4 comments/ 11912 views/ 6 favorites Telling Lies in the Hotel Bar By: empty_coffee_cup She brought the shot glass to her lips, drained it, set it back down on the bar. "I'm going to lie to you." He paused, his own shot halfway to his lips, and raised his eyebrows. "Okay?" "I just decided." "Okay. Well then I'll lie to you too." The vodka was smoother than he expected. It burned, but just a little, and it lit a fire in him like vodka should. "That's only fair." The barman was way down at the other end of the too-long hotel bar. She took a bill - he couldn't make out what - from her purse and waved it at him until he looked their way. Then, without waiting, she pointed at the bottle that he'd left just under the raised part of the bar in front of them, reached over, took it and dropped the money in its place. The barman looked like he wasn't all that happy about it and wanted to come down to sort things out by the book, but he was stuck with a group of middle aged men who seemed to be arguing over the drink menu, both with each other and with him. She filled his glass, then hers, then put the bottle between them. "Are you going to lie to me about everything?" "No, not everything. Just some things. Y'know, sometimes you're in the mood." "In the mood to lie? I'm not sure I know that one." "Just drink, maybe that'll help." They shared a smile as they touched their short, heavy glasses together, then they shot them back perfectly in sync. "This is good, what is it?" "Vodka." "No, I know, I mean, what...?" He picked up the bottle and started mouthing the name - sounding it out. He didn't want to say it out loud. Whenever he tried something like that he just felt he sounded like an imbecile. "It's Polish. It's good right? I saw they had it behind the bar so I asked the guy for a shot before you came in." "How did you find out about it?" He turned the bottle around, just enjoying looking at the unfamiliar text. "I'm Polish." He looked over at her sharply, raising his eyebrows again. He'd thought that she wasn't paying attention, but she was looking right at him, eyes so perfectly black in the quarter-light of the bar that they must have been the darkest brown. He liked her hair, curly and dark and cut short so it spiralled off her head in a controlled mess. It stayed up in a way that really flattered the curve of her neck. That gorgeous arc was maybe what he'd noticed when he'd come down from his room into the bar. That was why he'd sat next to her. "I think this is one of the things you're lying about. You're not Polish," he grinned. "I'm not lying, I'm serious this time. Born here but one hundred percent Polish heritage. Where are you from?" "You mean where did I come from, or my heritage?" "Your..." she took the bottle from him and turned it idly herself as she felt for a word, "your stock." "My stock?" He laughed and leaned back on the stool. "Well, I would say... European melange I suppose." She looked over at him, smiling with only the side of her mouth closest to him. "What's your name?" "Jay. What's yours?" "Jay?" she didn't answer, "That's short for something though, right?" "Yes it is, but I won't tell you what." "You could just lie, that's what I'm going to do." "Ah yes, I forgot. Short for..." he couldn't think of anything, "...Joe." She gave him a long look that showed, explicitly, how unimpressed she was. "Joe isn't shorter than Jay, I don't think you really understand how this..." "Doesn't matter, doesn't matter! What's your name?" "Natasha." "That's a really nice name. It would be great if you were really called that." She made a face that he couldn't read and looked back down the bar at the barman. He was still finishing off the drinks of the big group who had - to a man - all rolled up their sleeves and loosened their ties. She thought for a moment and refilled both of their shots again. To the lip of the glass, again. "I was going to call it a night," she explained, although the situation hadn't called for an explanation. "But I guess I can stay for another couple." He didn't know a great deal about hotels, and this one in particular kind of threw him. He couldn't tell if it was a new place that they hadn't done a great job decorating, or an old place that they'd done really well at updating in places. The bar though, was new through-and-through, recessed lighting everywhere, all set to give the bare minimum of illumination, and smooth black faux-granite surfaces inlaid with faux-mahogany. He never usually came down for a drink by himself in hotel bars like this, and never usually struck up conversations with strange women like this, but he was glad he was setting a precedent. "So what do you do 'Natasha?'" he touched his glass but didn't lift it, waiting for her cue. This was too fun, too perfect, he didn't want to rush headlong into drunkenness. "I... you know there's a conference going on here? That big sign in the lobby." "Um, the... International Conference for Socio... something..." "Yeah, blah blah. That's the one. I'm here for that." "Oh, so you're like a... an academic? A scholar?" "I suppose, something like that." The liquor had overflowed her glass just a touch, and she lifted it and wiped the counter with a napkin. "How about you, 'Joe'?" Her voice dripped scorn, still mocking him for his unimaginative pseudonym. "I'm here working for a video game company. I don't do the games I just do the advertising for them. My company has been working with this game company and now I have to fly here for the week to... blah blah." He mimicked her. "We should drink, it's bad luck to leave these like this." "I agree." Shot number three down and she turned to face him a little. She was wearing a dark purple dress, what, a party dress? A cocktail dress? He didn't know how to put it but she looked sensational in it, and her legs, that he really shouldn't have been looking at so much, looked even better. He tugged at his own suit jacket and hoped he wasn't looking too bad himself. "So you're an ad guy! Like that TV