3 comments/ 5638 views/ 1 favorites Respect is Earned Respect is Given By: ohmycouple "How much more can go wrong?" My hands are tied, knotted together behind my back in a chair and my ill-conceived attempt at revenge looks to land me in jail. And this is just the latest event in a steady slide toward oblivion. Just three weeks ago I was making plans with my live-in girlfriend to be in Chicago this very weekend for a Valentine's get-away and then a week later she dumps me and moves out. Last month it was me losing my job after my company suddenly declared it was bankrupt. Now I'm being held captive in someone's hotel room. The woman holding me has her flashlight pointing directly at my eyes and I barely see her silhouette. I didn't get a good look at her a few minutes ago, either, when she hit me with her fist. A good punch, too, right between the eyes, and I remember staggering back, hitting my head against something hard and falling into this chair. The next thing I know, she's tied my hands behind my back with what I think is pantyhose. I can feel the knot give but it's not letting go. So you might ask, am I some kind of creep for sneaking into this expensive hotel room? The dark comedy that has become my life is passing before my eyes. On my own at 18, I paid my way through college with the help of scholarships, then worked hard for eight years in my first job only to see my company fold after my boss mismanaged it into the shitter. Then my girlfriend moves out on me. Said there was no future for us with me unemployed and then after a pretty good final argument, she left me with "Besides, you don't know what to do with that big dumb dick anyway." Jeez, since when did having a big dick become a drawback, for chrissake? I moped for maybe a week but then knew I had to get off my ass and start rebuilding my life so rather than think about the past, I updated my resume and reconnected to my old network. Which actually leads to where I am now in this chair because earlier tonight I had a dinner meeting at this Hilton to talk about a job opportunity. Dinner went okay, a good lead for sure, but I needed a drink afterwards and headed for the hotel bar. On the way, though, I ran into my former boss. The one who bankrupted his company. Apparently he was just fine. "I'm staying here this weekend with my wife for Valentine's Day," he said. "Maybe you and Ann can join us sometime soon for dinner?" I should have just made an excuse, but I explained that Ann and I had gone our separate ways without explaining why. "That's a tough break. Makes for a lonely Valentine's Day," he said. "But you're a survivor." No thanks to you, prick, I thought as I walked on. After watching some basketball and downing enough Highland Park to make me numb, it was half past eleven and I knew it was time to go. I paid my tab, left more tip than I could afford and headed for the parking lot. I took off down a hall past some of the hotel rooms rather than cut across the atrium, and it was there in a hallway where I embarked on my short-lived career of sneaking into hotel rooms. First, a hotel employee at the far end of the hall dropped something. I bent over to pick it up when I got there and it appeared to be a master room card. I tried to get his attention but by then he was passing through a door marked Employees Only. What happened next showed that my thinking was seriously impaired. I take the blame, though, and give the single malt a pass. Behind me I heard a door slam and turned to see a handsome woman going the other way down the hall. She must not have seen me, but I was sure it was my ex-boss's wife. She was maybe in her early 50s and as always, she looked good from the rear. She had often come by the office during better times and I was sure it was her. I stood there for a moment, the master door card in my hand, when common sense left me. I looked around and saw no one in the hall so I swiped the card through the card reader for her room. The light turned green and I stepped into my ex-boss's hotel room! Let me state for the record that I'm certainly not one for theft but I figured a little mischief against my former boss might be satisfying. Back when I was working my way through college I once peed in my supervisor's coffee cup after he made me really mad. Maybe I could find their toothbrushes! I was standing there in the dark room still considering my options, though, when I heard the door opening behind me. I was trapped and I knew I was in big trouble. "Who the fuck are you?" she said. I was speechless in my predicament and that's when she took a step forward and clocked me. Straight and short with plenty of leverage was how she snapped her punch and in my astonishment I fell back into the chair I'm currently in and saw stars. It took me a bit to regain my wits and by then she had tied my wrists behind me. "This is all a big mistake!" I said. Just how big of a mistake it was became clear when she spoke again. It wasn't my ex-boss's room and this wasn't my ex-boss's wife! "Damn right it's a big mistake," she said. "Your mistake. How'd you get in here?" I plead with her. "Please don't call security." And so for the next five minutes, I tell her my story. The whole story, except for Ann's parting