Room Service
written by:
Naughty Miranda

"Excuse me?'

"Intercourse." And then a laugh. "Intercourse, PA. Pennsylvania Dutch Country."

He smiled, not because the place-name itself is funny (although, to a certain kind of person, it probably is), but because, if you were hitchhiking home for the holidays and that was the first thing you heard from the first driver that stopped, you'd probably look askance as well.

I did some quick calculations. Philly's about another hour from there, but it's almost six hours from where I'm standing right now. "Great!" I hauled my bags into the back of the Impala, then jumped into the passenger seat. I wanted to say more... but "you don't look Amish" probably wasn't the place to start, so I busied myself looking for my cigarettes - the overflowing ashtray and the open pack of Marlboros made it clear that they'd not be unwelcome - and offered him one.

"Thanks." One hand on the wheel, he rummaged for a lighter, then accepted a flame from me. And then we chatted about the kind of things that two strangers always talk about as the great outdoors flashes by the car window; laughed some more about that initial misunderstanding; stopped for burgers somewhere outside Cleveland; and then he made that fatal mistake that every driver makes. "If the traffic stays like this, we should be there before dark. I might even have time to get you closer to Philly."

A fatal mistake because that's when the snow started. The line of cars ahead of us slowed. The first accident crackled across his CB. And even the fast lane had slowed to a 20mph crawl. By the time we hit I-80, thirty miles and two hours out from the burgers, it felt like we'd be lucky to see Dutch Country by sun-up. Especially when another pile-up left us sitting so long that both of us were casting nervous glances at the gas gauge, and wondering what was more important - keeping the heat on for as long as we could, or conserving fuel enough to get us to the next service station.

I'll let you know.

His name was Brett, but he called himself BB. I only found the Brett bit out because I pestered him till he cracked, and suggested a few names that he evidently felt were even worse. It was when I announced I was going to refer to him as "Beckett" that he gave in, and there was a vague smile when I told him I rather liked "Brett."

He teased back a little, but there's only so much you can do with "Chrissie," so we swapped life stories instead. Him - nearly thirty, separated, no kids, works at a car plant in Detroit, heading east to spend the holidays with his folks. And no, they're not Amish either. Me - nearly twenty, single, no kids, studying library science in Washington State, heading east to spend the holidays with my folks. And hitch-hiking because my ride got taken sick halfway across the country, seriously sick (appendicitis), and I've not yet passed my test. So she's in hospital, her car's in long-term, and I'm... I'm sitting in a parking lot that used to be an interstate, while the snow piles up around us, and Brett is getting seriously worried about the fuel situation.

A state trooper appeared. The highway's going to be closed for the foreseeable... they're opening up one of the opposing lanes, and suggesting we all turn around and head back to the last exit. Fuel, food, coffee... and a motel. More calculations; my credit card should still be okay, or maybe they'll take an out-of-state check. Need to call my parents as well. They're still expecting me in this evening.

He was looking... whats the word? Thoughtful. Yes, thoughtful, as I walked back across the lobby after reassuring my mom that everything was fine, we'd just hit traffic and a storm, and if she watched the news tonight, she might even see it for herself.

"Okay, I figured if you don't have the money for a Greyhound, you probably don't have it for a motel room either," Brett began. "So I told them you were my sister, and we wanted one room, twin beds."

What a sweetheart!

"Your sister?" I smiled. A lot of guys would have come up with a far more intimate relationship than that. I was impressed. "Thank you."

And so what was left of the afternoon passed with us taking turns to warm up beneath the shower; changing into a fresh set of clothes; flicking idly through the TV channels; then making our way down to what passed as a restaurant for dinner. Then back to our room, more TV till the news, a hopeful-sounding weather report, and then sleep.

Until 3am when we were both shocked into wakefulness by a big rig pulling into the parking lot, lights glaring straight through our window, and air brakes howling like a pack of banshees. And as we took turns to run to the bathroom, and I sat on the chilly plastic seat, it crossed my mind for the first time just how easy it would be to fall into the wrong bed as I made my way back across the darkened room.

In fact, it didn't even cross my mind. The thought just leaped unbidden and utterly unexpectedly in... one moment I was peeing, and thinking how cold the floor was, the next I was imagining warming my feet on his legs, and...

and....

