, Of course not!

A blow job is okay. Cheryl gave James a blow job when they fooled around again an hour after the panty stain, just like she gave Tom at that Christmas party and Steve at the beach. Tom also rubbed his dick between her round, wet breasts (he'd poured Chardonnay between them); Steve stuck his fingers so far up inside her, she remembered her next doctor's appointment. All of them licked her and rubbed her and squeezed the cheeks of her ass. They did everything they could think of—after all, they weren't inhibited—everything except fuck.

The laundry room is empty now. Cheryl lifts the gray silk panties from the small pile of delicates and holds them to her face. She tries to smell James, tries to remember the thrilling skip of her breath when he reached for her hand beneath the table, tries to remember the look in his eyes she thought meant he wanted her. As in really. Cheryl breathes deeply, and though the panties smell more like the musty bottom of her bathroom hamper than anything else, she remembers James' skin. She remembers her face pressed into his neck when he told her that she couldn't spend the night. And when at last she tosses the gray silks into the washing machine, another stain has blotted out the first.

"Buying" Sex in Sin City

Susan DiPlacido is one cool writer in every sense of the word. Her work is smart, down-to-earth, humorous, and generous, just like Susan herself. In fact, she wrote the book on American Cool and stopped by to chat with me about it right here. Her stories are often set in Las Vegas, the land of sin and glitzy hotels galore, and the perfect theme for a Friday when our thoughts turn to the weekend and a little self-indulgence. (If you love Vegas, her novel 24/7 is a must read!)

Now I know that some of us who’ve shared our stories here in Suite 69 have let a little memoir creep into our fiction (I plead guilty as charged!), but as readers we don’t want to jump to conclusions about this excerpt from Susan's darkly magical "Neon Nights," which appears in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 4 as well as American Cool. Still, I was intrigued to read in a very revealing and kick-ass funny interview by Critical Mick that Susan has actually dated a mob guy. I'm sure there's lots of inspirational writer's material there, but then again the code of silence is strong, and I wouldn't want my curiosity to get me in trouble.... However, there’s no question that Susan knows Vegas very well, so I thought I’d ask for her recommendations for hotels in the city. Here’s what she said:

Mmm, well, for not being a rich person (which I'm not) I have rather fussy tastes about that stuff, so it's sort of lucky in some ways that I gamble so much. I'll only stay at the Wynn or Caesars Palace. I won't even stay at the Bellagio anymore since it's gone a little ghetto with the wannabe party crowd. I can tell you that the Wynn has the most comfy beds ever and it's a world-class facility in every way. And Caesars is just like a home to me, and it's nice, but still has little pockets of old-Vegas tucked in there which delight me.

Got that? Wynn for the beds, Caesar’s for the nostalgia, Las Vegas for hot hotel sex all along the Strip. For our refreshments today, let’s order in some simple, honest Italian food from Caesars' legendary Rao’s. Maybe some signature Lemon Chicken, “broiled to perfection and sauced with Uncle Vincent’s Famous Lemon Sauce that consists of lemon juice, red wine vinegar, olive oil and spices.” Or their classic veal chop, “pan seared and topped off with a medley of cherry peppers hot and sweet; and the meatballs, either alone or accompanied by one of the many pasta dishes, taste as if Aunt Anna were still rolling them each morning.” We vegetarians can dig in to the pasta puttanesca. For dessert? Susan’s homemade chocolate tiramisu, made with pannetone. Give me one of those red-and-white checkered napkins, I'm drooling already.

But enough food porn. Let’s get to the real thing!

From "Neon Nights" by Susan DiPlacido

I let him take me back inside. But I steer him into another bar before I make a regrettable mistake. Just the thought of being with him makes my breath go shallow and fevers me, so I know he'll win this battle of wills.

But I'm determined to win the war.

Coy, I put my hand on his thigh. The vibe from him is unmistakable, he's oozing lust worse than I am. I tell him, "I've done nearly everything in this city. All but one thing."

"Yeah, what's that, Rossi?" He downs his fresh drink in one long pull.

"Probably the most traditional one, besides gambling. I've played games, seen lights. They've given me fight tickets and limo rides. I guess it's 'cause I'm a female that they don't offer me hookers."

He laughs. "You want a hooker, huh, Rossi?"

I shrug. "I won't feel like I've fully experienced the place until I've paid for sex."

"Never knew you swung both ways, babe," he says and raises his eyebrows, lifts his empty glass and chews on some ice. "Can't say I'm totally opposed to the idea."

"Not a woman, stunade," I laugh. "They have guys."

His jaw throbs and face flushes. Maybe he does have an idea how I'd feel about him getting side action on me.

"Relax," I say and move my hand higher up his thigh. "Maybe you'd be interested in the job."

"Check!" he signals for the waitress.

I slow him down. "You do understand the appeal of it, right?"

"Sugar, I understand the appeal. I understand it enough that you don't need to pay me."

