Chapter 5: Nel tests the limits of the hot tub's weight capacity as the boys take turns fucking her against the bubbling jets, their youthful stamina renewed by the steamy water and her insatiable appetite.
SO WITH MARK'S SUGGESTION OF GOING UP TO THE ROOFTOP HOT TUB TO WATCH THE SUNRISE, NEL PAUSES IN THE BATHROOM DOORWAY TO SEE WHAT THE OTHERS WANT TO DO.
THEY ALL AGREE ENTHUSIASTICALLY AND SCRAMBLE TO FIND THEIR SHORTS AND COLLECT SOME BOOZE FOR THE ADVENTURE.
"I GUESS A SHOWER CAN WAIT," NEL SAID AGREEABLY, SEEKING OUT HER MARABOU-TRIMMED SLIPPERS AND HER BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE. "LEAD THE WAY, MARK."
MARK AND THE OTHERS STUDY HER STANDING THERE NAKED BY THE FRONT DOOR IN NOTHING BUT HER SLIPPERS, HER BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE IN ONE HAND.
Mark and the others studied her standing there naked by the front door in nothing but her slippers, her bottle of champagne in one hand. The boldness was a physical shock, a gauntlet thrown down on the carpet between them.
"You're just... going like that?" Jason finally managed, his voice cracking.
"Problem?" Nel asked, taking a sip, her eyes challenging them over the bottle's rim.
The boys were all a little surprised, and impressed, that Nel remained naked as they trooped out of the suite and headed for the nearby elevator. Her slippered feet whispered on the hall carpet, the marabou on them shivering with each step, while the six young men shuffled around her in a silent, awestruck guard. The elevator doors opened with a soft chime onto an elderly couple dressed for an early flight; the woman’s gasp was audible, her eyes wide behind spectacles as she took in the silver-haired nude woman and her disheveled entourage. Nel merely smiled, stepping inside and turning to face the doors as if she wore a ballgown. "Going up?" she asked pleasantly.
On the roof, they located the hot tub, a five-man affair and seven of them. It steamed under the fading night sky, its blue-lit water churning softly. The city’s grid lay spread below, a circuit board of dormant lights. "Cosy," Nel observed, setting her bottle down and stepping over the tiled edge without hesitation, the hot water swallowing her calves, then her thighs, with a sigh. She sank onto a jet, leaning back, her breasts buoyant in the bubbling water, her expression one of pure conquest. The boys stumbled forward and began to crowd in, their limbs tangling, the water sloshing over the edge. Tyler, already hard again, squeezed in beside her, his thigh pressing against hers under the churning surface. Derek took the spot on her other side, his intellectual detachment fully dissolved, his hand finding her knee and sliding upward through the water. The last one in, Mark, had to wedge himself at her feet, the space so tight his back was against the wall of the tub. "Fuck, it's tight," Jason grunted, adjusting himself, his cock bobbing against the water’s surface. Nel’s laugh was a low, rich sound lost in the hum of the jets. "You have no idea," she said, shifting slightly to position her vaginal opening over one of the jets.
The powerful stream hit her directly, a targeted pulse into the tender, well-used flesh Leo and Ravi had marked and the boys had just reopened. She let out a sharp, unguarded gasp, her head falling back against the tub's rim. "Jesus, that's the spot," she murmured, her eyes closing for a second.
The boys all watched in awe as the older woman pleasured herself on the jet of water.
"Want it turned up there, Gramma?" Tyler asked.
Nel mumbled something inarticulate, nodded and Tyler turned the jet from powerful stream to pulsating water cannon.
The intensified thrum shot through her, a deep, percussive vibration that made her teeth chatter. Her knuckles went white where she gripped the tub's edge, the pleasure so acute it skirted the border of pain—that familiar, coveted border she’d paid Leo and Ravi to find. “Fuck,” she hissed, the word shredded by the water’s roar and her own ragged breath.
Tyler grinned, a predator seeing his trap spring. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” His hand clamped over her thigh beneath the water, anchoring her in place against the relentless pulse. Derek watched her face, the way her features contorted not in anguish but in a kind of fierce, focused surrender.
He’d never seen a person look so dismantled and so utterly in control simultaneously. “Is it… too much?” he heard himself ask, his voice barely carrying over the jets.
