Hotel story

from Bastardlife:

The days ticked past, one by one, until the day finally arrived: I booked a room at a swanky Manhattan Meat Packing District hotel, made famous by old reruns of Sex & the City, and sent invitations to ten of my most deviant friends to join me for a “feast.” A picture of Kellie’s beautiful lean body was attached. When the day came, I arrived early and prepared the room. I positioned a tall glistening blue bottle of Skyy Vodka in ice on a small round side table next to two thin Martini glasses and a few mixers. My iPod played a continuous loop of euphoric music, filling the room with a beat that illustrated the urgency Kellie described her pussy as having. Around the headboard, I wrapped climbing rope with three knots, each with a carabiner for clipping her wrist restraints in a variety of positions—something she had asked for, and I was happy to oblige. A bag of sex toys and a lovely cut glass bowl filled with condoms sat near the bed with my note, “Do Not Open Until I Arrive.” Then I left, and once back down on the Manhattan street, I breathed in the icy air trying to calm myself, but it only made my heart race more.

When she finally called, her familiar voice whispered, “I’m here—and I’m ready.” I barely remember rushing through town to get to the hotel; only pushing open the door to see the naughty grin on Kellie’s face. I immediately regarded the shape of her legs, then her buttocks, then the way her stockings climbed up and under her short black cocktail dress. She said she was nervous as I kissed her and I could feel the hint of a tremble in the muscles of her arms, so I hugged her and whispered out of a friendship that seemed of years, “Are you sure you want to do this?…You’re so beautiful.” When I kissed her again, she kissed back and whispered, “Absolutely, yes!”

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