Hotlanta Nights

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Business travel had deposited me in Atlanta for the weekend, halfway between a trip that started in New York and would end next week in Chicago, then back home to San Francisco. I am one of those hurried travelers you see in the airport, the kind of person who knows her frequent flyer number by heart, the kind always pulling out her mobile and taking calls while standing in line at the gate. As much as I enjoy this nomadic existence, it frequently leaves me spending weekends in cities not my own.

The company travel agent managed a weekend stay at the Atlanta Midtown Four Seasons, which earned her a promise of flowers faithfully entered into my trusty PDA. A work-free Saturday gave time for shopping in Buckhead, an excursion to Little Five Points, and finally a run though Piedmont Park. What did I have to show for all of this? Respectively: A very fun party-girl dress and a new pair of shoes, a sizeable waterproof jelly vibrator (a thirty-something single woman + lots of travel = frequent self-love), and a pair of legs left rubbery from the combined effects of the run and the late August weather.

A quick shower left me refreshed, and sitting on my bed in one of those big fluffy robes thoughtfully provided by the hotel. My ease of contentment soon gave way to the fact that, yet again, I was alone in a hotel in a strange city, without a date. As a matter of fact, it had been over a month since I last had any sexual fun, the kind involving another person; a recent trip to Hedonism III back in early July. It struck me as funny that the only fun I ever have is away from home. Then again, when you are away from home some 90% of the time, what do you expect?

Mysteriously, my robe fell open while I reminisced about my Jamaican adventure. The afternoon sun streamed into the room as my hands ran down between my breasts, thinking of caresses from the sun and the lovers my body had oh so recently enjoyed. My right hand cupped my pussy while my left tweaked my nipples as my legs spread and my back arched welcoming my phantom lovers into my vacation remembrances. My fingers soon had my pussy open and my clit exposed, and my free hand found the vibrator at the ready on the nightstand.

Throwing my head back, I let my phantom lover’s cock slide past my lips and felt my mind and tongue transform the jelly coating into the bare cock sliding deep into my mouth. My fingers became the tongue of a talented lover, a woman in command of her oral skills, licking and flicking my cunt and clit. I focused my mind on preparing his cock for my pussy as she prepared my cunt for his cock. Symbiotically, and symbolically, my hands passed over my body, tracing my saliva down, and my wetness up my body. My Adonis nuzzled the head of his cock over my cunt as my Aphrodite lowered her cunt to my lips. My wetness and scent became hers as much as the vibrator came alive between my legs, with the help of my imagination and the flick of a switch.

Adonis knew how to fuck me. He let me feel his length, took care every so often to stroke my clit with his wet cock before plunging his shaft back into my ever so aroused cunt. He flicked my clit with his thumb, long stroking deep in my pussy as he went, knowing how I love a long session of fucking before I orgasm. Aphrodite knew just how she wanted me to lick her lovely wet fragrant pussy, running her cunt over my lips before letting me suck in each lip to the V at the top of her pussy, letting my tongue heighten her arousal as much as Adonis had mine. Adonis kept his nice thick vibrating cock deep in me, rocking me back and forth, rubbing my clit again and again, bringing me just to the edge of orgasm, feeling Aphrodite smother me with her pussy, feeling all of us cum in the nexus of my mind…


Shit! Who even knows I am here, much less call me late Saturday afternoon?

“Yes?” I barked into the hotel phone.

“Hi Susan. I tried reaching you on your mobile, but I think the battery is dead because it goes straight into voicemail.” My clueless boss said, explaining the call to the hotel.

The battery on my phone is not dead, I thought: The fucking thing is off so I could get off. Quickly my vibrator joined my phone in a state of dormancy.

“Oh, um… Yeah it must have just died on me. How did you know I was staying here?” I asked, hoping that it would not come across as if I was hiding from my boss and her ill timed, intrusive, and usually irrational concerns.

“The travel office told me.” She said.

Note to self: Cancel flower deliver to travel agent.

“Oh.” Wow, my eloquence overwhelmed me. “What’s going on?”

“You never sent me your trip report.” Came her accusatory concern.

“That’s because I’m still on my trip.” Stating the obvious, while not part of my job description, remains a large part of my responsibilities.

