I'm outside his room at seven sharp, heart pounding as though I'd run a marathon. What am I doing? I'm fifty five, married nearly three decades. I'm a grandmother, for heaven's sake. The keycard slides into the lock. The light flashes green. I step across the threshold, knowing the risks but unable to stop myself.
He lounges in a chair by the window. The drapes are open. The lights of the Inner Harbor sparkle on the other side of the glass. The room is dim and I'm briefly grateful. Perhaps he will not notice my flaws.
"Good evening, Elizabeth." He doesn't rise. He makes me come to him. I stand before him, eyes cast down, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl. Sweat pools under my arms, spoiling my best silk blouse. Moisture gathers in my pussy.
"Um - I don't even know your name," I stutter.
"Yes, you do. Think."
I recreate my memory of him, from that fateful moment when I stepped into the lift and found it occupied. Tall, a bit overweight, but distinguished in his tailored charcoal suit. Black hair, dark eyes, brows that arched in appreciation as he surveyed me. I struggle to recall his badge. Even before he had spoken, I'd been flustered and aroused. Distracted. "Mark?" I say finally, a half guess.
"Good girl. You see, you know more about me than you think you do. You know you can trust me, don't you?"
"What?" Before I understand what's happening, he's looming over me, taking possession of my mouth, rolling my rigid nipples between his finger and thumb and kindling sparks. He tastes of the after-dinner mints they offer in the hotel coffee shop. His hands explore my body, weighing my breasts, groping my ass. Helpless, beyond rationality, I melt again.
"You know instinctively," he murmurs in my ear. "I'm the master you've dreamed of." He nips the tender flesh of the lobe hard enough to make me cry out. "I'm the one who will make you beg for mercy and scream with pleasure."
"No," I say. "I haven't. I can't. I'm married." My pro forma protests are weak, even to my own ears. He is already tearing the clothing from me. The first time his fingers graze my bare skin, electricity sizzles along the surface, down to my cunt. I moan, pressing against his still-clothed body. He chuckles and steps away.
"Turn around. Let me look at you. Especially at that fat ass." My face burns with embarrassment as I follow his instructions. It never occurs to me to object. I feel his eyes on the butt that I can't seem to shrink no matter how many hours I spend on the Stairmaster.
"Lovely," he says and I glow with pride. He is pleased. That's all I seem to need. He strokes my ample backside. When he moves away again, I nearly cry from the loss.
"I want you across my lap. I want to turn that pale flesh of yours a nice, rosy pink."
I obey. I can't believe that I'm doing it, but I stretch myself along his thighs. The fine wool of his slacks is distended at the groin. I rub my damp bush against the hard mass of his erection, the emotional pleasure almost trumping the physical. He wants me. That's all that really matters.