comment. Girlfriend leaving me; a boss screwing me. A misguided attempt at revenge. Her flashlight never leaves eye. I'm met with a long silence until she remarks "You never once looked away while telling me your story. I'm a junior high teacher and I learned a long time ago to tell when a boy is lying." There's another pause before she continues. "I think you might just be telling the truth, but you're still in one hell of a mess. And also. . . if you are telling the truth, you have one twisted sense of humor." While she remains silent I have visions about the back seat of a police car. She starts again. "I could call security and you'd be arrested in a flash even if you are telling the truth." Even though I can't see her face, she has a nice voice. I relax just a little. She speaks confidently and clearly like she's used to being in charge. She said she was a junior high teacher? I can't see her at all but something about her makes me remember my 8th grade homeroom teacher. She was the teacher who helped me get my academic life pointed in the right direction, toward what I thought was to be a big career in business. A career that had since bought a sleeping berth on the Titanic. Irrationally, the memories I have of my 8th grade teacher take over for the moment. I had a big crush on her even though she probably was in her 50's. She said back then to me that she had taught for thirty years. I can still remember the smell of her perfume. I squirm in the chair. She asks what I'm doing. "Is there some problem here? I really don't like students who squirm in their seats and I suggest you stop, too. Or are you seeing if you can loosen the knots I've tied?" I tell her, "I'm just a little uncomfortable. Guess I'm not used to being tied up." She says with a bit of a snort, "Well, I'm not used to tying up people, either, although I think I rather like the control. Too bad this is unacceptable at school. Then again, I've also never had the option of calling the police to have a student taken away like I could with you." "Tell me, Mr. Unlucky, if that is what I can call you, what kind of student were you in junior high?" I wonder where this is going but I know I am in no position to bargain. "In 7th grade I was pretty much a goofball and a pain in the butt. But in 8th grade I changed. My 8th grade homeroom teacher was awesome. She taught language arts and reading. She'd read out loud to us and I'd imagine that it was just me and her alone in the classroom. I learned everything from her about how to pay attention and how to do homework." I hesitate but then ask, "Maybe you should turn on a light? That flashlight is going to run out of batteries." "The batteries are fresh enough. Besides you don't need to see me, I just need to see you." I cannot put it out of my mind how much she sounds like my 8th grade teacher. I venture a question. "What do you teach?" She answers but not right away. "Before I answer any more questions, I'm thinking that we should remain anonymous to each other so I'm not going to share details about my job much less my name. That way if I choose to let you go, neither of us is the wiser about the other. No strings attached, as it were. But let's just say that your former teacher and I share some things in common." She continues. "So here's the situation for you and me as I see it. I could call the front desk and you'll be arrested but maybe you've had enough bad luck. But perhaps you never learned the lesson that people make their own good luck and bad luck, too. As for me, I'm only staying here tonight because it's close to the airport. I have an early flight in the morning to meet my husband for Valentine's Day. Knowing that much about me won't do you any good because there's probably twenty outbound flights before 7 a.m,. Pity your girlfriend left you high and dry this of all weekends. She must must be a bitch. Trust me, you're better off without her." She paused. "In the meantime, I need to figure out what to do with you tonight. I could just let you go, but maybe you're actually a sociopath. I could just call the police but that complicates my night, too. I need to think this over. I was just on my way to the bar to have a drink but came back to get my shawl. So I'm going to get that drink while I come up with a plan." She steps past me. Somewhere behind me I hear her open a suitcase. When she comes back, she says "open wide" and stuffs a pair of silk panties into my mouth. Then she yanks my belt out of my pants and ties my ankles. "Interesting situation we've got here," she says before leaving. When the door shuts, I am plunged into darkness. Time passes slowly as I sit there. The whisky makes me sleepy and I doze off uneasily. I try to break loose but the bindings around my wrists only get tighter. I wonder how long it has been since she left. I wonder what time the hotel bar closes. What in the hell am I going to do? It may be more than an hour later when I hear the door start to open. I grow anxious that she's brought hotel security with her but she is alone. Framed briefly by the light from the hall I only see her outlined for a second but I think with those cheekbones she must be pretty. I know she looked great from the back when I saw her in the hall. I guess