"No, you're not getting it, Vin. It's not just sex. It's freedom. It's anything the person wants – at a price. They can talk, they can connect, or they can just fuck. It's as empty or meaningful as they want. But when it's over, it's over. Capisce?"

He looks down at my hand on his leg, then looks away and shakes his head. He capisces.

"Name your price, Vin."

"Lana, I'm not…"

"A million bucks."

"Are you fuckin' insane?"

"How about this, I'll make it two. I'll have to pay you with a casino check and you'll have to pay taxes. So I'll make it two."

He stares at me, incredulous. But he's not saying no.

Oh. Vinny.

I stand up and flip him my room key. I throw money on the table to cover the check, and tell him I'll meet him upstairs.

He grabs my arm. "You're really serious about this?"

"When it's over. It's over. Forever." I pull away and head to the casino office.

~~

I try to stay poised. But as I'm waiting for the elevator, Fly Me To The Moon wafts through the overhead speakers and I can't help but hum along. Vinny opens the door, and I hold the check up high for him to see. A throaty whisper, all he says is my name. "Lana."

I realize I haven't just been horny, I've been lonely.

In bed, he goes slow at first. His ID bracelet is cool against my skin but his hands are warm as they trace along my skin, heating me. But then he climbs on top of me and takes hold of my wrists, pinning me down. He squeezes tight as he enters me, panting already.

Right in my ear, raspy, "You're mine. You're mine, Lana."

It feels so good, him filling me up, thrusting so deep, hitting exactly the right spot. Hotter, faster, getting me higher, higher. Near frenzied, I buck and try to move to drag it out, but he's got me clamped down tight, his hands hot and rough. The same hands he's used against other men. Vinny's hands that have actually killed men – for me.

That thought makes me come instantly. Hard, shuddering, no escape as he keeps thrusting, lighting me up brighter than all the neon on the strip. Making me feel more alive than winning a million bucks. He says my name, loud, possessive, and then, softly, "Ti amo." And then he quivers and comes too.

Hotel Voyeurism and Inspiration

As I mentioned below, we have many more talented storytellers who’ve signed on to entertain us in Suite 69 over the next week or so. In fact, I just got a very lovely and evocative piece from Isabel Kerr set in a Swiss hotel which she'll share right here very soon. This is definitely synchronicity, because my topic for today is the European hostelry in its many forms: castle hotels, grand hotels, petit bourgeois three-star lodgings, spicy Gasthäuser, budget-friendly student dives. Although most American hotels offer a certain standard of service—individual bathrooms, air-conditioning, TV’s—European hotels have much more personality, as distinctive and unpredictable as a foreign film. And you know how much I love foreign films.

Before kids, my husband and I went to Europe several times, either as part of one of his many business trips or to burn through frequent flier miles. The hotels where we stayed are particularly fresh in my memory—name the city and I can describe the room, the breakfast, and add in a quirky story or two about the awful shower or the strange hotel clerk or even the sex we had, if you give me a glass of wine first. But today I’ll settle on a clean and fancy one, a grand hotel in central Austria called Schloss Durnstein, which is situated right on the banks of the Danube. This was one of our splurge hotels on our trans-Austrian vacation and these places tend to make me feel unworthy and gauchely American.

Our first morning at the Schloss, over a breakfast of rolls, Swiss cheese, fruit and coffee from a silver pitcher, I happened to notice a handsome thirtyish man eating alone at one of the better tables overlooking the river. Soon an older woman—not at all pretty, but extremely self-possessed and impeccably attired—entered the dining room and approached his table. The man immediately jumped up, almost clicking his heels, and with a look close to adulation, leaned over to kiss the woman’s outstretched hand.

I’m sure my eyes were saucers. My god, European men really did kiss ladies’ hands, just like in the movies. Or at least aristocratic types like this pair still followed that old-fashioned custom. Maybe the woman was a Baroness, a Hapsburg descendant? As I ogled and fantasized, the handsome man glanced over and caught me staring, sending a withering look in my direction.

Ten years later, this became the opening scene in my story, “Watch on the Danube” which was published in Xcite’s anthology, Seriously Sexy 2 (which also has an awesomely hot story by Sommer Marsden called "Scrapbook Pages"). A romantically-minded American tourist witnesses this same kiss in the morning and spies yet another more intimate interaction between the same aristocratic pair later that provides inspiration for her own act of exhibitionism. While you nibble on this snippet of hotel sex prose in honor of the release of Rachel Kramer Bussel’s Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories, help yourself to the buffet at Schloss Durnstein, a lavish spread with crusty rolls with Black Forest ham and Emmenthaler cheese, creamy yogurt and muesli, fresh fruit in season, soft-boiled eggs, and yeasty Austrian coffee cake. Bon Appetit!