show?" "Yes," he raised his empty shot glass, "I'm an ad guy like the guy from that TV show except not a monstrous asshole." She smiled, lips pressed together, but she was looking at him straight now, and she'd been looking at him sidelong all night so far. "Let's go. Facts about ourselves. See if we can tell what's truth and what's a lie." "Ok," he straightened up more, put his glass down. "Quick fire?" "Yes, taking it in turns." "Ok." He turned to face her then took a breath. "I own a dog." "I'm a licensed chiropractor." "We're just going? We're not guessing true or not after each one?" "Just go." "When I get drunk I usually try to play the piano in bars." He indicated the baby-grand not ten feet from where they were sitting and she smirked. "When I get drunk I challenge people to stupid physical challenges I can never win." "I can speak four languages." "What languages?" "Ah... French, Ger... German..." "Lie!" she snorted with laughter and it was oh so very cute. "I survived a car crash that totalled my car." "I once met Paul McCartney." "I'm allergic to celery." "I have been arrested twice, never charged." She raised her eyebrows at that, and paused a second before her next statement. "I have a husband." He looked at her carefully. "How old are you?" "Oh that's smooth." "I'm serious, I can't tell. If you're old enough to be married. Realistically I mean." She snorted another laugh. The way it punctured her grace and composure was very, very attractive. "Clearly I'm old enough to be married. I am married." With a shock he realised that the bartender had been standing right next to them for who-knew-how-long, looking on, grimly impassive. It looked like she was only just aware of him too, and they both looked over to the big man at the same time. He took the money she'd dropped and looked at her questioningly, not saying a word. "Keep it," she waved him away, and away he went. "Did you buy the bottle? I thought we were sneaking shots." "That would have been more fun, wouldn't it?" She grinned, open and glowing for the first time and - boom - a little detonation occurred in his chest. "I can't let you..." "Relax it's all on expenses anyway. Mine or yours what does it matter?" The big group of men with the bare forearms and open collars were getting louder and drunker at the other end of the room, and the barman was spending all his time with them. It was a long room with plenty of tables and not many people but still the relaxed atmosphere was dying in there. "You know," he said, "I heard there's another bar up on the third floor." "On the third?" She frowned. "I think I read it somewhere. Maybe it's a bit better up there. Want to check it out?" She kept him hanging for a moment, but broke into another perfect, genuine smile. "Sure, why not?" She took the bottle, he took the glasses. - - - Rumours of there being a bar on the third floor had, it turned out, been greatly exaggerated if not completely fabricated. He was pretty confused about it. He hadn't seen it clearly, but he was sure he'd seen something in the mess of papers and leaflets on the table in his room about there being a bar up here. But all they found were corridors eerily empty of either guests or staff. "The thought just crossed my mind that perhaps I should be a little suspicious of your motives for dragging me up here." They turned a corner and found themselves at a final dead end. There was nowhere else to go on this level. And no bar. "Wouldn't I have just asked you up to my room?" he shrugged, trying to make it sound as light and jokey as possible. "You think I would've gone to your room?" Her withering tone slashed at him, slapped him back into place. "No, this way you get to drag me into one of these random closets and strangle me without leaving evidence in your room." "Oh c'mon, let's just head back downstairs and have one more..." He stopped as he glanced up and saw the wicked smile curled across her pretty face. "I don't think you're a murderer 'Joe'." "Well that's something at least." There was a beat of silence as they stepped back around the corner, back the way they had come and stared down the empty corridor. It was surreal to be in a hotel, the kind of place you would expect to always be able to hear some trace of humanity coming through the walls, and for there to be so little sign of life. It was totally silent, albeit the fake kind of silence that gives way to the hum and groan of heating and air conditioning when you tune back into it. "I suppose we do have to head back downstairs though..." "Unless..." she started. He thought for a moment, pinching his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. "Unless..." he nodded. He took two steps to the nearest door. Dark wood, with some stylish metal strip set into it. "Locked or unlocked?" She opened up again and grinned, then gracefully slipped out of her heels and picked them up by their straps before answering. She stood there looking at him with his hand on the door handle, barefoot on the hotel carpet with her heels in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other and he knew he was doing something right. "Locked." He turned the handle... and hung his head as it wouldn't move more than a quarter of an inch. "One point!" she giggled. "Please don't keep score." He crossed the hallway diagonally to the next door. "Locked or unlocked?" "Locked." He held his breath and tried it, and this time the handle turned smoothly. "One - one." "Stop it," he shot back. "Laundry room, cleaning cupboard, office or..." She bit her lower lip on the left hand side and he felt his heart beat a little faster. "Cleaning cupboard." He paused just a moment for dramatic effect, then pushed the door open. Mops and a vacuum cleaner and shelves and shelves of cleaning products. He sighed and glanced back over his shoulder to see her fixing him with a look that managed to be triumphant, smug and sexy all at the same time. He closed the door and slipped the two shot glasses out of his jacket pocket where they had