that she must be about 5'7". Her hair is not long but not short, either, I remember it as being something blond, and I can also tell she wears glasses. She is carrying a purse and the shawl she came back for is draped over her shoulders. It's clear, too, that she has a nice shape. Once the door is closed she clicks the lock shut and throws the deadbolt. Once more the flashlight knifes through the dark. "You poor baby," she coos, "you've still got my panties stuffed in your mouth." I hear her set down her purse and other belongings. There must be a desk somewhere to my left. "I've made some decisions. Less than four hours from now a driver is taking me to the airport. Thank goodness I can sleep on the plane. When I leave, I'll let you go. Is that acceptable?" With her panties in my mouth I can only nod yes but I do it with enthusiasm! She steps closer and asks "Cat got your tongue?" Then without warning she slaps me fairly hard and after that punch she delivered earlier I have no doubt she is reminding me that she still is in charge. I react with surprise and she giggles a little like she enjoyed it. "In my classroom, students who misbehave are subject to my rules and I never play favorites. A student or D student, I make it clear that I expect everyone to follow the rules." But then she leans forward and lowers her voice. "Once you serve your punishment, though, I can forgive." She kisses me lightly on my cheek where she slapped me. Her lips are warm, moist. I smell gin on her breath. If the slap, the kiss and her words aren't enough to make me wonder what I've gotten myself into, my mind really starts to race when I realize she is resting a hand on my thigh. "So Mr. Unlucky, I believe that actions between consenting adults require no explanation. And in your predicament, I think you will consent to just about anything, or you can consent to me calling the front desk for security. But, if you do consent, then maybe I'll change your name from Mr. Unlucky to Mr. Valentine. Appropriate, no?" She steps away from me but not before her fingertips have drifted upward toward my crotch. She had drawn close enough that I could feel her breath warm on my neck. I inhale deeply and notice her perfume. Against all odds, I am sure it is the same perfume that I remember my 8th grade teacher wore! She says, "You mentioned before your 8th grade teacher. Sounds as if you liked her." She switches off the flashlight and tosses it for the moment on the bed. Without its distraction, the room turns darker and the fantasy more vivid. The smell of her perfume, the manner in which she addresses me, what little I actually know about her and last but certainly not least her hand on my thigh are catalysts for a full-fledged mental return to 8th grade wet dreams. Now my cock, the cock that my ex-girlfriend had rejected because it was "too big", stirs in earnest, growing thicker by the moment. One of her hands is again on my thigh and my penis begins to reach down by pant leg toward her fingertips. "What is this?" she asks. She opens her hand and spreads her palm to measure me. "Apparently you're hung like a horse but you're alone on Valentine's? What's wrong with younger women these days?" We again return to silence. Even though the room is very dark I sense that she is a little agitated or even nervous. I can tell she is standing in front of me but I'm searching for clues as to what might happen next. She picks up the flashlight again and shines it once more at me. "I'm going to remove my panties from your mouth but I expect you to remain quiet unless I ask you to talk. Do we have an agreement?" Once more I nod yes. She pulls the panties free of my mouth and I let out a gasp. "Water?" she says and I nod yes yet again. She and the flashlight disappear into the bathroom. I hear the water run. "Where IS this going?" I wonder to myself. When she rounds the corner, she again aims the flashlight at me but this time it is so I can take a sip from the glass she is holding to my lips. "I want to see you a little more clearly and the flashlight is just awkward," she says while stepping past me. I hear her open the room's curtains. Half-light filters into the room from outside. Not enough for me to see with real clarity but the features and dimensions of the room are easy to judge. The bed is behind me and I sense she is sitting there on the edge. "Tell me, did you get along well with your teachers?" I begin quietly to talk. "Most of the time," I began, "but I did especially if they were pretty or could teach me something that interested me. If they were both, I got a crush. Like with my 8th grade teacher that I told you about. I really was going nowhere until I was in her class. Of everything she taught me, probably the most important lesson was that I had to earn respect and to do that, I had to take pride in my work. I had such a crush on her that when she'd stay after school to grade papers, I would find excuses to stop by and ask if she needed help." I decide to take a chance and tell her just how big of a crush I had. "By the time I'd finish cleaning her chalkboards I'd be delirious from being so close to her, alone in the classroom. Most of the time I'd get a hardon while my back was to her and I'd have to wait