From "Watch on the Danube" by Donna George Storey

Pru walked over to the sliding glass doors and pressed her fingers to the cool glass. Their room was small. But the view of the Danube flowing right beneath them made it worth every penny, she thought, as her eyes drank in the glowing gibbous moon, the twinkling lights of the town on the far bank blending into the stars, the great river rushing through the night, as if drawn ever onward by some dark, searching hunger.

Then she saw them, silhouetted against a golden square of window floating high in the stone wall of the old wing of the hotel. She guessed it was the tower suite, resting atop the old manor house like a crown. She could see no features, only shadowy forms, but she could tell it was the Baroness and her lover, her slight figure in front, his taller, stockier body behind. At first they seemed to be just standing there, taking in the view, but as her eyes adjusted, Pru saw that they were moving, swaying. Now and again, the woman arched her head back and seemed to shiver.

“Oh, my god, Adam, come here. It’s them. I think they’re actually fucking out there.”

“Who? The anorexic vampire and her bodyguard?” Adam called from the bathroom. “Don’t tell me they have to nerve to be doing it on our balcony?”

“No, but almost as bad. They’re screwing in front of their window with the lights on.”

In an instant he was beside her, dressed in the hotel’s thick terry robe, smelling of toothpaste.

“Should’ve brought the binoculars, huh?” He squinted up at the window. “Yep, they’re fucking. And I think you’re right. She’s married and he’s not. He has something to prove.”

“Maybe it was her idea.”

Adam raised an eyebrow. “Maybe.”

Suddenly Pru felt her cheeks go hot. “If we’re going to stand here, we have to turn out our light. They’ll see us watching.”

Adam just grinned. “That’s probably why they’re doing it.”

“It can’t be.” Pru snapped off the bedside lamp. The room fell into darkness, lit only by the glow of the bathroom light. “They don’t care about us. We’re just peasants. Dust balls in the corner. They’re showing off for the great Danube. For the ghosts of her Hapsburg ancestors. For history itself.”

Adam didn’t snicker, as she feared he might. He gazed up at the couple, still moving together in their slow, subtle dance. He stepped behind her and embraced her. She could feel his erection through the robe.

Pru leaned back into him, still slightly woozy from the wine. An image flashed into her head—she and Adam stepping onto a boat and gliding off through a thick, warm mist....

A Small, Quiet Blessing

When I read a story by Nikki Magennis I always feel as if I’m stepping into a conservatory, one of those elegant greenhouses attached to a Victorian mansion. The sultry heat, the haunting fragrance of exotic blossoms, the vibrant colors of the greenery, the quiet hand of the expert gardener—her work is a feast for the mind and the senses. I’m looking forward to reading her brand-new novel, The New Rakes (which has a great book trailer) and hope to enjoy her company in many more erotic anthologies to come.

It’s my great pleasure to pass the storyteller’s card key to Nikki today as we step into a modest hotel room for a very intimate encounter. Today’s refreshments? Bourbon-and-Cokes along with some bar snacks such as fresh-roasted salted nuts and malt vinegar potato chips—the gourmet kind you just can’t stop eating. The flavor is salt, sugar and lusciousness all mixed together like her bittersweet vignette below. Oh, and Nikki took the photo, too, but declined to reveal the identity of the model for obvious reasons. Without further introduction...enjoy!

I took him to the hotel that I’d paid for with next month’s rent money. The night watchman let us in, kept his sleepy eyes to the floor and didn’t give us a second glance. The carpet absorbed our footsteps. Even now, four, five years on, I remember the room number in gold letters on the door and the pink rose pattern of the bedlinen. He sat on the bed, heavily, like he was so, so tired. It was awkward again. I’d forgotten how to undress. We kissed, and it tasted of salt, bourbon, and sweet Coca-Cola. His hands were in my hair, and we didn’t say another word.

Maybe when you take a big risk everything becomes brighter and more vivid. Maybe that’s why I can remember every last detail of how we moved together, how he rolled down my tights and let them pool on the floor. How we were both shy and a little sad, as though we were surrendering something important without knowing what it was.

His body was long and very lean, as pale as blank paper. He had a clumsiness that intrigued me, a careless way of holding me and bumping his knees against me. For a few hours we were just two strangers finding out how we fit together.

His cock was cold, clammy even, and it bent slightly to the side. I felt like I was breaking some hugely important rule when I touched it. But everything we did that night was spoiling something, bringing us from some wild heaven back to physical earth with a scrape and a jolt.

We drifted in and out of sleep, our hands on each others’ bodies. His leg pushed between mine, his cock butted at my cleft, trying to slide in. I wouldn’t let him, for some confused reason, though if I had the chance again, oh god, I would take it. He was right there, lying heavy over me, and every minute of contact we had, every touch, should have reminded me that he was real and not some fallen angel that could save my life.

He felt my breasts, kissed me more, and then, as he fell at last asleep, cupped his hand over my pussy, heavy and unmoving. Just held it.

I felt blessed, in some small, quiet way.