been clinking together. She poured, right there in the hallway, and he was amazed that both of them were steady enough that they didn't spill a drop. "Na zdrowie." She smirked. - - - Most of the doors were locked of course, and of those that weren't most rooms were only interesting in that their stillness and emptiness gave them an unnervingly creepy quality. There were several rooms that must have been small conference suites or function rooms, but they were completely empty - not even a chair to be seen. In the third such room the light didn't seem to work, so working on a mutual dare they held hands and stepped inside, letting the door close behind them and vanishing into the void. He didn't grab her, he didn't kiss her, he just walked with her, a slow, heart-pounding stroll through the blackness listening to each other breathe. When they were almost back at the elevator bank they'd ridden up in they finally found it. The double-doors were really no bigger than those of the smaller suites, but they opened onto a short antechamber with another pair of doors on the opposite wall. And through those doors was a ballroom. Some kind of larger circuit must have been cut, because flipping as many light switches as they could only brought some dim wall lights to life. The great, hanging chandeliers that they could see above them remained dark and dead. The ballroom answered his questions about the age of the hotel. It looked much older than the rest of the building, with a light wooden floor that would never have been laid at the same time as all the darker timber they had gone with for the refurbishment. They gave up on the lights when there was enough illumination to see by, and she laid the vodka and her shoes on the floor and set off, running barefoot into the cavernous hall. He picked the vodka back up and followed her at a slower pace. This place was the kind of surprise that he loved - the kind of space that you would never expect to find in a hotel like this. It must have risen three floors through the middle of the building, but walking around the corridors upstairs you would never notice unless you knew it was here. This place wasn't empty like the smaller suites either. Chairs were stacked head-high on one side, rank after rank of them, and one whole corner was occupied by a mass of tables. They were stacked on top of each other, tipped up against the wall, stored any way they could be. It would've been spooky if he wasn't on his way to a very happy drunkenness. As it was it was just serene and secret. This whole giant space, just for them. As he got further into the room he noticed that the opposite end of the hall from where they had entered was not a wall as he had thought, but a stage, raised up five feet or so off the ground. It was, in fact, a beautiful, classic proscenium arch complete with curtains that were probably a rich scarlet, but looked black in the twilight of the ballroom. A piano stood, not on the stage, but down on the floor in front of it. She was sitting on the edge of the stage, barefeet dangling, watching him approach. "Good, you brought the vodka. I forgot it." He raised the bottle in acknowledgment then put the two glasses down on the stage beside her and poured. "And it would have been quite the hike back over to the front door." "I can't even see it from here," she raised her hand, flat, over her eyes, pretending to peer against the glare of a non-existent sun. "Yes you can, don't be silly," he scolded in a deadpan voice. He handed her a glass, looking into her eyes and loving how odd she was getting as she relaxed more and more. Then - he supposed she had been playing games and telling lies right from the start. It was just that now she seemed to be enjoying it. She seemed to be enjoying everything. "Will this help me see better, Doctor?" Her eyes sparkled, big fake doe-eyes in the darkness. "Of course. But you must remember to take it regularly." "How regularly?" "Every few minutes." She broke character with a raised eyebrow. "Well I don't really want to pass out just yet, so let's maybe not go that fast, 'Joe'." "That's probably for the best, 'Natasha'. Now, how did it go?" He raised the shot glass. "Na Zdrowie," she said again and he repeated a mangled, clumsy version of the same. Then they drank, and then to his surprise she took the bottle and immediately refilled their glasses. "I thought we were slowing down?" "Medically," she glanced up at him, smiling faintly, "I think I can take another couple before I need to be careful." "So, Polish huh?" "It was true," she nodded. Then she reached out, touched her glass to his and shot the spirit back again. He rushed to follow suit, his throat still hot from the previous shot. He put his back to the stage and boosted himself up so he was sitting next to her. "And... are you married?" She didn't answer, just threw her head back and leaned back away from him, supporting herself with her hands. He looked at her beside him, the perfect curve of her slender neck again, and this time letting himself look for a moment at the rise of her chest, her breasts pressing up and forwards behind her thin dress as she stretched backwards. It was so dark, but still the light caught the full, heavy swell of them. In his head the vodka buzz was joined by the thump of his heartbeat. "It looks like there's a whole backstage back there," she said, her head still hanging back, her voice echoing off the back wall of the stage. "We're going to be killed by the ghosts of failed vaudeville performers that took their lives on this very stage," he whispered dramatically and she sat back up straight with a bark of laughter. He had been thinking, of course, from the start about how well this was going and how far it was going to go. It was, every instinct told him, going very well indeed, but he was hardly a serial seducer so what he ought to do at any time was hopelessly obscure to him. He was happy to just play it cool and see where this went, so when she leaned against