for it go down before I could turn around and tell her I was leaving. She had the cleanest chalkboards in town." "One day, even, she asked me to get a map off the wall and I had to stand on a ladder. She stood behind me to steady the ladder and when it wobbled a bit, she also put a hand on my hip. I thought I was going to cum in my pants. I think that was when I started to realize that I was pretty endowed even in the 8th grade because when I got down off the ladder I couldn't hide my hardon and for just a split second her eyes opened in surprise and I saw her give a little smile. But there never were any hints that she was leading me on, then or any other time. I went back to visit her several times over the years, the last time when I was close to graduating from college. By then she was ready to retire but I still thought she looked great. That was ten years ago." She says to me, "It makes me feel good to hear that. Too many students today think respect is a birthright when it's actually something you have to earn." Then she chuckled while adding,"I've always known I've had a lasting impact on some former students but I thought the crushes fade. By the way you talk, it appears some do not. It certainly never has been my intention to create such a situation but I've noticed that many of the male students who have come back to see me I thought once had crushes on me. It's a little flattering." We sit in silence for a few minutes before I hear her let out a big sigh and then get up from the bed. Cast on the wall before me I can see her shadow. I recall vividly my 8th grade teacher and the crush I had on her. It has been years since I had these thoughts but I wonder once again what my 8th grade teacher looked like naked. Once upon a time I had spent hours thinking about that. Meanwhile I very faintly hear the sound of a zipper slowly being pulled followed by the soft plop of clothes dropping to the floor. I assume she is changing clothes but with me in the room and I'm actually a little embarrassed because I can watch the shadow of her undressing. "Do you know, Mr. Valentine, because that is your new name, that in literature there are various characters who also are named Valentine. You do like to read, don't you?" I don't answer right away and she calls to me again. "Mr. Valentine, I'm talking to you," she says. I turn my head in her direction and she is approaching, illuminated by the light from the window. Her skin appears pale and almost ghost-like. And I can see all of her skin because except for her high heels, she is naked. "Do I have your full attention now, Mr. Valentine?" and I whisper definitely, oh yes. "I'd like for us to talk some more. In particular I want to ask you some questions about your namesake. Maybe they will help you to pay attention and help me assess your character." She stretches out a hand to touch me and when I stiffen, she tells me to relax. Her fingertips start to sensually trace figure-eights on my skin, first below my ear and then into the curls of hair that run down to the nape of my neck. I look at her in awe and want to lean forward and suck on her nipples. Her other hand slides down my chest and finds my hardening cock through my pants. "Mr. Valentine, I do appear to have your full attention!" she exclaims in mock surprise while she massages my cock until it becomes long and hard. "That must be quite painful, a dick like that confined in your pants. What, it must be eight or maybe even nine inches long, and thick, too. Your girlfriend walked away from that?" She keeps her hold on it. "I think you'd be more comfortable if I'd pull it out of your pants for you, but I think it's a privilege that you have to earn. Tell you what, I'm going to ask you three questions about other characters named Valentine and for each correct answer, I'll let a little more out." "First question, and I'll make this an obvious one. Was there really a St. Valentine?" I'm in luck, ironically, because when my ex-girlfriend and I were planning our now defunct romantic getaway, we had actually looked this up. "Yes," I answer, "third century Roman." Respect is Earned Respect is Given "Mr. Valentine," she says. "I'm very pleased with you." She reaches down and unbuttons my pants and I feel my cock surge. "Next question. Every few years, my husband and I go to Stratford, Canada for their Shakespeare festival. This past summer, we saw a comedy and one of the main characters was named Valentine. Do you know your Shakespeare as well as you know your saints? Which play is it?" "I had a Shakespeare class in college," I tell her, "but the plays all kind of run together. I really don't know." She answers me sternly and I'm reminded that she is a junior high teacher. "Mr. Valentine, that is not an acceptable answer. I may have to button you back up," she says, chiding me, and reaches down as if she is going to button my pants. But she finds that the end of my dick has crept out past the waistband of my underwear. Her fingers graze the head once and then twice and she changes her tone. "Well, maybe you do deserve to have a hint. I'll let go when you give me the right answer. The play is set in Italy." And then she squeezes the exposed head of my cock hard! "Merchant of Venice?" She