He was sitting up when I walked back in, his bedside lamp knocking my "oops, wrong bed" idea on the head before I'd even dismissed it myself, and flipping through the room service menu.

"You're hungry too?" I smiled, and he nodded. "The stew was good, but... Fancy anything?'

"Maybe. Scoot over." I hopped into his bed alongside him, to share the menu and wonder whether a 3am BLT would taste as good as it sounded right now. Oh, and I kept my feet to myself as well, even as I felt his initial surprise relax, and his shoulder was maybe leaning a little closer into mine that I expected it to.

We were both still staring at the menu.

"Or maybe we should sleep some more, and see if we can get out of here early," I suggested... as I snuggled down a little, as if to make it clear that I wasn't going any place.

He looked at me curiously, and I thought he was going to speak. Something about how he was into middle school while I was still in diapers, maybe; or that he was seeing someone back in Detroit, and maybe I should find myself another ride to Philly. Instead, a hand gently stroked my hair, and as he raised himself to switch off the light and I caught my first glimpse of six pack as his tee-shirt rode up his torso.

I made up my mind.

"No, leave it on."

He kissed me, softly at first, but as my mouth opened against his lips, his tongue was suddenly flicking against mine, warm and heavy, twisting and roiling. I felt him shift his body, pressing it against me and I pushed back, grateful for the warmth and weight and marveling at just how easy this felt, how normal.

All of my past experiences... all twelve, eighteen months of them... had either exploded out of sheer animal lust, the kind that leaves you breathless all night and disbelieving all the next day - Christ, did we really do all that? Or they were embarked upon with a hint of resignation, like he expects something, so I suppose maybe we should.

This, though... there were no extremes, no peak of frenzy or "get it over with" boredom. Just two people, two bodies, one bed, one mind, and as I wriggled myself beneath him and my hand grasped his cock for the first time, I was neither stunned ("wow, he's huge!") or disappointed ("is that it?") It just felt natural, too, and if it was a little bigger than I'm accustomed to - well, I'd be getting accustomed to it soon enough.

I slipped out of my nighty, his tee-shirt and briefs were flung out of the bed. Hanging above me, he raised his torso up on two strong arms; my hand was gripping his cock, angling it towards my pussy... and then a whisper.

"Suck it first."

My eyes felt as though they widened like dinner plates, and I know my breath caught loudly.

"Please?"

His voice was barely a murmur and, any other time, I might have feigned deafness. Or at least asked him to say it again, while I rummaged through the suitcase full of excuses, refusals and reasons-why that every girl keeps for this kind of occasion. At least three or four of which would have been perfectly reasonable, and perfectly honest, right now.

Like...

"Sorry, my TMJ is playing up."

or...

"Not yet... this is nice."

or even...

"Sorry, I never give head on a first date."

Or I could just raise myself from beneath him as he rolled onto his back, and having kissed his mouth and then his neck, I commenced the slow dance down his chest, kisses and nips and a slow tongue round his nipples, while my hand gently jerked his cock beneath the covers. I'd be rolling them back... now!

His cock was waiting. Rock-hard, and its one eye staring at me with just a hint of moisture catching the light.

There are, I've always thought, two ways of approaching a strange cock. The first is to simply devour it, pop it straight inside your mouth and pray he doesn't come on the spot... and I have to admit, I'd never had much luck on that score. And the other, which I'd never actually been given the chance to try out, was to taste it and test it, lick it and lap it, allow your tongue to do all that it dreamed of, until he was positively begging for you to open your lips.

Except college boys are seldom patient enough to beg. One hand on the back of your head, the other pushing their cock to your lips - that was their idea of a good time, and I had never questioned any of my friends who admitted that head was the one thing they hated the most. Because I hated it, too.

In my dreams... okay, my fantasies.... sucking cock meant doing all that other stuff as well, relaxing your body and mind into the moment, moistening your pussy as the thoughts raced through your head, relaxing your jaw to accommodate his girth, and then the pair of you melt together. And I could never get my head around these guys who just want to slam it in there. Maybe they're worried in case you change your mind. Or maybe they, unlike me, had never wondered what it feels like to have their balls sucked as well?