him, putting her head on his shoulder and laying her slender hand on his, he couldn't help but feel a touch of panic mixed in with the elation. Now it felt like there were stakes on the table. For a split second he thought this might be something that he could fuck up, then he got control of himself and just enjoyed it. "I think," she said, soft but not sleepy. "That you were arrested. I think that was true." "It was." He leaned into her a little and moved his arm behind her, not around her but as though he was giving her something to lean against. "Why? What did you do?" "The first time was a mistake. Me and a buddy were walking home through this neighbourhood after a show and there'd been some break in and they thought it could have been us so..." "The second time?" "I got too drunk and made a fool of myself." "Hmm," he felt the warmth of her, her bare arm through the jacket and shirt he was still wearing. "Maybe I should cut you off." "It wasn't just the alcohol. I think you're safe." He shifted his arm again, this time bringing it around her slender waist and resting his hand on her hip. The dress was cool silk over the heat of her body. Without even meaning to his fingers met the line of her underwear hidden beneath it. She didn't say a word, but her hand slipped off his and onto his leg. "I was thinking..." she started, but stopped almost immediately. He looked down at her, her dark hair, dress, bare legs just making shapes in the darkness. If she lifted her head now, if she turned to face him... "Is it true you play the piano when you're drunk?" Telling Lies in the Hotel Bar It threw him, it ripped him from the moment and broke the spell of heat and potential that had been spreading through his body, amplifying every sensation and thickening him in his underwear - but only a little. He looked at the piano squatting on the floor in front of them. An upright, not like the baby grand downstairs. Who knew if it had been tuned, but he wasn't much of a pianist anyway, it was true that it was only when he was drunk. "No more lies then," he said and she straightened up as he, reluctantly, slipped off the stage away from her. There was even a proper stool next to it, he noted as he lifted the cover. "It's true, but I'm not very good. Hence - when I'm drunk." He sat down and brought a few chords and runs into the ballroom. How long had it been since he'd played? He was rusty as all hell. "Wow," she murmured in a way he couldn't read. He fell into something pretty and romantic that he remembered. Something that wouldn't kill the mood but that was at least not too lugubrious. He made a fair pass at it, but wasn't drunk enough (still!) to be unaware of his slips and hesitations. She listened, head cocked to one side slightly. "Play something slower," she interrupted, not nastily, but in a way that was sharp enough to make him stop. "Don't try and show off." He abandoned what he was playing and sat for a moment with his fingers on the keys, trying to remember what he knew. Finally, hesistantly, something came. Melancholy and beautiful, perhaps not the kind of thing to seduce a girl with, but the perfect piece for this empty, ghostly hall. And he realised that playing slower was a much better idea. He knew the piece better than he had thought too, and this time it felt right. He couldn't even remember the composer or the name of the piece, but it was the perfect piece for that moment, for that room and for that girl. He almost didn't notice when she slipped down off the stage herself. She filled the glasses again, placed his on top of the piano and shot hers back without waiting while he went on playing. Then she was wandering away into the hall, and he wanted to look back over his shoulder to watch her, but he wanted to maintain the music and the moment more. He was impressed that he could keep his left hand going as he reached up with his right to take the shot and down it. Now the booze was really working, really doing its job. When she returned she brought a chair with her. She put it next to the piano and carefully climbed up, step by step, until she was kneeling on the thin top of the piano. Then she stood. He looked up at her in the darkness. Her legs vanished into the darkness of her dress in the low light, but he could see the curve of her cleavage and tell that she had her head thrown back and her arms stretching upwards. As his fingers kept moving, kept summoning that longing melody into the hall, she looked down at him. "I'm not married." "Ok." "No more lies, you said." "No more lies feels right." "I know this piece," she swayed above him, a statue in the darkness, "you play it well." She shook her head suddenly, tossing her short curly hair around, and the movement almost made him think she would fall. He braced himself to catch her. Still looking up he watched as she brought her hands up from her side, up over her body, bunching and pulling at the fabric of her dress, lifting it high up her thighs and then letting it slip back down. He let the music move on, a little more andante, a little darker too. Her hands kept sliding up her body, over the swell of her large breasts until they were at her neck... then they slipped back down and she caressed and lifted them, seemingly lost in a fugue of vodka and piano. He was mesmerised, amazed that he could still play while he watched her. When she moved again it shocked him into making a mistake. "Keep playing," she said, her voice different - more forceful. She lowered herself and sat, facing him. At first he thought she was going to climb down somehow, onto his lap as he played. But instead she brought her legs down together, down as if she were going to stand right in the middle of the keyboard, and then she spread them. He played, not thinking about whether his fingers were getting tired or not, not thinking about where this was going, just playing, losing himself in the music like she was. She sat above him, facing him from the top of the piano, and she spread her legs wide, then