squeezes harder and it's close to hurting. "Two Gentlemen of Verona?" She relaxes her hold on me. "You are indeed a very good student." She unzips my fly and gives my cock a quick feel through my underwear. "A very good student," she repeats. "Impressive." "Now let's test your knowledge of science fiction. Robert Heinlein is one of my favorite science fiction writers. Are you familiar with him?" I answer in the affirmative but I'm having trouble containing my astonishment. On one of my return visits to my 8th grade teacher when I was in high school, she recommended Heinlein to me. I read a bunch of his novels! Maybe my luck really is changing. "One of his most acclaimed novels is Stranger in a Strange Land. It is about a young man who is born on Mars. The young man is the only survivor of the expedition and when he returns to Earth, he is changed by his experiences. Can you tell me the name of the character?" I know the answer but I think instead about playing her like I don't. Then I think that probably is not the way to earn her respect. "Valentine Michael Smith," I answer. "He maybe even had some special sexual powers that he had gained while living on Mars." "You truly appear to be worthy of your name, Mr. Valentine. You delight me." She grabs my pants and underwear at the same time and pulls. I help by lifting myself up off the seat of the chair and she ends up taking them down to around my knees. I'm hard like a brick and I want her to touch me. I wonder if we are going to keep playing this game and so I come back with a question of my own. "Do you give extra credit?" She seems to be. "I have been known to. I don't cheapen the results I expect so I never grade on a curve but when the situation merits extra credit and I'm asked, I sometimes will accept it. Let me think about this." She thinks aloud about my request. "Extra credit, hmmm. What would be appropriate? You must . . . give me an oral report." And with that she steps forward and kisses me. Very deeply. Her mouth is open and welcoming. She reaches down with a hand and does more than touch me. She slowly jerks and twists my penis. The kiss lasts for a good minute. Then she steps away. "Still, I'm very careful and I can never fully trust you. You must not try to free yourself. You must not disobey me. You must respect me and then I will respect you." She comes back for another kiss and my mouth is forced open. Her tongue is like a serpent, and she thrusts it as if she is wanting to fuck my mouth. Tied up I am mostly a passive recipient, but her aggressiveness persists until I respond out of self-preservation. We spar with our tongues like a couple of boxers in the ring. We separate for just a moment. "You have no idea how thorough of an oral report I expect." She grabs my head with both hands and pulls me forward until her sex is close enough that I sense the heat of her pussy. More than anything at this moment, more than escape, more than getting untied, more than getting my old girlfriend back, more than getting my job back, I want to bury my tongue in this woman that I can barely see and apparently will never know, to blaze a trail to her clitoris, to dance her clit on the tip of my tongue. She has me close enough now that I can tell that her pubic hair is trimmed short and cleared from around her pussy lips. "Lick," she says and with one of her hands she holds herself open to me. I start slowly applying my tongue along side her clit in long up and down strokes. She moans softly and I feel her quiver. She thrusts herself at me now and though I have yet to touch her clit my tongue can tell that she is becoming swollen. I lower my head and my tongue is drawn to hood of her clitoris like a magnet to steel. With the tip of my tongue I flip the hood back and her clit reveals itself. I luxuriate in its tiny heaviness while I work it side to side. I am patient. Each time I give her clit a flick it swells more and more until by pursing my lips I am able to capture it. I suck on her while I point my tongue like the tip of an arrow and do pirouettes on her perfect pea of a clitoris. She lets out a low growl. I suck and I lick until I have to slurp. She humps my face. If she had a penis, I have no doubt that I would be forced to deepthroat her. I know she is working toward an orgasm. I know I hope to bring her to an orgasm. I alternate between savage attacks on her clit and tender retreats and forays into her vagina. Her hips undulate involuntarily and are only interrupted when she pauses to shudder. The interruptions become more frequent. In this night of many surprises she gives me yet another by wedging a foot under my bare ass and lifting herself up on a single leg so that we are sharing the chair. I pause and glance at her in her amazement and her other foot is extended behind her, her leg bent at the knee and cantilevered upward for balance. "About time that damn pilates made itself useful," I hear her mutter. She is poised above me like a bird of prey. Though light is minimal in the room her earrings sparkle. I see her breasts, round and heavy, rising and falling with each deep breath. Neither has her breasts nor their owner conceded much to time or to gravity. Her shoulders are strong and broad, her arms defined, but her