Nel’s eyes snapped open, finding his. They were clear and frighteningly present. “It’s exactly enough,” she stated, each word a precise bullet as she neared climax.
Her body arched, a tight wire of frayed nerve endings snapping, and a raw, guttural sound was torn from her throat, a screaming convulsion that locked every muscle, her back arching impossibly against Tyler’s chest, her teeth scraping Derek as a wave of pure, white static obliterated the city, the sky, the very air.
The violent shudders subsided into a deep, bone-melting thrum. “Well,” she finally exhaled, a slow smile spreading across her face as she looked at the circle of stunned young men. “That’s one way to greet the dawn.”
Tyler’s grip on her thigh didn’t loosen. “Wow,” he said, his voice thick, "That was something!"
"Glad you liked it," she replied breathily, a thin, satisfied smile on her lips.
"You ought to come to the fraternity house some night, Nel," said Jason, matter-of-factly. "I know about thirty other guys who'd love to meet you."
A slow, considering smile touched her lips as the water continued to churn around them. She reached for the champagne bottle, took a long pull, and let the bubbles cut through the lingering taste of sweat and sex. “Thirty is a very specific number, Jason,” she said, her voice still hoarse.
"Well, it'd be thirty-two actually," Jason corrected. That's how many are in our fraternity. Plus us of course."
"So a party, at a fraternity, with thirty-two young bucks like you six and little old me?" she asked, coquettishly.
"Hell yeah, it'd be legendary," Tyler blurted, his hand still resting possessively on her thigh under the frothing water. The first hint of dawn was a faint smear of peach over the skyline, its light catching the steam rising from their shoulders. Nel took another sip of champagne, the bubbles sharp on her tongue, and considered the arithmetic of thirty-eight strangers.
She remembered the precise, paid-for ache, and compared it to this messy, democratic gluttony. "Thirty-eight is quite a commitment," she said, her voice dry, "like a part-time job with benefits." Derek, who had been quiet, shifted in the water, his knee brushing against hers.
"You wouldn't have to do anything you didn't want to."
"Darling, at my age, wanting is the entire point," Nel countered, her eyes glinting with that familiar, unsettling mischief. The jet beneath her had been turned down, but a low thrum still vibrated through her, a pleasant echo of the earlier violence.
Jason leaned forward, his face eager. "We've got a huge house and a big yard, perfect for parties." The city below began to wake, a few car headlights carving paths through the gridlike streets.
Nel felt a sudden, sharp pang—not of soreness, but of something like nostalgia for the quiet she'd shattered back at the Maplewood. It passed quickly, drowned out by the heat of the water and the heat of their expectant stares. "You don't say," she sad, rolling the word around in her mouth like a candy.
"That does imply a certain... volume of misbehavior."
Mark, from his spot at her feet, grinned up at her. "We're kind of known for it. Sigma Epsilon Chi, baby. "
She let out a laugh. "Sigma Epsilon Chi, you say? SEX Frat?" She shook her head and let it fall back against the rim, the tile cool against her scalp, and watched an early-morning pigeon swoop past the neon sign of the bar across the street. The champagne was gone; she let the empty bottle clink against the tub's edge. "Tell you what," she said, sitting up straight, the water sluicing off her saggy breasts.
"You boys get me a proper invitation, something with glitter and obscene cartoons, and I'll consider your backyard bacchanal." A collective, hopeful energy buzzed through the group, tighter than the water jets. But as she looked from one young face to another, Nel knew she'd already decided; the chaos was a magnet, and she was iron.
The sun cracked the horizon then, a blade of gold slicing the night, and she laughed, ready for whatever came next.
The sun cracked the horizon then, a blade of gold slicing the night, and she laughed, ready for whatever came next. That golden light spread, exposing the water for the cloudy, chlorinated soup it was, and illuminating the boys’ faces, slack and sated and streaked with dried sweat. The magic of the dark was evaporating, and with it, the last of the night’s strange spell.
Nel stood up suddenly, water cascading off her body in a loud rush. The morning air hit her skin, shockingly cold compared to the tub’s artificial warmth. “Christ, it’s brisk,” she muttered, a full-body shiver tightening her skin into gooseflesh.
The boys watched, wordless, as she stepped out onto the wet tile. The water dripped from her, puddling around her feet on the concrete. She turned and located her marabou-trimmed slippers, sitting innocently beside the empty champagne bottle.