wider. She arched her feet and rested the balls of them on the raised key cover as she bit her lip and looked down at him. Her face was in darkness - all he could see was the shine of her teeth and her eyes. Then, inevitably, irresistibly, his eyes were drawn down. Her dress had never reached all that far down her thighs, and sitting as she was, with her backside on the edge of the piano and her legs spread almost as far as they could be, it was pushed back and up. She lifted it a little more, but she barely needed too - he could already see the black triangle of her panties, stark in the darkness against the lighter colour of her thighs. Just above him, just in front of him. This cute, mysterious woman showing him the soft heaven of her thighs, the hidden treasure behind those panties. He could hear her breathing, even over the sound of the piano, he could hear her breathing get thicker and heavier. One hand went back to support herself on the other edge of the piano-top. The other hand came down, down, down. It pressed the front of her dress back up and trapped it between her wrist and her body. Then her fingers came together, flat, they curved and straightened and slipped into the top of her panties. His cock had been thickening, now it was hard. Bent and pressing for release in his pants, he felt it buck. He gasped as he saw the dim light picking out the shape of her hand sliding down, stretching out the front of those tight black panties. Then she gasped, her thighs, almost imperceptibly, lifted as her fingertips reached that first moment, the start of her hidden cleft. He could only imagine, and that was all he was doing. He played and she moved her hips and found an easier position. He watched, heart hammering, head buzzing. His fingers ached as hers started to move behind the black lace. He could see her wrist clearly, how the muscles and tendons were controlling her fingers, but he couldn't see how she was touching herself. Her panties, stretched over her fingers, pulled away from her body a little as she arched her wrist for a moment, and he caught a glimpse of dark, tangled hair. Then he was fixed on the crotch of her panties again - the almost imperceptible movement of her fingers under the cloth. Stroking, teasing, circling herself until she made a soft noise, almost a whimper, above him. He looked up and she was barely there, eyes closed, biting down on that lower lip hard enough to hurt. Then her wrist slipped, her fingers shifted under the fabric and he knew she was inside herself. One finger, two fingers maybe. He couldn't tell. Her wrist started to move differently, not allowing her fingers to play, but using them now. Her wrist moved, fucking her fingers into her pussy, and she gasped, voicing her pleasure, but barely. He could hear her breathing, God, he could smell her arousal, and suddenly he realised he was hearing it too. Soft under the sound of the piano and her heavy breathing there was a sweet, sticky rhythm as she spread her legs and touched herself. He felt dizzy. He wanted to stand from the piano stool, kick it away and play standing, tear those panties away with his teeth and bury his face in her. The cavernous ballroom stretched out around them, as silent and empty and massive as before, but the only thing that mattered in it was the piano and the two people with it. "Mmn, fuck." It was the first thing she had said, but he said nothing in response, he just played and held his breath and watched as the dark movement of her fingers became faster and faster. "Fucking fuck." She cursed. The muscles in her legs tensed, and, putting all her weight on the piano key cover and the hand behind her, she lifted her hips up off the piano. She was arching her back, and before she threw her head back he saw her brow furrow - torn and lost. Then she was panting, fast and hard as if afraid of losing control, her thighs were tight and without thinking she thrust her panties, her fingers, her pussy out at him. She came with a short cry and a savage shudder that dropped her backside back onto the piano with a bump. "Jesus fucking fuck." "Wow," he breathed. Now he felt how tired his fingers were. He slowed, almost to nothing, just some low chords ringing out into the darkness. She straightened up, stretching her back, rubbing at the back of her neck with one hand, the other still deep in her panties. She giggled, but it was low and caught in her throat. "I don't really know what happened there." "It was... you were beautiful." "Well..." she didn't seem sure what to say, "Thank you." She finally moved her hips again, and with another barely vocalised gasp, he realised that she'd slipped her fingers out of herself. They came out of her shining wet, catching all the light they could. Her index and third fingers. He didn't know he was going to do it until he did it, but with his free right hand suddenly he was catching her wrist and bringing it to his mouth. Then her fingers were between his lips and he was tasting her, sucking her clean. "Oh, oh wow," she said, eyes wide, as clumsily surprised as he had been several times that night. When he released her wrist she didn't pull her fingers out straight away, she pushed them further in, over his tongue for a moment before she slipped them out. He stood up from the stool and held out his arms to help her down. She stepped noisily on the keys, then the stool, giggling as she made her way on shaky legs to the floor. "Thanks for playing for so long," she looked up at him mischievously. He felt no uncertainty at all now. He just pulled her to him, one hand in the small of her back and he kissed her. Their lips parted, their tongues met and the heat inside each of them seemed to fuel the other's fire. "You're welcome," he answered after they had separated, then he grinned, "But my wrists are killing me, that was the most I've played in years." "Come on," she took his hand and pulled him towards the stage. A step away she stopped. "But what is your name?" "Jay," he smiled, "I told you." "But what is it short for?" "Ah, I really don't like it. Jay's fine." "Noooo," she pouted, taking the last step to the stage and turning to face him as she boosted her backside up onto it. He put both hands on it and climbed up like that. "No more lies, remember." He hesitated, then sighed. "Judah." "Judah." "Blame my parents." "I like it. It kind of sounds right. Judah." "And what your name?" She half smiled and hesitated, as he slipped his jacket off and tossed it away onto the stage. "Veronica. But, it's Polish, so it's spelt with a W and a K. But, Veronica, like this." She pointed with a single finger to her lips and dragged her teeth over her lower lip. 