Her actions were methodical – almost robotic in nature. Closing the door behind her, she slid her arms from her raincoat, pulled the sweater over her head and unbuttoned her pants. Within minutes she was stripped down to her socks, panties, and a thin black tank top.
It’s too bright.
She drew closed the heavy curtains to block out the remaining sunlight from the room. She turned off the lights – first the adjacent bathroom, then the lamp by the television, and finally the bedside table – all left on since her too-early departure into the shadows of a near-winter morning.
Crawling over the items she’d laid out on the king-sized bed, she burrowed her lower half below the white quilted comforter and longed for her own bed, her own pillows, and all the comforts of home, including him.
Tonight he’d have been there with her; but instead she’s nearly three hours south of that fantasy, alone in a darkened hotel room with three hours to kill before her business dinner.
It’s at this point that she peels back the physical and emotional shields she’d engaged to make it through an entire day of meetings and schmoozing without giving into the devastatingly distracting desire that would remain unsatisfied for another week.
With a slow exhale she becomes aware of the chill in the air. Sliding a hand over her breasts, she’s quizzically surprised by the hardness and sensitivity of her nipples. At once she realizes the stark contrast between them and the soft, warm, and increasingly damp environment below the covers.
She allows her other hand to drift below, beneath the thin fabric of her cotton panties. In the darkness, his face becomes more visible in her mind’s eye, and with enough imagination – he appears beside her. She can almost feel the weight of his body on the bed beside her, the warmth of his breath on her neck.
I want you, she whispers into the empty room.
As her chilled fingers warm against the peaks and valleys of her body, her mind wanders to a recent conversation. She remembers where she is and a thought creeps into her head.
An imaginary knock at the door. No, wait…somehow, he just appears. A key left at the front desk, perhaps after having received instructions to prepare for his arrival. He stands at the foot of the bed.
“He sent me to watch you. Said you’d told him your inner-exhibitionist was hungry, and I was close enough to feed her.”
A small moan echoes off the walls as the fantasy hits home and her cunt floods with validation.
Show him… she tells herself, as she pulls her breast out by the nipple and lowers the blanket below her knees.
Spreading her legs, she counts out the slaps…
Just as he’d instructed, now with his surrogate to bear witness.
3 thoughts on “The Surrogate”
I like the way your mind works. Show him…
Oh yes. Yesyesyes. 🙂
In case you were unaware: http://mollysdailykiss.com/2016/12/02/top-100-sex-bloggers-2016/
Have a peek at #27. 😉
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OMG. I was no aware! Wow. I’m….wow. 🙂