Behind the Scenes at a Reunion

Whew, the things that happen in hotel rooms! I notice everyone is looking a little…heated. Best to order in some cooling cocktails and supper, the kind of meal you might enjoy at a college reunion dinner. Having just been to my 25th college reunion, the menus aren’t bad these days: grilled salmon with a mango salsa, a salad of haricots verts and cherry tomatoes, rice pilaf. For dessert—Devil’s food cupcakes and cheesecake, naturally. It’s fun just to check out all the people chatting, catching up on what's happened over the last such-and-such years. The body language alone speaks volumes. Yes, I’ve heard all kinds of interesting things happen at class reunions, but never really got a close-up view.

Fortunately today in Suite 69 Heidi Champa is going to give us a glimpse into one such meeting after-all-these-years. I had the great pleasure to meet Heidi in person and read with her at Rachel Kramer Bussel's “In the Flesh” last October. Her story “This Just In” in Tasting Him (you can enjoy the reading on Youtube!) pushes all the right buttons for me, not to mention, the short and oh-so-sweet “Lights Out” in Frenzy. But I know, you’ve had enough appetizer. The main course is hot and ready. And special thanks to Nikki Magennis for snapping this photo of the incandescent proceedings from her window. Enjoy!

Reunion by Heidi Champa

My heart nearly stopped as he strode towards me, and I tried my best to act casual. Sipping my drink and looking away, Ethan brushed against me. I expected him to keep going, but he stopped, pretending to look at an old yearbook next to me on the table. I felt him press something into my hand, and I flooded with heat as he walked away, leaving the scent of his cologne behind. I couldn’t breathe.

Finding the bathroom, I locked the stall, finally feeling safe enough to open my hand and see what Ethan had given me. It was a plastic room key and a tiny piece of paper. I unfolded it, and it said, “Room 1534, 15 minutes.” My body shuddered. Ethan wanted me in his room in 15 minutes. I strode to the elevator, trembling and quaking inside, my face already flushed with excitement.

I slide the card key into the lock, waiting for the green flash to appear and signal me into the room. The cool air hit me as the door swung open, the room dark and untouched. The only sign of Ethan was a suitcase on a chair across the room. If I closed my eyes, I could smell him in that room. My mind was on overload, waiting for Ethan. He had left me changed all those years ago. There was no way to stop the intense mix of fear, anticipation, lust and excitement coursing through my body at that moment.

The minutes seemed to pass so slowly. Finally, I heard steps in the hallway, the click of plastic in the door lock. I held my breath as Ethan emerged through the door jam, his stride confident. The room remained dark and the shadows that fell across his face made him look rough and dangerous.

“I was surprised to see you here.” His voice was just as low and hard as I remember. He cut such an imposing figure. Just looking at him was flooding me with wetness. “I wasn’t going to come, but I figured what the hell. You came here hoping to see me, didn’t you?” Unable to manage actual words, I just nodded.

“Get up. Let me look at you.” I did as I was told, rising to my feet slowly. He stepped towards me, pushing my hair back from my eyes. Just as I relaxed into his touch, his hand tightened in my hair, pulling my head back harshly. Crying out into the dark room, I relished the pain, feeling the familiar surge of heat between my legs in response.

“What do you want me to do? Tell me, Diana. I want you to say it.”

I gasped again as his hand tightened a bit more. His eyes were bright, even in the dim light. I realized at that moment that he needed this as much as I did.

“Spank my ass. I need you to spank me, Ethan.” He grinned, releasing my hair. Turning me roughly, my hands landed on the bed. Ethan kicked my feet apart, pushing my skirt up my thighs. His hands ran up from my knees, moving my skirt up to my waist. The only things between us now were my pantyhose and thong, both wet from my pussy. I could feel him behind me, and I waited. His hands ran over my ass, smoothing over the nylon that covered my trembling flesh. Suddenly, I felt the material ripping and tearing away from my skin. The sound rang violently off the walls, filling the silence that had sat between us. I could feel my pantyhose in tatters at my ankles. My thong didn’t survive his assault either. My ass was now exposed, the cool air of the room raising goose bumps on my skin. I knew his eyes were on me, devouring me. But I needed to feel his hands; I needed him to touch me.

My hands dug into the bed, and I nearly jumped when I felt his hand come to rest on the small of my back. The other traced lazy circles across my skin, teasing me just like he used to. I held my breath, and closed my eyes. Time stood still for the next few seconds. And, then the familiar rush of air preceded the exquisite burst of pain. It took all I had not to scream out, to fall forward on the bed from the force. It was as if ten years of pent up energy landed on my ass in that spank. It was heaven.

Two more spanks followed and this time the scream did come. I didn’t care who else in the hotel could hear me, I couldn’t contain the feelings anymore. I could feel my wetness on my thighs and a slight sweat break out on my forehead. The spanks kept coming, in his unusual rhythm. My heart was pounding and I could feel the sting of tears in the corners of my eyes. Suddenly, he stopped. I felt, for the first time, how my flesh tingled and radiated heat.