'V'. "Veronica." He put his hands on her hips and started to slide her dress up. She reached out and started popping open the buttons on his shirt. "I'm glad I met you, Veronica." "I'm glad I was here today," she answered, and before he could respond she had his shirt open and was kissing his chest. He gasped, and kept his hands going, lifting the silk dress above her rear, up her body, until she had to lift her arms up and let him take it all the way off her. She stepped away as he sent her dress to follow his jacket. His shirt went the same way, and he kept his eyes on her as he lost everything but his underwear. Her steps traced a circle around the stage, always glancing up at him - watching him watching her, watching as he revealed the prominent, hard bulge that he'd been keeping leashed since the piano. He loved her pert backside, and the way is fit so perfectly into her low, tight panties. He loved the tiniest hint of a belly that she had, and he loved her full, heavy breasts, and how the bra she was wearing seemed to be restraining them, holding them back. Maybe it was even a touch too small. He wanted to help. He wanted her to lose it. Most of all he loved the curves of her. From her hips to her tits to her ass to her neck - it was all she was made of. And the nape of her neck, he moved as she came closer, caught her as she turned and kissed her right there, inhaling her scent as her hair spiralled around him. He pressed her against him, her back against his front, his throbbing member against her sweet rump. He gave a low laugh of delight as she moved her hips - ground against him. Then he pinched the clasp of her bra, released, and set her glorious breasts free. Reaching around her with both hands he cupped and lifted them. The bra had contained them inside the dress, but unsupported, unrestrained, they were bigger than he expected. Surprisingly big, perhaps, for her slender frame. She had curves, but he had still been able to wrap his arm around her as if she were nothing. He caressed them gently and felt her lean back against him with a sigh. Her nipples hardened under his touch. Her breasts were divine, plump and perfect, like nothing he'd ever felt before. And as he lost himself in her, kissing the back of her neck, the side, she found something to do. She made space between their hips and reached back behind her. Her hands slipped into his underwear, and before he knew it her hand was on him, her fingers were around him. Stronger and firmer than he'd expected. She took control of his shaft, of his head, explored it, learned about it with her fingers as he learned about her. He took each nipple between finger and thumb and gently pulled. "Ahhhn!" She moaned, then spoke. "Judah," it was one of the first times he had enjoyed hearing his name spoken aloud, he realised. "Judah, I want to see it." So she turned, and as he stood she slipped her hands over his hips and into his boxers, then pushed them down. His prick, swollen as hard as it could be, strained against his waistband then sprung up. She looked up at him with a sinful smile. "You have a nice cock, Judah," she purred. They were in the middle of the stage, he realised, and before he knew it she was pushing him down onto the old wooden floor. It was cold against his back, but he didn't care. He lay back and the cold crept into him, but his prick stayed hard, bobbing in the air. She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her panties as if they were about to come sliding down, but then suddenly seemed to change her mind at the last moment. He was almost disappointed until she slipped her hand across and simply pulled the crotch aside instead. He glanced to her face and saw the white of her teeth as she flashed a teasing smile. She knelt and straddled him, but not over his waist yet. She knelt, her soft thighs either side of his face, and barely paused before bringing her pussy down on him. They were still illuminated by nothing but the dimmest of lights, so he saw nothing of the hot, wet folds of her before she was on him. He was barely able to get an impression of her body over him either, just the way the heavenly swell of her breasts stopped him from seeing any farther as she sat astride his face, her back to his throbbing, twitching member, and started slowly rubbing her post-orgasmic pussy against his lips. The vodka was working, he realised as her smell, her perfect, indescribable taste started to dominate his senses. He was dizzy and she had him on the back-foot, slow to react to her actions. But he caught up, and he curled his arms to reach her thighs and hold her still as he first sucked her soft lips between his, then let his tongue reach out, touch, tease, trace and then penetrate. Her thighs moved, pressing either side of his face as he started to lick her in earnest. It muffled the sound but he still heard her cry out, felt her body tense, try to move as he dragged his thick tongue through her sensitive pussy. He let her move, but only enough so that he could reach his tongue to her hard little clit. He gave it short, gentle caresses, and couldn't help a smile as her thighs relaxed and she leaned back a little. He could hear her now as she whispered under her breath. "Oh, good boy. Good b-boy... Aahhn, that's perfect..." She sat astride his face, letting him tease her clit, and