Chapter 3: Steam and Submission
The keycard felt like a live wire in Larry’s palm. He’d mumbled something about needing air, maybe finding a cigar lounge, and Brenda had just nodded, already turning back to her conversation about investment properties. The elevator ride to the eighth floor was an eternity, each chime of the ascending floors a hammer blow to his nerves.
He slid the card into the lock. The green light blinked. He stepped inside.
The suite was dark, save for the city lights bleeding around the edges of the drapes. The door to the bathroom was ajar, a blade of harsh white light cutting across the plush carpet.
He pushed it open.
Nancy stood with her back to him, facing the massive mirror above the double sinks. She was wearing only the hotel’s white robe, untied. It gaped open, revealing the elegant curve of her spine, the swell of her hips. Her eyes found his in the reflection. They were dark, determined, devoid of the sweet disposition he’d known for fifty years.
“Lock it,” she said, her voice low.
He turned the deadbolt. The click was final.
She turned slowly, letting the robe slide from her shoulders. It pooled at her feet. She was completely naked, her body a landscape of familiar curves made utterly new by the context. The steam from the already-running shower began to fog the glass.
“You came,” she said, a statement, not a question.
“You knew I would.”
She closed the distance between them, her hands going to his bow tie, pulling it loose with a single, sharp tug. Her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt, not with haste, but with a deliberate, focused intensity. “I can still feel you inside me from the bathroom. I’ve been wet for you all through dinner.”
He groaned, his hands finding her waist, pulling her against him. The starch of his shirt was a rough contrast to her soft skin. “Nancy…”
“Shhh.” She pushed the shirt from his shoulders, her nails lightly scraping his skin. Then her hands were at his belt, the buckle clinking, the zipper a harsh whisper in the tiled room. She pushed his trousers and boxers down his thighs in one motion. His cock sprang free, already fully hard, thick and eager.
She didn’t touch him there. Not yet. Instead, she pressed her body against his, backing him into the shower stall. The hot water instantly soaked his hair, his skin, plastering his shirt to his back. She followed him in, still dry, her gaze locked on his.
“Last time was for me,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the drumming water. “This time is for you.”
She dropped to her knees on the textured shower floor.
The sight of her, Nancy Thompson, on her knees before him, her makeup-perfect face level with his erection, sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust through him. She looked up at him, her hair starting to dampen in the steam, and wrapped one hand around the base of his shaft. Her grip was firm.
“I want to taste what I felt inside me,” she said, and then her mouth was on him.
She didn’t start slow. She took the head of his cock into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the tip, lapping at the drop of moisture that had already gathered there. A guttural sound was torn from his throat. His hands came up to fist in her hair, not guiding, just holding on.
She took him deeper, her other hand cupping his balls, applying a gentle, maddening pressure. Her head began to bob, a steady, relentless rhythm. The heat of her mouth, the slick friction of her tongue, the obscene wet sounds—it was overwhelming. He could feel the back of her throat, a soft, constricting pressure as she took more and more of him.
“Fuck, Nancy,” he rasped, his hips bucking involuntarily.
She pulled back, gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening skin. “You like that? You like my mouth on your cock?”
“Yes… god, yes…”
“Then don’t hold back.” Her eyes burned with a feral light. “I want to feel you come. I want to swallow every fucking drop.”
She dove back down, her enthusiasm wild, untamed. She deep-throated him, her nose pressing into the dark hair at his base. She gagged slightly, pulled back, and went down again. It was messy, primal, a world away from the polished lawyer and the shy businessman they presented to the world. This was something raw, something that had been simmering for five decades and had finally boiled over.
He could feel the tension coiling at the base of his spine, a familiar, urgent pressure building. His breath came in ragged pants. “Nancy… I’m gonna… I’m close…”
She hummed in response, the vibration traveling straight through his cock to his core. It was the final straw.
His orgasm erupted without warning, a violent, pulsing release that had him seeing stars. He cried out, his body tensing, his fingers tightening in her hair. She held him there, in the heat of her mouth, as he came, swallowing convulsively, taking everything he gave her.
When the last shudder passed through him, she slowly released him, her lips slick and swollen. She stayed on her knees for a moment, looking up at him, water from the shower dripping down her face, mingling with the evidence of his climax. She looked utterly debauched. And utterly powerful.
He slumped against the shower wall, spent, his legs weak. She rose gracefully, turning off the water. The sudden silence was deafening. She grabbed a towel, began to dry him with a strange, domestic tenderness that was more intimate than anything that had just happened.
“My husband just texted,” she said, her voice calm, as if commenting on the weather. “He’s heading up. He has a migraine.”
Larry’s blood ran cold. The post-coital haze vanished, replaced by a spike of pure adrenaline. “What?”
She finished drying his chest and handed him the towel. “You should go. Use the stairs.”
He dressed with clumsy, fumbling hands, his mind reeling. She stood watching him, still naked, completely unashamed.
As he unlocked the door, he turned back to her. “This… this can’t happen again.”
Nancy gave him a small, knowing smile. It wasn’t sweet. It was a challenge. “It already has. Three times.” She picked her robe up from the floor. “Now get out before you get us caught.”
He slipped into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him, sealing him out. The taste of his own panic was metallic in his mouth. He could still feel the ghost of her mouth on him, the heat of the water, the terrifying thrill of it all. She was right. It had happened. And as he hurried toward the stairwell, he knew, with a sick, thrilling certainty, that it was far from over.