“I need your report from the past week for my next week meetings.” Came the edict from the other end of the phone. Next, she will probably ask me if I got the memo about the GPS reports.

“OK, gaziantep escort reklamları I’ll make sure you get my report tomorrow afternoon.” Thinking this provided me ample time to rise and shine, have coffee, do this stupid report, see the Atlanta Botanical Gardens, get to the airport, etc etc etc…

“Susan, I have a soccer game then an evening BBQ tomorrow.” God forbid the soccer mom understand her childless subordinate also has plans. “Can I get that report today?” She asked as a non-question question, the kind of suggestion I best heed unless I desired top billing on her shit list.

“Sure! I’ll get it to you within the next couple of hours! Would that be OK?” I answered in my best perky tone, all the while thinking that I would gladly give a week’s salary to see her face if, instead of that, I screamed into the phone “Listen Bitch! I am in the middle of fucking my cunt with a new vibrator! You’ll get your fucking report when I say you’ll get it!”

She said that would be fine then rang off.

I tried to summon again my phantom lovers, but the ringing phone broke the spell and no powers of suggestion and persuasion could summon them back to my thoughts or to my bed. Resignedly, I let slip the silenced and still vibrator from my cunt, wrapped myself in the robe, and went to the desk to do this stupid report.

Two hours later, as the sun began dipping below the horizon, my boss got her report. Having had dinner while typing my report, and now set for exploring a bit of the Hotlanta nightlife, I let the web find for me a martini bar within walking distance of my hotel. Actually, from the online reviews, it seemed like quite a good martini bar. Remembering my newly purchased dress and heels, I shut down my laptop and headed again to the shower.

Rinsing off my body and the passion from my afternoon dream, I set the conditioner in my hair, and then went about trimming my pussy in the fervent hope that someone besides my phantom lovers would appreciate the effort. The Brazilian from my Jamaican trip meant I did not have much to trim, so in a fit of erotic creativity I formed my pubic hair in the shape of a triangle, pointing down to my bare cunt.

I set my hair up, thinking this best in the formidable humidity, and then finished with some make-up and eyeliner. My new pussy-do fit neatly under the g-string I selected from my collection, and then I tried in vain to match any of my bras to my new dress. None would do; for either the straps showed or the cup of the bra appeared under the décolletage of the dress. My 34C breasts remain firm, and still evidenced some of the tan from my recent tropical tryst, so I just slipped the dress on over my g-string clad body and finished the look with my new heels.

The short walk from my hotel down the street to the martini bar took all of 10 minutes. The place had a nice mellow vibe about it, with a shabby chic look, and seemed quickly approaching critical mass. Ordering a martini proved somewhat daunting, as the place offers some 50 different concoctions of Vitamin V. Selecting a Blood Orange Vodka concoction, I turned to survey the scene of other thirty-something hipsters looking for a sultry evening in Atlanta.

A single woman at a bar with a drink already in hand does not long remain alone. Three men soon tried to involve me in their conversation, and all three soon managed to exclude themselves from consideration when, after the perfunctory “What do you do?” and “Where are you from?” questions, each felt it necessary to tell me what they each drove. Like the one trait all my truly memorable lovers shared is an ability to qualify for a lease on a luxury car. Did I really shave my pussy for this? Leaving behind a Land Rover and two BMW’s, I went out to the patio area.

And there is when I found a group of single women, each one it seems younger than the next, each one trying in vein to appear just a tad more sophisticated than her friend. One woman in the clique did catch my eye with a flirtatious smile, which I returned, and soon she and I managed to find space to have a somewhat hushed conversation. Turns out Ms. Pixie just recently graduated from Georgia Tech, with a degree in something useless, and is now looking for real world experience.

“Well, what do you do now?” I asked, still somewhat interested.

“I just got a job downtown and I finally had to tell my parents that I’m an adult now and that I need to be on my own and all and that they just can’t expect a mature woman to have rules on when she comes and goes and where she goes and who I see!” She answered, all in one breath.

Not catching the obvious, I asked her “How do they know when you come and go, if you are on your own?”

“Well, I try to be silent when I come home, but sometimes my mom is a real light sleeper and she wakes up and starts asking me what I have been doing.” She explained to me, in a tone suggesting that her revelation might engender on my part either pity or curiosity.