leaned back. He couldn't see what she was doing, he could barely see anything, but she must have been leaning back and supporting herself with one arm. Because somehow the other one had curled around behind her and was seizing his cock again. "Oh, you're st-still hard, good" She wasn't gentle with him, but that was just fine. As her juices soaked his chin, and her wet pussy slipped up and back over his face, he felt her warm, firm grip stroke him, keeping him hard, using his own precum as lubrication. He started fucking her with his tongue and she lost her grip. And that was when he lost patience. "Ride me." "What?" she had been spacing out, riding the pleasure his tongue was sending rippling through her body. "What did you say?" "Move back. Move down and ride my cock, Veronica." "Ahhh," she ground her pussy against him one more time and squeezed his prick. "Tell me one more time." "Ride my fucking cock," he growled, grinning as she kneeled up and moved herself back down him. "T't. So demanding," she teased. She knelt one one knee, leaning to the side and keeping herself raised slightly on the other foot as she reached beneath herself with one hand to find his hard prick. Her other hand supported herself on his flat stomach as her fingers gripped him once more. He expected her to say something else, but her hair obscured her face and she seemed lost in concentration as she brought him to her wet, inviting entrace. The sensations as she controlled him, dragged his desperate head along her lips - forward, backward, forward - instead of just taking him inside, made his head swim. He groaned and arched his back, desperate for the embrace of her body, but submitting to the guidance of her hand. He felt as though he were falling backwards, passing through the stage, spinning downwards with her riding him all the way. Then he heard her say something, he didn't know what, and, holding him almost gently she moved down on him and let him in. Her actions were careful and almost hesitant as she took him slowly into her. She was wet, but so tight that he knew he should let her set the pace at first. But even though they seemed to him to be moving in slow motion, every slight movement sent bolts of pleasure racing to his brain. His breath caught in his chest as her pussy claimed him. She rocked on him, bringing her other knee to the floor now and putting both hands on his chest. Still, her hair formed a curtain between them, but as she relaxed and let him slide further and further inside her, her head came up and she pushed her hair back to look at him. One hand on his chest, but only the fingertips - she wasn't supporting herself that way. Instead, as he heard and felt her arousal increasing, she was leaning back, using her thighs and hips to grind, to fuck him in a swaying motion that was just far too sexy for him to look at for long. He felt her juices on his thighs, his prick. When it had started both of them had been breathing sharply, the air full of gasps and sudden intakes of breath. But as she started to find a rhythm, and he let his hips rise off the stage to join her, their breathing became deeper - feral in a different way. Long, drawn out sighs of lust provided a background to the soft sound of sex. Telling Lies in the Hotel Bar Her pussy was perfect for him, and he hoped she felt the same about his member. She was so perfectly tight and wet as she rode him that the pleasure threatened to overwhelm him within moments. He closed his eyes, bit his lip and forced it down, bringing his hands to her thighs so that he could have some input to their speed and rhythm. He regained control, but almost lost it again when he opened his eyes. She rode him, leaning back, one arm up holding back her hair and the other hand squeezing her own succulent breast. Before she had been within herself, containing and controlling herself as he first penetrated her. But now her eyes were fixed on his and they moved as one, entirely together in the moment. She fucked him with the same sensuality she had shown all evening, amplified. Her hips swung and dropped, and as her cunt took him, his whole length now, her eyes contained nothing but pure lust. Her gorgeous, heavy breasts bounced and swayed, seeming to glow in the half-light, as her sighs became thicker, and turned to moans as he reached up to touch them, to caress them. Her nipples were hard between his fingers as he tugged once more, drawing a cry from her that was so sexy he felt his cock throb and jump inside her. Leaning forward once more, she returned her hands to his chest and put her weight on him this time. He felt a groan, an animal growl rising in his throat as she started fucking him faster, humping her hips, riding his throbbing cock harder and faster, harder and faster. Through the tangle of her hair as it cascaded down over her face she caught his eye. "Fuck me," she gasped, half-command, half-plea. His hands were back on her waist and he shifted his body just a little, then he brought his own hips up, firmer, harder than before, to meet her rhythm. It took a moment, but before they knew it they were locked in synch, fucking like their lives depended on it. The heat between them had banished the cool of the hardwood floor and the empty stage. She rode him and he drove his solid prick into her again and again. Sighs and moans gave way to torn cries of passion, curses and exhortations. "Fuck! Fuck me... fuck me..." her voice ringing out, echoing around the ballroom. He thought for a moment about whether the sounds of their passion would carry to other people in the hotel - but knew almost instantly that he didn't care. "Oh God," he moaned, "Oh..." Then she leaned further over him, moving up and making him raise his hips up even more to keep fucking her dripping pussy as she brought her luscious breasts and swollen nipples to his lips, to his face. He sucked one perky nipple between her lips and she squealed, then dropped her weight back down on him, riding him harder than ever. The heat