Chances by Freya North Page B

too.
    ‘Shall we?’ she says. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ve checked in,’ she says. ‘Please,’ says Oliver, standing and gesturing for Louise to lead the way.
    She doesn’t take the lift, she opts for the stairs but Oliver won’t be able to recall that the staircase is rather fine, wide and sweeping with a lovely newel post and a banister of polished mahogany. With Louise walking ahead of him, he is focusing now only on her, on her rear, her tight skirt causing her arse to swing seductively as she climbs. He doesn’t notice the length of the corridor, he’s staring instead at her bra visible beneath her silky shirt. Ankles. Long hair, loose. Shoulders quite broad. She slides the key card into the door, opens it, her hand lingering on it as she walks into the room. Long nails. Red. The type that might grab, scratch, trace patterns over his chest. He closes the door and stares, without reading, at the emergency instructions posted on it. He turns and walks on in. She’s closing the curtains. The bed is between them. A trouser press in the corner, a tray on the desk with kettle, cups, sachets – all are noted subliminally, all will remain untouched.
    They stare at each other, no awkwardness – not like the first time when he’d said to whatever her name was in that hotel in Manchester that he liked her necklace. Anyway, Louise isn’t wearing a necklace. She’s unbuttoned her shirt, her bra is lacy and semi-transparent and he can see her large dark nipples through it. He pulls his top over his head as she lets her skirt fall away and then she walks to him, in her matching underwear either bought specially for today or else kept specially for such days. She has kept her shoes on. And just then he thinks how he wants her to keep her shoes on and so he tells her so.
    She’s in front of him, those red talon nails doing what they ought to do, tracing a lascivious path up and down, from his neck to his stomach to the top of his trousers, up his torso again, up his neck, over his chin to his lips. He sucks her finger into his mouth while she deftly unbuckles his belt, unzips him and slips her hand down his trousers, fast and urgently, locating his cock now bulging awkwardly in his boxers.
    She squats, pulling his trousers down as she goes. She’s licking his knee – a first for him and more ticklish than erotic. She doesn’t stay there long, using her mouth and her breath over the surface of his thighs until she’s level with his groin. She pulls down his boxers and his cock springs out as if it had been gasping for air. No preamble, he’s in her mouth, all the way and at this point he is neither Pete nor Oliver, he is simply a forty-six-year-old widower who needs to fuck and doesn’t want any emotion in the way. He just needs to get rid of this basic carnal desire which goads and tortures him, he needs to empty his balls and feel the velvet comfort of a real cunt.
    ‘Pull my hair.’ She’s standing now, one hand around his cock, the other between her legs. ‘Be rough with me.’
    He pushes her onto the bed, fumbles with a condom. Missionary would have been fine for him but she’s up on all fours with her arse bucking at him. Eyes tight shut, he rams into her from behind while she spews out a quite shocking litany of filth. He blocks it out. He might be fulfilling her fantasy – she’s probably snuck here away from some sexless marriage and her husband is probably farting in front of the footie none the wiser – but she isn’t the stuff of any fantasy of Oliver’s. All he wants from her is the consensual go-ahead to shag. Let her holler that he is to take her like the dog-bitch slut she is – he doesn’t listen. It is about his cock, his balls and a fortnight’s cache of spunk.
    She’s on her back now with her great tits just begging to be fondled and sucked. She’s looped her arms under her thighs, spreading her legs wide. It’s a great view – it’s all on show, it’s just what he needs to