“Stand up.” I moved away from the bed. I turned and saw him setting his tie aside, his jacket already off. His fingers then moved to my blouse, making quick work of the buttons. He stripped me naked, replacing my shoes after the pantyhose were gone. He sat on the edge of the bed and patted his lap. That smirk I loved was on his face. I draped myself across his knees, my nipples rubbing against the wool of his pants.

“You don’t mind if we don’t go back to the reunion, do you? We have a lot of catching up to do.”

Taboo Vacation

I'm a big fan of Jane Black's work for all kinds of reasons. Her fiction, exemplified in Clean Sheets' "The Painter," balances spice and jazz with profound emotional insight. Her essays, such as "S/M in the Suburbs," explore the relatively uncharted territory (in public discourse, that is) of the sex lives of parents. I'm always hungry for more, which is while I'm thrilled that Jane agreed to stop by Suite 69 to share a story with us. I'm baking cookies today, which is fitting for the maternal theme. However, I want to remind you that these are adult cookies with nuts and booze. There's my Chewy Pecan Bars with fresh pecans from Georgia and Amaretto Almond Bars with plenty of amaretto and white chocolate chunks. They're sweet and sinful and I bet you can't stop at just one. Today's creamy and sensual photo, "Toga," is again the work of Suite 69's resident visual artist, Nikki Magennis. Enjoy!

Taboo by Jane Black

Before our vacation last year I would have said that there were no taboos between us, no secret sex fantasies that we wouldn’t share with one another. I would have been wrong.

At the time of our vacation I was in the process of weaning our baby; Keith and I weren’t going to take him (or his older brother) with us. This would have been a problem a couple of months ago, back when my breasts became uncomfortably full after just a few hours away from the baby’s eager little mouth. But now he was down to nursing once a day, and I wasn’t producing much milk. I decided that it would also be safe to leave my loathsome little electric breast pump at home. (Using a breast pump to get milk out is like using a string and doorknob to extract a tooth-it works, but it’s not exactly something you do for fun.)

So we left the pump, but we packed plenty of toys. We filled a small suitcase with wrist and ankle restraints, a couple of ropes, a posture collar, a blindfold, and a nice selection of whips. After all, a good vacation requires the proper gear. We packed our stuff in the car, waved bye-bye to the kids and their grandma, and drove for five hours to get to the hotel where we were staying. I spent most of the first evening hog-tied, collared, and blindfolded, being spanked and fucked silly. A most auspicious beginning.

But by the second evening, I knew I’d made a mistake, breast-wise–my boobs had become uncomfortably engorged with milk… I told Keith that we had a small problem.

“Do you want to go home?” he asked, concerned.

“No, and anyway we couldn’t get there fast enough.” I told him.

“Well, should I go try to get you a breast pump?”

I didn’t answer him, because I’d already come up with another solution.....

Want to read on? Well, have another cookie--I knew you'd want more--and pop over to Good Vibrations.

An Intriguing Elevator Encounter

Today's storyteller in Suite 69 is the lovely Emerald and get ready for some glittery, tantalizing fun. First she'll tease you with a scene in a hotel elevator that will have you breathless to find out what happens next. Then you'll realize total satisfaction is not quite within reach because this excerpt from "What We Do" is on the verge of release in Swing!: Adventures in Swinging by Today’s Top Erotica Writers. Not that there's anything wrong with teetering on the edge, when the wait itself is so pleasurable!

In keeping with our hotel conference theme, I invite you to the breakfast buffet that room service has just delivered. We have our classic conference menu (according the Herr Doktor, who is very familiar with these things): a fruit tray with melon, pineapple, strawberries and grapes; muffins and bagels with individual tubs of cream cheese, a pitcher of orange juice covered in Saran Wrap (which we might put to good use later); and urns of coffee, decaf and hot water for tea. While you're nibbling your muffin, and admiring the entrancing photograph by Nikki Magennis take a nibble of this titillating tale:

"What We Do" by Emerald

“Hold the elevator please,” Jackson called as we hurried to the open door.

Immediately I saw my cute young professional inside. I squeezed Jackson's hand and met his eyes. Jackson followed my glance as I sent a sidelong glance to the young man on my other side and then grinned at me.

“Here for the conference?” Jackson asked the object of my attraction, sidling over beside him without moving me any further away. “I'm Jackson Blake,” he said, offering his hand and explaining his position with the company sponsoring the conference.

“Seth Harris,” Cute Young Professional said somewhat uncertainly, glancing at me quickly before turning back to Jackson. “Yes, I'm actually just an intern, but my company wanted me to come for the experience.”

They talked about their respective workplaces as the elevator door opened at the lobby floor. The other occupants exited. The three of us followed suit and paused in the elevator corridor.