of her on him, the raw, torn pleasure in her voice, the tingle of her nails on his chest as her fingers started to curl... His cock was the focus of his being, crying out for release. He was astonished he hadn't cum yet, in fact; and every moment, every girlish gasp, every forceful curse, every thrust, every stroke, every second he spent in her heavenly cunt felt like a miracle. Hot and wet, she squeezed him inside her, and suddenly she was slowing. "Keep going," she gasped, almost lying on him now, their faces inches apart, and then almost matter of factly added, "I'm gonna cum. Oh fuck, oh God, I'm gonna cum..." Somehow he kept control. Somehow he didn't shoot right in that instant, and somehow she started moving with him again, and somehow he could lean up and kiss her, tongues tangling, hot, gasping breath meeting hot gasping breath, as a cry caught in her throat, she shuddered against him and he knew she was cumming. "I'm... oh fuck..." she seemed compelled to tell him, and he had no problem with that at all. She squeezed him inside her as the pleasure overwhelmed her, and maybe it was that, but probably it was that he just couldn't take it anymore, but two breaths later he felt that dizzying precipitous moment of no return. "Cum..." she said, but he was already there, and on the empty stage, to an audience of no-one, he cried out and came, hot, hard and desperate, inside her. - - - They lay side by side on the empty stage until their hearts had stopped hammering and until the cool of the hall started to seep into them again. "Wow," he said, finally breaking the silence. "I agree," she murmured soft, sitting up. He raised himself onto his elbows to watch her carefully adjust her panties, then retrieve her bra from the floor. Her movements were cautious now, tentative, where moments ago he'd seen every last defence come down. It was a relief when she glanced at him with a sly smile. "Thanks for that, Judah." "Thank you," he laughed, getting to his feet to gather up his own clothes. Back in her dress, she disappeared into the shadows stage right, and moments later emerged from a door next to the stage back onto the floor of the hall. He was facing the back of the stage trying to find his other shoe when the music started. For a heart-stopping moment he thought that someone had turned on some music system in the hall, and that the lights were about to come up with him still half-dressed and both of them half-drunk. The music was just so perfect it could have been a recording. It took him an embarrassingly long time to understand that she was playing the piano. She played so beautifully, with such expression that he felt like a fool for trying to impress her earlier. It was a quiet, slow piece, but not a sorrowful one, and although her head was tilted over the keys, he could tell she had her eyes closed even from there. He found his shoe, and climbed down off the stage, just listening. After a couple of minutes she stopped, leaving off with a sigh and a smile. "That was beautiful," he said, "and I feel like a complete idiot for playing earlier." "Don't!" she laughed. "I love Satie. I loved it. I mean, you saw how much I loved it." She smiled even wider, "You tasted how much I loved it." He knew she wouldn't see in the darkness, but he felt the blood rush to his cheeks. She closed the key-cover. "It was nice to have someone playing for me. I work here." "You work in this hotel?" She nodded. "I play the piano in the bar. You just showed up after I'd finished for the night." He laughed. "Well, I knew you weren't really here for the conference." "Because..." she frowned, then smiled and pointed at him, "You're here for the conference." "Yep. So you knew there was no bar up here!" "I did, but it was fun to play along. I have no idea where you got that idea by the way." "Ah, doesn't matter." He had brought the vodka too, and the glasses, and he placed them on top of the piano, still thinking things through. "You must get a lot of guys trying to hit on you, I can't believe you gave me the time of day." "This," she made a gesture taking in the whole hall but probably meaning only him, "was the first time anything like this has ever happened to me. I think it was the way you came and sat right next to me and seemed to have no clue what to do next." "Ah, sorry, I..." "Don't worry." She stood from the piano, took two steps and grasped the lapels of his jacket. "Plus you're very, very cute." She may have been about to pull him into a kiss but his lips were already there. "This just seemed... right," she whispered as they parted. "It seemed very right to me," he murmured. "But now," she smiled a little wryly, "I've missed my train. Public transport doesn't wait for those who follow their... instincts." "I've found that before," he nodded with a grin. "Well, it so happens that I actually happen to have a room at this very hotel." She looked up at him in what seemed to be genuine surprise, as if the thought hadn't crossed her mind. He had assumed that she had been playfully fishing for an offer that he would have been more than happy to extend, but it really looked like she had been trying to work out what she was going to do. For a split second he wondered if he had misjudged things and she was actually looking for a way to get away from him. Then she smiled. "Are you inviting me up to your room?" She giggled. "Well, we still have half a bottle of vodka, and it doesn't sound like you have anywhere better to be." She kissed him again. "I've been working here two years, but I've never actually... stayed here." "I'm not sure that your breakfast will be included but..." "I'll have to live with that." "It's only a single room, but I can sleep on the floor." "I'd rather you didn't," she kissed him again, giving him exactly the response he had been hoping for. He took the bottle and glasses, and she linked her arm into his. They crossed the vast empty floor of the hidden ballroom, picked up her shoes, turned out the lights, and went upstairs to bed.