Him, again... in the Hilton Atrium!
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A very naughty story by Colin Shea

Cesar had called me from a payphone at the airport - it didn't surprise me that he had the nerve, though god only knew how he'd managed to find my number.

I still loved him so much it ached, and the memory of the sex had not lessened a bit. It just got stronger with every incompetent, uncircumcised European who wallowed around in bed with me. 

Their hesitant tongues and bumbling fingers only fueled my raging obsession. He hadn't needed to say who he was: I'd recognized those slippery consonants and long, gravely, California vowels as soon as they'd reached my ears.

I wanted to scream and sob and tell him to Fuqua off and leave and come over and give it to me right then and there and that my father had died and where the Fuqua had he been all through that, but of course in the end all that came out was something like what you get when you step on a poodle.

"That's right, baby," he'd said smugly. "Papa's got a brand new bag."

"You sh*t," I finally managed to gasp.

"So do you," he'd answered, "but at least I don't hold it against you."

He was going to be in town for a week showing some of his photographs at an exhibition that was going on up at the castle. That was the first place I saw him - he'd asked me not to come by while he was working and setting things up - standing by his work, chatting with the other artists, small and lithe, with a quick, nervous energy about him.

I went to him and gave him a big hug, almost crying. I hadn't seen him since he'd dumped me and I'd packed up and left San Francisco. After the reception, we went out to a late dinner, then back to his hotel without even discussing it.

They'd put him in the Hilton Atrium. I was impressed. He was moving up in the world. I remember him when we started together, subsisting off of those miserable newspaper contracts, barely able to scrape up enough money to go out and get some cheap Mexican food.

And now ... the Hilton, twelfth floor. He had touched me in the elevator, a glass box which went right up the inside of the plant-festooned atrium which dominated the center of the hotel.

He kissed me in there, sliding his hands under my shirt, me pressed back into the glass wall, my hands clenching the railing by my ass. We got out at the twelfth floor and walked down toward his door. The corridor was also open to the inner atrium, brightly lit even this late at night, the rooms all arranged in a square around that giant space, a delicate, blindingly polished chrome railing all that was between us and falling down to the tables of the restaurant, eleven long floors below. 

We went to his door, but he pushed me gently back to the railing. I licked my lips nervously: I could already feel myself sinking into the wells of those cruel, black eyes. No, he said, I want you here. The smiles were gone - he was all predator now. He kissed me as I started to mount a weak protest, a long, rich, deep kiss, and when he stopped I didn't bother saying anything else. I couldn't think when he was touching me, and had never come close to winning one of those arguments. Not once in two years.

It was fairly late, eleven or so, and there was no one visible in the corridors across the way, but the restaurant below had quite a few people in it. He had me turned around away from him, holding on to the cool steel of the railing for support, while he massaged my breasts and pushed his erection insistently against my ass. I tried to keep myself quiet. 

One of his hands moved away from my chest and freed his penis from his pants. Lifting up my skirt, he gently rubbed himself against me, through the now sopping fabric of my underwear. The stud he wore in it prodded my clitoris, aggressively, uncomfortably, unbearably exciting. 

I was moaning at that point, leaning full on the railing with my chest, my head hanging out into space, hair dangling down past my eyes. Suddenly I felt something metallic and thin and cold running gently up my thigh, leaving a trail of wildly appreciative goose bumps in its wake.

He wound the fabric of my panties around the blade of the knife and cut through them with a sharp jerk. He let go of them and they slid to the carpet between my shoes. Jesus, I thought, those were silk, my favorites...

But then thought vanished as he began to caress me again. I looked down confusedly on the corporate whores and pimps or whoever they were down in the restaurant, sipping five dollar coffees and making stupid jokes to their painted escorts, no idea what was going on above them - then my eyes closed and I let out a long, quavering call as he penetrated me easily, fingering my clitoris gently as he thrusted smoothly inside me.

Down below, I imagined people were beginning to look around, wondering where the echoing cries were coming from, floating down through the leafy air-conditioned silence of the hotel. 

I couldn't tell, the world was swimming before my eyes as my head rocked back and forth in time with his movements. Colors and shapes washed together, a tie-dyed kaleidoscope spun round and round, faster and faster by that fat turbine cock plugged into me at a million watts.

He pulled out and whirled me around, re-entering me from the front. I was gasping for air, balanced on the railing on the small of my back, my whole torso out in space, feeling practically disembodied, Cesar grasping me firmly by the legs to keep me from falling.

I was desperate to come, but my bladder was unbearably full from all the wine we'd had at dinner. I was working so much to control the latter that I couldn't release myself enough to come. Let's stop, I moaned, not caring what anybody heard at that point, I have to piss.

Just piss, he replied, smiling, looking me in the eye. Just let it go. So I did, and I came, and there I was on the twelfth floor of the Hilton Atrium, screaming and pissing and coming over the hotel, over the restaurant, over the whole world, looking up into the great black empty eye of the central skylight two floors above, feeling myself with each throb of ecstasy absorbed and dissolved in that inky darkness from which it feels like there is no end, and no possible way to return.

But you always return. I learned that, here in Prague. 

When I left the hotel early the next morning, the sky was already bright and blue, and it was very warm. The morning commuter traffic going by Florence was heavy and loud, but I enjoyed the sound. It was the sound of a city that lived. I paused for a moment, feeling the sun shine on my upturned face and a breeze waft by my poor raw, overused p*ssy, which was still damp with come and sweat. I put my sunglasses on and started to walk toward the metro. 

I had another date with Cesar that night, but somehow I didn't care that much. He had seen that and it had bothered him, of course, but then that hadn't mattered, either. The sun was shining and Prague was alive and the air felt good and cool and clean against my naked p*ssy as I walked, and that was enough.

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