She picked them up, letting the water from her hand darken the pink terrycloth. “Alright, gentlemen,” she said, not looking back at them. The sore, full feeling between her legs was a familiar badge now, a pleasant ache to carry down to her suite.
She started walking toward the roof door, the cold concrete a rough contrast to the hot tub’s embrace. “It’s been educational.” One of them, maybe Tyler, started to say something, a half-formed protest or invitation.
She didn’t pause, didn’t turn. "Just leave my invitation at the concierge's desk and I'll be sure to get it," she shot back over a shoulder and the heavy door swung shut behind her, cutting off the rooftop, the steam, the six silent young men. The hotel corridor was a tomb of quiet, wall-to-wall carpet swallowing the sound of her dripping footsteps.
She padded past the elevator, needing the stairs, needing the burn in her thighs.
The stairwell door clicked shut behind her, sealing her in a concrete shaft that smelled of bleach and damp. Each step downwards sent a fresh, bright pang through her overworked muscles, a satisfying counterpoint to the dull, liquid ache that still pulsed between her legs. She welcomed both sensations, cataloging them like cherished souvenirs.
A flickering fluorescent tube buzzed overhead, casting a sickly light on the numbered doors she passed. On the twelfth-floor landing, she paused, leaning against the cool wall to catch her breath. Her reflection in a darkened security camera dome was a smudge of silver hair and pale limbs, a ghost from a riot.
She chuckled, the sound echoing in the empty space. “Thirty-eight,” she whispered to her blurred image. The word felt significant, a tangible number to attach to the yawning freedom that both thrilled and terrified her. The Maplewood’s silent halls felt continents away.
Pushing off the wall, she continued her descent, the slap of her wet slippers the only conversation. Back in her own corridor, the deep pile carpet welcomed her feet, silencing her approach. The brass number on her door, 1410, gleamed under the sconce light. Her keycard was tucked behind the strap of her left slipper, slightly damp. She slid it free.
The lock hissed green. Inside, the suite was exactly as she’d left it: quiet, orderly, the bed still a tangled monument from before the bass had thumped through the wall. The silence was now a palpable thing, thick and waiting. She stood on the plush carpet, water dripping from her body onto the floor.
She didn’t turn on the lights. The city’s dawn glow seeped around the curtains, painting the room in shades of grey and lilac. She walked to the minibar, opened it, and stood illuminated by its cool little light. Her hand bypassed the champagne. She selected a small bottle of gin instead. The cap twisted off with a crisp snap.
She drank directly from the bottle, the juniper burn a cleansing fire down her throat. It cut through the residual tastes of the night. Outside, a garbage truck beeped its way down the avenue, the city waking to its mundane business. She traced the bruise on her collarbone, a purple bloom in the dim light, and smiled.
She traced the bruise on her collarbone, a purple bloom in the dim light, and smiled. The gin bottle was cool in her hand, its contents a slow burn in her empty stomach. She considered breakfast but, after all the semen she’d swallowed that evening, she really wasn’t hungry for anything else.
A low, rusty chuckle escaped her. The frankness of the thought, even in the privacy of her own skull, was liberating. She took one last pull from the bottle, the alcohol finally blurring the sharpest edges of the night’s remembered violence.
Her body was a catalogue of interesting pains. The ache was a deep, settled thing now, a testament. She walked to the bed and crawled under the covers for a quick forty winks.
The sheets were cool and unfamiliar against her skin, which still hummed from the jet stream and the grasping hands. Sleep felt like a theoretical concept, something for people whose bones weren’t ringing with a triumphant, deviant frequency. Her mind replayed sensations in jarring cuts: the pulsating water, Derek’s horrified fascination, the specific weight of thirty-eight promised strangers.
A truck’s air brake hissed on the street below, a sound like a giant sighing. The soreness between her legs had deepened into a persistent, glowing ember. She stared at the ceiling, where a crack in the plaster formed a shape like a running fox.
The fox seemed to be fleeing toward the minibar. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered to the empty room. Throwing the covers back was an act of surrender. The carpet was plush and warm underfoot as she made her way to the vast window, pulling the heavy curtain aside with a single hooked finger.
Dawn had properly broken, washing the city in a pale, indifferent light. People the size of ants began to fill the crosswalks, marching toward orderly futures. She watched them, this stream of the sensible.