“I see.” I answered to this; trying not to let the exasperation that her confession did engender in me not creep into the tone of my voice.

“Where are you staying?” she asked, already having discovered I am a visitor to the city of her storied birth, tranquil childhood, suburban adolescence, incomplete education, and nascent career.

“I’m at the Four Seasons.” Why did I say that? Had the one martini gone to my head that quickly?

“Is it nice there?” She suggestively asked.

“Mmmm. Listen, I need another drink. I’ll catch you later. OK?” I begged off the conversation.

“OK. Bye!” She exclaimed to the back of my head as I ducked back inside to the bar.

I hoped someone else would catch Ms. Pixie’s eye, as I had no desire for a mini-scene so early in the evening. Why had I fled the scene? Because I had no desire to be her first woman, to have to listen to her tell me “I’ve never done this before?” while I am trying to get into her panties, to guide her inexperienced tongue to my cunt, to not have to listen to her rationalize her experimental attraction to women while firmly proclaim her heterosexuality. In other words, if I was going to spread my legs for a lover, I wanted something more direct.

Direct is what I found once I had my drink and went upstairs to check out the jazz band. I also discovered that those upstairs displayed a bit more, ahem, color than the lily-white crowd flexing their attraction downstairs. Yes, I am white. Yet, I find women looking to be a “slut for black cock” or men with an Asian fetish as equally tiresome as lovers who would never consider sport-fucking outside their own class or race.

Upstairs reminded me much of martini bars back in San Francisco or in New York City. The flavors in the room ran from European to Latin to South American to African. To my Scandinavian sensibilities, this smorgasbord of skin tone fit both my equal-opportunity sluttishness and the sultry evening. I found a spot off to the side of the room and sipped my second blood orange vodka martini, letting the jazz tickle my body as my drink slid over my tongue.

She caught my eye coming from behind the bar, I suppose coming back from the ladies room, walked past me and joining her man at one of the few tables in the room. I caught hers as she passed, giving her a smile, which she returned. I kept my attention focused on the band and took another thoughtful sip from my martini, then oh so casually at the end of a number turned to survey the crowd. Of course, I found her and her man in the crowd, with him whispering in her ear as she and I made eye contact. We exchanged smiles again, this time holding the moment a bit longer than necessary, letting the band interrupt our flirtation with their next song.

The song went on, I swayed with the music, had a few more contemplative drinks of my martini, and waited for the song to end, to see if this across the room flirtation might turn into something more. Lo and behold to my grateful surprise when, after the song ended and I turned again to survey the room, my new friend stood not two feet behind me, flashing a smile and a sparkle in her eyes.

“Hi.” She said, the entire introduction she needed.

“Hi.” I said back, not able to say much more than that.

“You have a very pretty smile.” She said, flashing again her own.

“Thanks, I noticed yours before.” I said back, now a little surer of myself.

“I’m here with my boyfriend.” She said with a motion back to her man, studiously avoiding our notice as he examined the contents a cocktail napkin.

“I noticed that too.” I smiled. Yes, of course I noticed both of you. As I am sure you both noticed me, I thought.

“Would you like to join us?” Short, direct, to the point. If her body had not already made me wet, her attitude certainly did.

“Sure.” I managed just above the sounds of the band starting their next number.

Seeing his girlfriend approach with her new friend, he managed to procure for us a third chair, which he placed around the ever-crowding table. My martini joined his something-amber-on-the-rocks and her flute of champagne. The song went on as I felt his hand on the back of my chair. I turned to her, not minding his hand, watching to see her reaction. She smiled and took her flute to her lips in a fluid motion just this side of suggestive. I mimicked her move with one of my own, and then let my hand glance across hers as my hands found their way back to my lap.

Leaning over, placing her hand oh my bare thigh just below the hem of my dress, she whispered in my ear: “What is that you’re drinking?”

“A blood orange vodka martini.” I whispered back in hers, placing my hand over hers.

She nodded to my drink, asking if she could have a taste. I smiled my yes, then watched her bring my martini to her open mouth, extend her tongue a bit and took a good generous drink. Her face expressed pleasant surprise as she returned the drink to the table, but kept her hand on my thigh.

Leaning over again, she said “Very tasty” while giving my thigh a gentle squeeze.