I tilted my head lower, breathed in his scent. My heart was pounding. My hand gripped his shaft and I stroked it a little, feeling the flesh rolling smooth against my palm. Then my tongue... just the tip; this was new to me, remember... grazed his ball bag.

I heard his breath hitch; felt his body stiffen a little. I did it again, and he moaned softly. I did it a third time and he was holding his breath. So I opened my mouth, pressed my lips to the flesh and then gently began to draw him in.

I sucked and felt one testicle firm against my mouth; I sucked harder, opening my jaw as I did so, and it slipped inside.

For a moment I froze. Now what? But then my tongue took over. It knew what to do. It had been waiting forever. Lapping, licking, drilling, rolling, moving that firm bulge of heat around my mouth, against my teeth, across my gums. Then I released it and took the other one, while regretting the instinctive awareness that I couldn't fit both of them in there.

But it was fun trying.

His breathing was sharp but shallow. I released his balls and pressed my tongue to the very base of his cock, undulating against his skin, but firm, too. I could feel the blood pulsing, taste his pleasure mounting. And now, just as I had in so many fantasies, I allowed my tongue to trace up his shaft, slowly as though every nerve end needed its own special moment of attention; as though every one had its own taste, as well.

I was nearing the top, the tip, the helmet. Fat and meaty, a bunched fist of purple, and slick and sticky, too. Was he coming already? I slowed myself, rolling my tongue across his cock end, tasting... no, I'd taken enough unintended mouthfuls of jizz to know that this was something else. The "pre-cum" that some girlfriends had mentioned, but which I'd never ever seen before? Wow.

It flowed, thick and clear, and I lapped at it. Later, I'd hear and read that pre-cum is tasteless, but don't you believe it. It has a flavor all its own... nothing heavy, nothing lingering; I think of it like a light seasoning, a pinch of saffron on a meal, a hint more than a taste, the ghost of the feast that it's preparing you for. Because that's the other thing you hardly ever hear. "Pre-cum" doesn't simply mean that his body is getting ready to climax. It's also nature's way of getting you ready as well.

Like I told you, I've never, ever liked the taste (or the feel or the texture or the heat or anything else) of a guy's come. Right now, after lapping that stuff off his prick for five minutes, it was more or less all I wanted.

My lips were poised around him. Just the tip, gently nuzzling. My tongue drove into the hole, and his shaft flexed hard against my jaw. God, I wanted it deeper, I wanted to feel him moving in my mouth, I wanted his heat to blaze inside me. I wanted to feel him growing harder and harder still, spreading my jaw. I wanted to feel his cock head banging against the roof of my mouth. I wanted him in my throat. And, when he came, as I knew he would soon, I wanted to feel it shoot all the way down to my belly.

Because that's the other thing. I'd always thought, because that is how it always felt, as though sucking cock was all about him. His dick, his pleasure, his orgasm. That whole "if you love me, you'll do it" schtick that guys seem to think is so sweet... what does it really mean beyond "I know you hate doing it, but...", like they're asking you to take their turn cleaning the bathroom in the co-ed dorm, or throw their clothes in with yours at the laundry.

But this... this was all about me. How I felt, what I wanted... and yes, making him feel good was a part of that. But making me feel good was a bigger part, and even bigger than that? Knowing that I was so close to coming myself, without him or me or anything else even touching me throughout this whole - oh my god.

My mouth was full and then it wasn't. He came, a savage burst, a blast furnace of thickness, and my throat just opened and took it. I didn't swallow... I didn't need to. My body just absorbed it, and that's when I came too, crying out around the still hard, fat cock that was twitching and spurting inside my mouth, refusing to let it go until its owner physically forced me to. And even then I fought him, clamping down with my teeth as I continued to jerk him, milking him dry of every last drop, wanting to feel him grow soft in my mouth to help me imagine how it would feel to have grow hard there as well.

And when I did let him go, and raise myself up, looking into his eyes as he looked into mine, I knew it wouldn't be long till that happened. In fact, I told him so and the look on his face made me hope that the snow lasted forever.

I lay back and picked up the menu. "I could kill a pot of coffee."

"Won't it keep you awake?"

I smiled. "I hope so."