“This is my wife Victoria, by the way,” Jackson said heartily.

I stepped forward and shook Seth's warm hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Seth seemed slightly uncomfortable as he smiled back and then looked back and forth between Jackson and me.

“Yes, she decided to accompany me even though I told her how busy I was going to be,” Jackson continued with a smile. “They've got me working 10-hour days here. I imagine it's not nearly so busy for you though, Seth? Maybe the two of you could get together some day while I'm off working.”

I barely smothered a laugh of surprise. Seth looked nervous, which I found understandable, and said, “Uh, well -”

“I know Victoria gets pretty hot and horny all day up in our room all by herself. She loves fucking in hotels. Maybe you could stop by sometime when you're free during the day and take care of her.”

Poor Seth looked like he was about to swallow his tongue.

Jackson smiled at him. “Our room is 719. Just call up during the day if you're interested.” He offered his hand again, which Seth shook mechanically. “Nice to meet you.”

I offered my hand too and gave Seth's a squeeze, trying a warm smile to snap him out of his shock. Then I turned and followed Jackson, leaving my cute young professional standing dazed behind us.

Well, I'm hoping young Seth has a few surprises of his own in store...more, more, more!

Hotel Sex Goes to the Movies

Our suite 69 bash is in full swing, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed our tales so far. Now, in honor of Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, and its provocative trailer, I thought we might discuss the topic of hotel sex in the movies. I expected this subject might be difficult to narrow down to bloggable proportions, but actually I discovered my choices were easy. Although there are plenty of movies with suggestive (or explicit) hotel sex scenes, two in particular epitomize the special magic of hotel eroticism for me.

The first is a classic of American film-making, The Graduate (1967). Coincidentally, I just happen to have finished a fascinating book called Pictures at a Revolution: Five Movies and the Birth of the New Hollywood by Mark Harris. Harris discusses the making of the best picture nominees for 1967: Bonnie and Clyde, The Graduate, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, In the Heat of the Night, and Doctor Doolittle. The last movie was an absurdly expensive turkey, the rest did indeed represent some aspect of a shift in American film in the mid twentieth century. Although some of the book dragged for me, especially the deals of the excruciating road to production, once the casting started, I was enthralled.

And of course, don’t we all love those little behind-the-scenes tidbits such as the fact that Katharine Ross damaged Dustin Hoffman’s eardrum during the multiple takes of the scene where she slaps him in the Berkeley boarding house? Apparently she wasn’t slapping hard enough and director Mike Nichols had to goad her along. Hoffman later discovered the reason his ear was stinging when he slipped under water in his scuba-diving gear and felt his head explode. When he got out of the water, blood was pouring from his ear.

And then there was the eye-opening insight about Nichols’ initially unacknowledged personal investment in the movie. His choice of Dustin Hoffman as Benjamin was a mystery to all, even himself, in spite of the actor’s outstanding screen test, which showed a brilliance that did not reveal itself until the film was developed. The Benjamin in the novel was a blond WASP, meant for the likes of Robert Redford.

“My unconscious was making this movie,” [Nichols said]. “It took me years before I got what I had been doing all along—that I was turning Benjamin into a Jew…Who was the Jew among the goyim? And who was forever a visitor in a strange land? […] Part of me knew what I was doing in terms of the outsider and so forth, but another part of me, a part that I had no inkling of, must have known that I would never get material so suited to me again.” (PAR, p. 319-320) By the way, Nichols also directed Carnal Knowledge, which makes my top ten favorite movie list.

But, of course, we can’t forget those wonderful scenes at the “Taft Hotel” actually filmed at The Ambassador in LA, which was soon to be demolished. Did you know that there was a deliberate attempt to dress Mrs. Robinson in animal skin patterns to highlight her predatory nature? Or that Hoffman and Bancroft had to spend days in bed filming the scene where Benjamin attempts to talk to Mrs. Robinson before they have sex?

Perhaps it is best just to close our eyes and remember the scenes in the hotel room. Mrs. Robinson dressing as Benjamin lies in bed staring blankly. The time he kisses her when her lungs are full of cigarette smoke. The hilariously uncomfortable scene in the hotel bar where he can’t wave down a waiter, but she manages it with a snap of her fingers.
But there’s another film that epitomizes hotel eroticism to me, this one a rather obscure French film, Benoît Jacquot’s La Fille seule (A Single Girl, 1996). Since I discovered Ingmar Bergman in eighth grade, I’ve been a fan of foreign films. I love how they subvert my Hollywood expectations, how they trick my eye and best of all, how they make me think about film-making and life itself as art. La Fille Seule is cinema verité, filmed with a hand-held camera, defiantly undramatic. For most of the movie, you watch Virginie Ledoyen’s shapely derriere as she walks down the corridor of a Parisian four-star hotel delivering café au lait and baguettes to the guests. Naturally, she walks in on some interesting scenes. A “small” film ala French New Wave that is now out of print with its distributor, it’s a movie that’s never left me since I saw it about ten years ago. Here's a Youtube clip:



It took some doing to find it again and I have to credit Herr Doktor with discovering the winning key words for Google: French movie, hotel worker, handheld. Now he finally can receive his own Amorous Woman bra and panty set as his fitting reward!