face a mystery in the shadows. She holds onto my shoulders to keep herself steady and her grip is resolute. She has used my tongue, my lips, my chin, my whole face like a phallus and I know what is coming next. Time slows to a crawl and my whole body throbs in anticipation. I watch her draw closer and closer until I bear her weight on my face like a saddle. She gives me time to adjust. I fight silently to maintain a clear air passage so I can breath. She starts from a dead stop. The wetness that I have coaxed out of her pussy till now was barely a trickle compared to the flood that starts to pour forth. Her hips begin to jerk. She cums and it is a hard, dirty filthy jolting kind of orgasm. I have to swallow once, then twice, her clit pressed hard against my mouth and a slave to my tongue, her pubic bone bruising my face, her body wracked by convulsions. I swallow yet again and then as she slowly becomes still, I lavish her pussy with kisses and carefully lick her clean. "You need to get down, you're shaking," I say to her. I'm not sure who is the bigger mess, me or her. She has creamed a torrent of pussy juice on my face and my t-shirt is soaking wet. She collapses heavily onto the bed. Her legs dangle off the mattress next to me and hear her breathing is ragged. "You get an A+" she manages to say before she drifts off to sleep. I, too, slip into a fitful doze in spite of being tied to the chair. When I awake, I hear the shower running. A light is on in the bathroom and I realize she has closed the room curtains. As for me I'm still in my chair, still tied up but none the worse for wear. There's enough light in the room from the bathroom for me to see when I look over my shoulder that her suitcase is sitting open on the bed. After a few minutes the shower stops and soon she comes out but not before pulling the bathroom door nearly closed behind her. She smells fresh and clean. She has put on perfume. "Good morning," she says, "it's almost time for me to go." Without saying more she kneels before me and takes my cock into her mouth. It only takes a little time before I get heavy and then she quickly makes me get hard. She knows how to suck cock and is enthusiastic about it. She bathes me, swirling with her tongue while swallowing the head and then, her throat held open and relaxed, she progressively works her way down until she can take my cock in and out of her mouth better than Ann ever did with her pussy. She licks my balls, too, with just the right touch and supplements her oral skills with her hands and fingers. "If you want to cum you can. You more than deserve it. But we've got about 15 minutes and I'd really like to feel your cock in my pussy. You've really got a wonderful cock. Besides, didn't you always have to pass a final exam at the end of the school year?" We are going to play this game to its conclusion and I readily agree. I hear her tear a wrapper open and feel her roll a condom over my penis. It was a good fit. "Good choice," I tell her, "condoms usually don't fit me very well because I'm big." She has lubricant, too, and she applies it with long strokes down to and then over my balls. "Don't feel too smug," she replied. "My husband asked me to bring some of his condoms." She turns her back to me and then takes a step backwards to mount me. My pants are pushed down past my knees. She reaches behind and finds my cock. I feel its tip part her labia before she presses her hips back and down. My cock slips in about two inches; I've got at least seven more to go. She must already enjoy the sensation because I feel her pussy contract strongly "This is going to be good," she says. She presses herself down steadily while she moves her hips about in a search for the right fit. She finds what she's looking for and I slide in an inch and then two more and then another until I feel the end of my cock reach the back wall of her pussy. She feels me bump against her inside and she stops. "I've got more," I tell her. She reaches down to feel how much length remains outside of her vagina and tells me, "No way I'm going to let that much cock go to waste" and she leans back and lets gravity do the rest. It takes a minute for her vagina to stretch. When I hear her let out a long hiss, she's completely resting on top of me, balls snugged up against vagina and the cheeks of her ass spreading across my abdomen. She begins to fuck me. Her hips slide forward and then back slow, steady and precise as if controlled by a metronome. Even though she is well lubricated, her pussy grips me like two strong hands holding a shovel handle. She uses my cock like it belongs to her. She increases the tempo gradually. My cock begins traveling back and forth freely in her pussy. Now she is breathing deeply, too, and becoming very verbal. She raises up and slides me out halfway only to then drive herself back down, then does it again. "Oh fuck, you're hard," she says. She may have told me not to be smug but I think to myself that while her husband may use the same size condoms, from the little spasms and exultations that I am drawing from her I doubt he has the I-will-fuck-you-until-all-you-feel-is-my-hard-as-a-diamond-dick. She slides me out well past halfway and manipulates both of us with her hips. I