Hotel Lobby

We were in the city for a conference last week, stayed at a very nice hotel downtown, one with a large, busy lobby, always full of people drinking and laughing and gazing. On Friday night we ate a late dinner, did not get back to the hotel until 2:30 in the morning, and went right to bed, falling asleep exhausted.

On Saturday night, we saw a play and had an earlier dinner and decided to go back to the hotel and sit in the lobby and have a drink or two. Emily wanted a French Martini and said I should try the same. "Not too much a girl's drink," I laughed.

"It is," she smiled back, "perfect for both of us."

I left the couch we were sitting on, looked back at her sitting gracefully in the silk/rayon halter top black dress she was wearing and started to the bar to order our drinks. She was beautiful and I'd told her so several times that night. The dress had a slight stretch to it, with a drawstring on one side that created flattering ruching through the skirt. It also had a plunging neckline, much more revealing that what she usually wore, and any time she leaned slightly forward, her young, taut, firm braless breasts were practically on display.

It was crowded and for several minutes I tried to get one of the bartenders' attention, unsuccessfully. I don't exactly stand out in that situation, I do not have an alpha male's sense of presence. I took a breath, thought of something pretty, channeled Sara, and let her eyes seek out attention.

It worked. I doubt the bartender knew why, and it may have been coincidence, but within thirty seconds, one stopped and took my order. Finally, I got our drinks and carried them back towards the end of the lobby where she was sitting.

As I said, it was crowded-there were at least two weddings at the hotel, maybe three, and the lobby was full of well dressed people, couples, singles, groups, brides, attendants. Earlier, before dinner, we had sat in the lobby holding a mock fashion show, commenting on various outfits. Yes, yes, I'm a sissy, I know!

Walking back towards here, I caught her eye, as she was looking over the high backed chair positioned at a 90 degree angle to her towards me, though she quickly looked down. When I got to the area where she was sitting, I saw why. Seated next to her, talking to her, was a man in a dark suit, a handsome man, who did not even look up at me as I approached, so focused was he on my Emily, the pretty girl he found sitting alone, looking so much like prey.

He did not see me, and for a minute, Emily did not acknowledge me, not while he was talking. He was keeping eye contact with her, but I could see, every few seconds, his eyes darting downward, first to her chest, which was mostly covered as she was sitting straight, then to her legs, which were much less so. She had crossed her legs, was turned slightly towards him, and the hem of her dress had ridden well up her thighs. If she moved her legs even slightly, he would see right up her dress, perhaps glancing the soft, beautiful spot of her womanhood.

After an uncomfortable moment, uncomfortable yet undeniably erotic seeing him flirt with my girl, I cleared my throat, and she finally looked up at me and smiled. "I got our drinks," I said somewhat lamely, certainly weakly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were married," the man said glancing down at Emily's hand where no jewelry decorated the ring finger of her left hand.

"Married," she looked back to me, then to him, "oh, you thought...no, no," she reached over as a woman can do, patted his arm, which also touched his leg. "Oh, no, Jack, no, we're not married," she smiled at him, though it was meant for me, "he's just a friend, please, stay."

Jack looked at me and saw nothing in my face that contradicted what she'd just said, nothing in my demeanor that marked me as a threat.  How could it, it was mostly true, we were not married and we were friends. Very good friends, but still.

"Oh, that's cool," he smiled, relaxed. He understood what he wanted to understand. She was a pretty woman and the guy standing next to her holding two French martinis, the trim guy in the lavender shirt was not her husband, and implicitly (though not truthfully) was not her boyfriend. What did he see? It was obvious to me, a pretty girl, her gay friend, and an opportunity to take one of them home and send the other away alone.

"Thanks, love," Emily smiled as I set her drink down and sat next to her. I saw it on her face, she knew what he thought too. She may not meant to have implied it, but he inferred that I was gay, and therefore, not a threat to his objective, which was so obviously to fuck my girlfriend.

I sat down next to her, thought again to the persona I had channeled to get the drinks, the soft pretty girl, Sara, and knew that thinking like her would make the man my Emily was hitting on more and more convinced that I was gay.

For the next half hour I watched as Jack hit on my girlfriend, watched as she let him, toyed with him, played with him, flirted. She would touch his arm or laugh at his jokes, and I could see him, his eyes, ignoring me, focused on her. Hunger. He wanted her. Hunger. He wanted to fuck her. Hunger.

Like I wasn't there.

And she encouraged him; I could see all the non-verbal signals. She played with her hair. She looked him in the eyes, but then would look downward, submissively, a signal he seemed to love. She would touch him back, let her hand rest on his arm as it rested on her bare thigh. She leaned towards him when he talked-every time she did I saw his eyes go to her chest, to her breasts on display. 

"Would you like to come upstairs for a drink," he asked, asking her, asking Emily, not me, asking her, purposefully leaving me out. He asked it in a way that he expected her to say yes, and why wouldn't he, with the signals she was giving him.

She looked towards me and, rarely, I could not read her eyes, I could usually read her eyes. "You don't mind, do you darling, we'll meet for breakfast?"

I saw him watching, the hunger, watching as the fair maiden dismissed her courtier, her attendant, her eunuch. He knew, it was in his eyes, he knew she was his. 

Was I to say no? What was she doing? "No," I said as calmly as I could, seeing only his hand on her thigh, higher now, more possessive, claiming her.

We stood, he put his hand on her back, touching her, skin touching skin. I could not believe how beautiful she looked; I could not believe she would go to his room for a drink; I could not believe I wanted her to, wanted her to.

The elevators to his room were on the opposite side of the lobby to the elevators to our room. But she went with him, not with me. He took her hand and they walked away, towards the elevators to his room, and all I thought was what a handsome couple they made.

By the time I was in the elevator, I was swelling in the panties I was wearing. By the time I inserted the key to the hotel room door, all I could think of was him inside her. By the time I was in the room, it was all I could do to keep from touching myself until I exploded.

I undressed and slipped got out things to sleep in. A bra, breast forms, a satin baby doll, matching panties. The pretty sissy, alone while his girl was off with a man, cuckolding him.

And then I stepped out of the bathroom into the bedroom and there Emily was there sitting on the bed, legs crossed, arms crossed, staring at me.

"Emily," I questioned.

"Disappointed or relieved I'm not fucking him right now."

I looked down, face reddening.

"Or both," she laughed.

"Emily, I..."

"Get on the bed, Sara, if I'm not going to get good and fucked tonight, I'm certainly going to get good and licked."

She had told him she wanted to use the restroom, slipped away, followed me up to our room, giddy as a school girl knowing how humiliated and excited and troubled I would be. 

And she rode my face for what seemed like an hour, demanding orgasm after orgasm, knowing her sissy may not be able to fuck her for hours and hours, but that her sissy could certainly lick her over and over and over.

I did not enter her that night. Oh, she was not selfish, in the end her hand easily worked its charm. But there was no fucking. "Pretty little girls who let a man pick up their girlfriend do not get to fuck," she said as I exploded in her hand, carefully catching as much as she could which she fed me, reminding me over and over that I was her pretty sissy lover.