But enough about me. Do you have favorite hotel sex scenes from the movies? While we’re sharing, help yourself to cocktails from the Taft Hotel and baguettes with sweet butter, plum confiture, and café au lait from Paris….

An Hour at The Blue Dolphin

I've been having a wonderful time peeping through keyholes and curtains to catch glimpses of tangled sweaty limbs and lustful couplings of every flavor! Best of all, there's a nice long hallway of naughty scenes coming our way, so give your back a stretch and get ready for more. Today's storyteller, the scintillating Neve Black, whisks us from Craig Sorensen's Gasthaus interlude to a seedy rent-by-the-hour motel (Love 'em!). It's always a true pleasure to hang with Neve--her generosity and sense of fun make happy dolphins of us all. Is this tale fiction or memoir? Neve's not telling, so my next question must be what shall we nibble as we listen? I'm thinking I might head out for a big stack of hot-n- juicy, fast-n-easy In-N-Out Burgers for the carnivores, fries and shakes for the vegetarians. And if you're still hungry for more, check out Neve's new novel Sex Through the Zodiac--you can find out some unzipped insider secrets about this starry romp right here.

Oh, and special thanks to all-around artist Nikki Magennis for the fabulous photograph entitled, most appropriately, "Sleaze Window"!

The Blue Dolphin by Neve Black

“Sorry, dude. It’s by the hour.” The crusty looking motel clerk said to my boyfriend, John, while he slowly lifted his head up from his smut magazine and scratched his protruding beer belly.

I stood there standing next to John, fidgeting. John was a consummate negotiator. He was trying to buy 30 minutes of motel time, instead of the one hour minimum. Impatiently, I shifted my weight from one hip to other. John glanced over at me, I raised my eyebrows and he let out sigh of defeat before pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his tight fitting, 501’s. Fortunately, John had a glorious cock, which balanced out his cheap-ass spending habits.

It was my adventurous idea to try out the Dolphin Motel. John kept referring to it as, “The Blue Dolphin Hotel.” The idea of blue dolphins and the word, h-o-t-e-l must have added a touch of elegance to John’s sense and sensibilities, because clearly, The Dolphin was a seedy joint.

Motel door shut and locked, John’s tawdry side finally came out to play. He flipped on the small television set that played nothing but 24 hours of non-stop porn. John was all hands as he quickly moved toward me; forcefully pushing me down onto the queen size bed. The faded, flowery bedspread and squeaky mattress and box spring welcomed my small frame. Horrific acting and fabricated moaning flooded the room. I didn’t care.

John was a horny dolphin that afternoon; swiftly pulling my pants and panties down, spreading my legs and then snuggling his dark hair and greedy mouth between my legs. My slippery, slick pussy lips kissed him back as if they were starving. After orgasm number three, I finally caught my breath and said, “God, aren’t you glad we still have another 30 minutes, baby?” He grunted out a yes as he thrust his cock deeper inside me.

A Spicy Gasthaus Interlude

Today our hot-el erotica wordsmith is the musical and poetic Craig Sorensen, who's going to give up a sneak peek of his new novel. That's a peep through the keyhole all writers are willing to risk a backache for... and it's just in time for the arrival of the cocktail weiners wrapped in pretzel dough. Watch out, that mustard's spicy! So without further ado, here's Craig....

First thanks to Donna for inviting me to muse on the sexiness of hotels, and for being the first to present a taste of my book, Augsburg Diary.

This story is set in a German US Army barracks in 1980. There is a healthy dose of fact in this book. For one, I was indeed stationed at Field Station Augsburg from August of 1980 to August of 1982.

Another irrefutable fact about life in the Army in Germany around 1980 is that stereo equipment and music collections were important status symbols, especially among the men. The gear was cheap at overseas Px (Post Exchange) stores, and some of the huge stereos were almost comical in their contrast to the small barracks rooms they occupied.

Another fact was the high failure rate of marriages. I don't know statistics, but I knew a lot of folks in the barracks who were carried the title: "Ex."

Through it all, a Gasthaus could be a great respite from Army life. I grew to love die Gasthäuser, both as a place to get a drink (or two, or three, or...), and as a place to spend a night (or two, or three, or...) Often they are like a cross between a Bed and Breakfast and a Hotel, such as the one in the excerpt I'm sharing, which is based on a place I stayed at in the town of Zweibrucken in early 1981.

Aimee and Ron are just such a divorced couple from Augsburg Diary. When handsome Ron is about to be rotated back to the states, he talks his ex-wife into joining him for dinner at a Gasthaus which rents rooms upstairs. It turns out he has a bit more on his mind than the köstliches Pfeffersteak!