can tell her focus is maximum attention on her clitoris. If we were dancing and not fucking, she'd have the lead. Her voice moves up an octave, and has taken on a breathy quality, "I love my husband's cock, I really do," she says dreamily, "but it has been a long time since it felt like your's. A really hard, really firm big cock is just wonderful." My cock has become all heat and iron and her pussy a red-hot forge. We piston out steaming juices around my dick while she strokes her clit. Several times I feel her scoop some of it up with her fingers and use it as lubrication. My cock is harder than a bar of steel. I willingly give up my disbelief and let myself be transported back in time while I fuck this incredible woman the way I imagined it would be in the 8th grade to fuck my junior high teacher. I close my eyes and I can smell her perfume and the chalk from the chalkboard and the freshly waxed floor of my classroom. I am fucking my teacher in her classroom the way I dreamed of back then, knowing nothing about sex but wanting nothing more than to know everything about it. I imagine I am sitting in her chair while she holds to the edge of her desk and slams herself down on me. I am being fucked with total abandonment at two points in time exactly the way every 8th grade boy thinks fucking should be even though we are still waiting for our first kiss. I open my eyes and I am again back in the hotel room but I keep holding onto my fantasy. I smell her perfume and I lean forward to kiss the nape of her neck the way I dreamed I would kiss my teacher when I was cleaning the chalkboard. I kiss her again, this time just behind her ear. She rolls her head about while I let my kisses linger. My head is spinning wildly and my heart is pounding. Her hips are rocking, the metronome has been pushed to full speed and she is yanking me to and fro, side to side. Her hand reaches for my dick and holds it at its base. She milks me for all I am worth while she rubs her clit. Whether we both reach orgasms at the same time I cannot say but there is little doubt that we overlap. I feel myself ejaculate again and again as I lift myself off the chair while straining my bonds. Her pussy squeezes me one last and very long time, the contraction lasting nearly a minute. She slumps onto me exhausted. "You've got a ride waiting for you," I remind her. She then holds my penis so the condom stays put and pulls off me. She disappears into the bathroom and is in there for maybe five minutes. When she comes out, she leaves the light on but closes the door enough to keep the room fairly dark. I can tell she is wearing panties and I feel her apply a warm, wet washcloth to my balls and cock. She removes my condom carefully and tosses it in the trash, then cleans me up. Neither of us talks. When she's finished with me she goes to her suitcase. I hear her rustling about and I know she is getting dressed. I hear a zipper being pulled but this time it is going up and not down. The suitcase locks snap shut. She comes up behind me and gives me a quick kiss on the top of my head but then slips something over my head so I can no longer see. I assume it must be a pillowcase. "I'm going to go now," she says. I feel her place something in my hand. "Don't drop it or you'll have a lot more trouble getting free." It feels like a metal nail file. "You can cut your way out with it. It's just a pair of nylons." Then she says to me, "I've that decided you earned a Valentine's Day present. I was going to give these to my husband but I think I want you to have them instead. You know, a memory of a Valentine's Day that turned out maybe better than you expected. I'll have to find something else for him. Maybe I'll just tie him up and suck his cock. He'll think it's because I've missed him, which is the truth, but I'll have my little secret to remember, too. He'll appreciate the enthusiasm." Then she paused and left me with a final bit of encouragement. "You know, someday I think you'll make someone very happy." She picks up her suitcase and steps toward the door. "Wait!," I ask her, "I have a question. What perfume are you wearing?" "Chanel No. 5" The door pulls shut and she is gone. "I'll never forget it," I say aloud. I wish she could have heard me. I lean back and shut my eyes while I commit it all to memory. Lick by lick and stroke by stroke, I remember and relish until the silence of the room jolts me out of my reverie. With the nail file I quickly tear through the pantyhose. I shake the feeling back into my hands and rub my wrists and then snatch the pillowcase off my head. My legs are unsteady when I stand up and my pants fall to my ankles. I pull them up and take a few staggering steps forward. Never in my wildest dreams. Never in anyone's wildest dreams. The light switch I find turns on a desk lamp. It takes me a moment before my eyes adjust and I can look around. The clock on the desk says 5:25 a.m. I push aside the chair I was tied to and smile after concluding that its cushion will never be the same. I look about and see that it was not a pillowcase that she had slipped over my head. It's a pair of silk boxer shorts adorned with hearts. A present for Valentine's. I stuff them into my pocket and head for the parking lot.