I liked this. I liked them, I decided. She stood a little bit under my 5’7″ height, curvier than me and with obviously enhanced breasts which her halter-top scarf did little more than announce and display. A very tight micro mini skirt completed her look, displaying her ample hips and smooth legs. He had on a pair of great-looking black slacks and an open linen shirt displaying his smooth chest. He also stood a full head above her, even in her platform heels. If I had to guess, he had a couple years on me and I had a couple years on her.

The song ended as all of us finished our drinks. The band announced a break before their next set, leaving us in silence. He spoke up, said perhaps we would all do well with some fresh air, and told us to follow him down in a few minutes after he found us a table on the patio. She and I readily agreed, the interim obviously meant to let her seal the deal. If she came down with me, then things would proceed… If not, then no hard feelings for anyone involved, or not involved.

She and I continued our conversation, such as it is. Even though the band had paused, she and I remained in close proximity to each other, whispering in each other’s ears.

“Where are you from?” “What do you do?” “How long are you here for? Have you been in Atlanta?” The usual questions one makes to excuse the moment, to let the other feel at ease, to establish a connection.

“Do you do this often?” I asked, breaking the conversational flow.

Taken aback for all of 3 seconds, she replied with “Come here? Yes, we like it here.”

I smiled at that. She knew what I meant by my question, yet played sly by letting me state the obvious: “I meant flirt with others.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” She asked, keeping her hand on my thigh.

“For now…” came my answer and another squeeze on her hand.

“The we should move on to what’s next.” She stated. She had a lovely open smile, deep red lips framing her white teeth and red tongue, bringing to me a strong desire to kiss this woman.

“What’s that?” I coquettishly asked.

“Drinks with my boyfriend, downstairs on the patio.” She laughed, removed her hand from my thigh but keeping my hand in hers, and stood next to me, her miniskirt-clad ass just inches from my face.

I stood next to her and we walked down to the patio. Like magic, her boyfriend had managed a table on the patio. I noticed Ms. Pixie, and she noticed me, as I am sure she noticed my hand in the hand of another woman. I did my best not to notice her surprise, but did anyway. I also noted a look of shock in her eyes and hoped it was not from the fact that this lovely Latin Mami was leading me to a table where her ebony boyfriend stood to welcome us.

He had a chair all his own, while she and I shared a small bench. She placed her arm around me as we sat, with me between her and her man, and all of us thankfully shielded from the rest of the crowd by some blossoming plants set on a small divider. Good, so we would have some privacy. We ordered drinks, kept the conversation even and light, and soon were sipping even more alcohol in the sultry Atlanta evening.

“Susan wants to know how often we do this, Papi.” She started, having a conversation with him as if I were not there. I decided to let them continue this, to remain unobtrusive, to let them talk themselves into this.

“What, come here?” He asked, which must be a planned response on their part.

“No baby. She wants to know how often we pick up play-friends.” She explained, curling up on my side, pressing her breasts into my arm.

“What did you tell her?” He asked, continuing their conversation as if I was not there.

“I didn’t, Papi.” She said, turning up the heat between my legs to match the heat of their conversation and the heat of the by placing once again her hand on my thigh. My legs remained crossed, for now.

“What do you think we should tell her?” He cooed, eyeing me as he did so. He gave me the kind of look I suspect wolves give to sheep.

“How much we like to fuck, Papi. How much we like to fuck women, how much you like to see me fuck men, how much I love seeing women suck your cock.” She said not much above a whisper, saying this for his benefit as much as mine.

“You think she’s a slut like you, ma?” Came his question.

“She’ll uncross her legs if she is.” With nary a hesitation between his question and her answer.

I leaned back into her and pointed my body towards him. At this angle, and with how low we were sitting, he would have a perfect view of my g-string if I did uncross my legs. They were good, libidinous, and obviously playful. Funny, I thought: At Hedonism III this kind of banter is almost expected. Here? Yes, it seemed out of place, but welcome all the same.

Almost by their own volition, my legs uncrossed themselves.

He pulled out a cigar and gave great thought to lighting it while evaluating the scene before him. Puffing a bit, bringing his stogie to life, he exclaimed in a cloud of smoke: “She’s got nice legs, ma.”

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