I hope you'll enjoy this exclusive sneak-preview of my novel.

Be sure and tip your bellboy (or bellgirl, as the case may be.)

And now, a spicy sampling of Augsburg Diary.

The small Gasthaus room had no bathroom - just a sink on one side right next to an old dresser with a simple lamp atop it, a nightstand next to the small, double bed with a matching lamp and two small arch backed chairs.

The bathroom, with its bathtub and small wall mounted water heater, stood twenty paces down a narrow hall.

Aimee studied the old, vine motif wallpaper and sighed. Ron removed his jacket, exposing the back of his mint green shirt with glossy gold rank insignia on the collars. He loosened his crisp black tie and pulled the loop over his head then hung it on the small coat hanger to the side of the mirror. He removed his shirt deliberately and turned back to Aimee. She remained fixed. The sparse evening light from the eight-pane window cast over the bed. Her fingers curled to the hem of her dress. Ron approached and reached around her shoulders. Slowly, she raised her arms under his and gripped his thick shoulder muscles. His arms crushed her full breasts to his broad chest and she got that wonderful, breathless feeling. But she wanted to ask why they were doing this, with him so close to leaving.

She didn’t.

****

“So, how did you find this place?” Sweat evaporated, cooling Aimee’s skin on the warm late night.

Ron’s fingers traced her stomach and inside her hips the way he always had after they made love. “Nice, isn’t it.” He pressed his thigh tight to her soaked pubic hair.

Aimee nodded. “Mmm.”

Ron’s right arm circled her neck. His left rested in the crease of her groin. “It’s great to be with you again, Aimee.” His middle finger dipped inside her. His thumb began to swirl around her clit. She’d had two orgasms already, and the long nap between them was deep and divine. The whole evening had been remarkable, even for Ron, who had always been a good lover.

She raised her hips into his hand. His bare ring finger dipped inside.

“You know, Aim?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve got a new Teac reel to reel.”

“S’nice.” Her hips rose and fell in time as his index finger joined in, and he curled all three inside her. She fought for breath at the deep sensation. She reached between his legs. His cock was hardening again.

“So I can play the tapes we recorded on the ReVox.”

“Mmm.” He leaned over her chest and took her thick pink right nipple in his mouth. His cock was getting harder. The tingle of her nipple shot down through her waist like an electric shock. It was so powerful that it hurt a little. It felt heavenly.

“It sounds real good with my old stereo at low volumes.”

She thought of that tape. He’s going to ask me back to his apartment—the apartment we once shared. She quickly subjugated her mixed feelings. Her voice was disjointed: “Nnh. Oh.” The oh was half exclamation, half reply. His cock was as stiff as it had been the first time they’d made love in the Gasthaus room. But rather than sate it, he knelt between her legs and kissed her clit his fingers curled in and out. She gasped. Eating out was something Ron rarely did; he wasn’t particularly good at it, but the mere fact that he was doing it, while his hard on raged with an insistence that usually demanded immediate satisfaction led toward another orgasm. He rubbed the flat of his tongue over her clit inarticulately. Its roughness and the heat of his breath was enough. Aimee was stunned when her waist clenched through a gentle orgasm.

Ron’s face appeared like a hungry sunrise. He crawled up from between her outstretched legs and eased his cock inside her. “Maybe we could trade stereos,” he whispered. “I mean, I’m not in the barracks, don’t need to keep it down, you know?”

Aimee’s hands and feet tingled. She wanted to push him off her and demand he take her back to the barracks. She didn’t know cars, but she knew stereos, and the ReVox she had bought for their apartment was worth three times his old stereo, even with the new Teac, which didn’t hold a candle to the ReVox.

But it wasn’t even that.

He gripped behind her knees and pressed them to her chest and her breath escaped. His thick cock felt so good as it reached its apex inside her. He compressed her like a wrecked car in a crusher. She fought for breaths in quick swells at the small decreases of pressure while he pumped. Heavenly.

She had indeed bought the ReVox system for Ron. But after suffering the embarrassment of walking in on him screwing a willowy redhead doggy-style on their bed, not once but twice, it was one of the few things she had taken after the divorce.

Ron kissed her deeply. The taste of the beer he had just finished was slightly effervescent and blended with the taste of her well-lubed vagina on his lips. He lay his head next to hers, his nose next to her ear. “I love you, Aimee.” He slowed his stroke, his fingers curled to her clit and she felt the twinges of orgasm yet again. She’d never had so many orgasms in one sitting.

Fuck you, Ron. But she’d never say the word fuck. “I—uh—I’ll think—uh—about it.”

He kissed her deep again and she felt the fresh orgasm pulse down her waist.

I know, we all want more! I'm going to go order some more beer, in the meantime, get ready for a Friday motel frolic with Neve Black--it's quick, cheap and guaranteed to put a smile on your face!