Hot Q&A: Hotels

Welcome to sex Q&A, where we poll our readers with interesting questions, and pick the best answers to share with you!

Q: What do you find most sexy about hotels?

John:

Here’s the thing about hotel rooms. It’s the beds. They are just a bit higher than ordinary beds, just so high that you let your sub lie down on her back, her head over the side with her mouth open, and there it is: her lips are right at the same height as your cock. It’s a straight shot down her throat, and you just slide it in.

No bending, no awkward positions, it’s even comfortable for her (or him, if that’s what floats your boat). Her throat is open, your cock is down it, feeling the wetness and tightness, her tongue teasing your balls, and all is good until she needs to breathe, so you pull back out with a pop, and she gasps for air. Once, twice, three times, then you slide your cock back down until your balls are on her face.

Maybe a bit longer this time, you rock a bit in and out for some friction, and she pushes against your legs, so you pull back. Your cock pops out of her mouth, dripping with her saliva and your precum, and she gasps again. Once, twice, three times, then you slide it right back down her throat. Your balls sit on her nose, your thighs pressed against her head.

This time, you tease her breasts, squeezing them, pulling the nipples. Rocking back and forth, tiny little thrusts, fucking her face. She pushes you back again, but you’re close now. It’s hot, and you haven’t done this for a while: you don’t get to hotel rooms very often. So you slide off, but this time, you only let her gasp once, maybe twice before you push it back in. She has enough air, enough air for now, anyway, because now you’re going to come.

So you fuck her face a bit more, and press down on her boobs, and you shoot your cum right down her throat, shuddering against her. Then, and only then, do you pull back and let her breath and cough a bit.

That gasping and coughing, and how she took it for me, always makes me hard again, and there’s your girl, lying on a hotel bed. So you climb on and give her the fucking she just earned.

That’s the thing about hotel rooms.

Bernadette

I travel a lot on business, so I’m in hotel rooms a lot. Mostly the middle tier business class ones. They’re all the same: firm bed, flat screen tv, small desk to work from, two soaps, and three towels. Boring boring boring.

Of course, the people who stay in those hotels are all the same, too. Business travellers in grey business suits and power ties or power shoes. I’ve got my own pair of 3” pumps that push me up and make me as tall as the men I compete with on my travels. So that’s me: just another anonymous business traveller, another of the mindless masses that inhabit identical rooms in identical hotels near identical airports. It’s boring, yes, but it’s also anonymous.

The first man who ever approached me in one of the hotel bars never told me his name, and I never wanted to tell him mine. We had drinks long enough to note our mutual attraction, and we went upstairs to his hotel room. I left my pumps on that night, and not much else. He used the heels as handles to spread my legs as he thrust inside.

The next time I was travelling, I did the pickup. It’s even easier that way, and there’s rarely a need for the obligatory drink. In my grey power suit no one mistakes me for a prostitute or paid companion of any kind. It’s not until we’re upstairs and they realize it’s garter belts, thigh highs and lacy underwear do they realize how good a ride they’re in for. The one thing that turns me off is when someone hands me their card or tells me who they are. I know we should “always be closing.” But that’s my day job — don’t destroy the anonymity.

The good thing is there is often someone else at another table. Someone anonymous, weary and in need of a human touch, but not the complication of knowing who they are or what they’re doing, or if they’ll ever show up again.

Hotels just make it easier, they’re all the same too. One bed much like another, one fuck much like another, too. It’s a release and then you move on to the next hotel room, the next day hard at work, and then the next fuck.

Holly

Hotels? I guess I don’t find them that exotic. Its not that I travel a lot, it’s just that I’ve seen the everyday running of one. My parents ran a small bed and breakfast in the town I grew up in. From the time I was old enough to carry towels, I was required to take part in running the place.

Of course, it’s where my fetish for voyeurism started; and my awareness of lesbianism.

A bed and breakfast isn’t like a regular hotel. They’re usually refurbished old homes, so you deal with things that way — there’s a shared bathroom, and there’s a dining room where you share your breakfast with the family. Of course there’s rarely that many rooms, so you’re often there alone, or with only one other couple or occupant. The one my parents ran was mostly busy on weekends, but we had one or two a week.

For a while, we had someone who came into town once a week — every Tuesday, for a meeting with her “favorite customer.” Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. Sometime around when I was 12 or 13 — after I got my period, and my tits started happening, anyway, I woke up to weird noises coming from my closet. Now, my bedroom shared a wall with one of the guest rooms — we’d done some things with the hallway that kept us from interacting directly, and there was space between them where our respective closets were. So when I say I heard weird noises coming from my closet, what I mean is sex noises coming from the other room.

I didn’t know that then, of course. I just went to my closet, opened it up,and I saw the light from a tiny hole in the wall. Looking through I saw the the two of them wrapped up in each other, kissing, one hand on the other’s breast; the other hand on the other’s kitty. One was our customer — the saleswoman who came every week. The other was a woman who ran her own craft store on main street. She was married, and went to our church. I remember that she had a son about my age.

I watched them, and felt myself get wet, and trust me when I say I already knew what to do about that. I hiked up my nightshirt, and slid my own hand over my own kitty, in time to the other women’s movements.

They came every week, and I made the hole just a little larger so I could see a bit more. About two months later, the sales lady looked straight at me and winked, but never said anything to me. She got a new route by the time school started back up, but by then I’d found out that they weren’t the only ones who’d wake me up with weird noises from my closet.

So, it’s not really about hotels, exactly, except that I lived in one for most of my life.

Our next question is Rope: What is it Good For? (Absolutely nothing? — We’re sure our readers are more creative than that!)