An Erotic Thriller




One should never be where one does not belong
- Bob Dylan
The Ballad of Frankie Lee and Judas Priest

Yet beauty, though injurious, hath strange power
- John Milton


“Take off your skirt.” His voice was flat.


“Do it.” His voice was soft, firm.

She looked at him, searched his eyes. She felt awkward, nervous, standing in the middle of the room, room 1121.

She fingered the zipper tab, took hold of the button with the index finger and thumb of her other hand and ran the zipper’s length. Her eyes fell on him again. She took a breath, exhaled and swallowed. Her mouth was dry.

She took her eyes from his, found the button and released it. The skirt fell to the floor. She stepped out of the skirt, bent at the knees, retrieved, folded and carefully draped it over the back of the room’s only other chair, the one presently holding her suit’s jacket. She stood for a moment with her hands on the chair back waiting for him to speak. He did not speak. He waited, waited until she turned to face him.

“The slip”, his voice was relaxed, in control. She liked that. It was familiar that way.

She slid her fingers beneath the thin elastic and removed the slip as she had the skirt. She placed it over the chair back and turned to face him. She loosened her scarf tie, draped it over the chair and began to unbutton her blouse.

“Not yet.” He said, stopping her.

“What then?” Her voice was impatient, nervous.

His expression remained unchanged. “Hose,” was all he said.

She removed them. He pointed to the middle of the room. She moved to the spot he indicated. The carpet was plush and felt good to her toes.


She unbuttoned the buttons of her blouse and began to remove it when he raised his index finger. She stopped. It was then he stood and moved to her. He brought his face close to her but did not touch her. He circled her in the same close manner. His nose brushed her face, “I like the way you smell.”

“Thank you.”

He placed his finger on the small plastic buckle resting against her breastbone. Expending little effort, he released the clasp. The elastic contracted, her breasts relaxed. “Don’t move.” He returned to the chair where he had been seated, removed his shoes and socks. He did not rush or hurry his movement.

She felt awkward, embarrassed, her arms pressed close to her sides, her blouse just off her shoulders, her loosened brassiere dangling over her breasts, moving. She realized the movement was her breathing, heavy again, her heartbeat accelerated. Still she did not move. She studied his hands.

He slid each sock from each foot with a slow effortless scooping motion. He stood, removed his shirt and let it drop to the floor. His fingers released the button of his trousers and they, too, fell to the floor. She suspected boxers, but he wore no under garments. He stood motionless before her. It surprised her that he was not excited. Nervous anxiety and excitement ran side by side within her. She wanted to fly to him, bite him, claw his chest, please him. She also felt the urge to grab her clothes and race for the door.

“Turn around.” His voice snapped her attention back to the reality of the moment.

Her breathing, continued heavy, her mouth open, heart pounded in her ears. She turned her back to him.

“You’re wet, aren’t you?”

She nodded.

“For me?”

She nodded again, once.

“The blouse.”

She lowered her arms, bent at the elbow, and allowed the silk to slide from her skin to the floor. This time she did not bend to pick it up.


She arched her back and shoulders, allowing the brassiere to fall. She could feel his eyes moving over her body, following the line from her waist to her shoulders.

“Turn around.”

She crossed her arms, placing a palm over each breast and turned. The only illumination in the room came from the twinkling lights of Manhattan peering through the parted draperies. This pleased her, the soft shadows and light that fell across, wrapped about her body and his.

He moved to her. He did not stop in front of her, he walked past her. She tried not to stare at him, but found it difficult to divert her gaze from his chest, his hips, from the motion of his sex.

He was behind her now, his mouth close to her ear.

“Shy, modest or nervous?”

“Yes.” She whispered.

Then he was in front of her. Silently studying her close, then he turned his back to her.

“Touch me.”

The fingers of her left hand brushed his right shoulder, following the yoke of his back. She swept the small of his spine with the back of her hand, her palm coming to rest on his behind. She squeezed him slightly, then returned her hand to her breast. A tiny smile tugged at her lips.

He turned again to face her. He ran his index finger over her lower lip.


She said nothing.

“To come.” Still she remained silent, keeping her eyes on his.

He lowered himself to his knees, “Panties.”

Her heart quickened. She released her breasts, slid her fingers beneath the silk wrapped elastic. She leaned forward. He raised his head and her breast brushed his nose. She placed her hand on his left shoulder for balance. When she raised her leg to free her ankle, he placed the back of his right hand against that same inner thigh. The flesh of her inner knee brushed his ear as she withdrew her ankle. He applied the slightest pressure and her feet were now at shoulder width. A rush of cool conditioned air tickled her exposed moist place.

Her first response, when his tongue touched her, was to pull away, but she did not. His tongue was warm, his touch soft. When the fire ignited in her belly she cried out and, but for his supporting hands, would have collapsed to the floor.

He relaxed his grip and she slid over him to her knees, then fell to her side and rolled on the carpet the way a female cat will when her partner releases his grip on her neck.

“Your heels,” he whispered after a moment.

She retrieved the shoes and held them out to him. He knelt before her, again using his shoulder for support, raised her right foot. He cupped her heel and slid on her shoe with the ease of an experienced shoe salesman. The other shoe securely in place, he stood. She touched his chest, inspecting the mark her nails had left.

With one sweeping motion of his arm he cleared the dresser top of it’s contents. He retrieved two pillows from the bed and threw them on the dresser. He lifted her, carried her to the dresser and sat her on one of the pillows, situating the other behind her back. He placed one of her legs over each of his shoulders. She leaned back into the pillow and he took her. It was a dance, first a waltz, a tango, then a rhumba and he moved with such ease that were it a real dance her feet would barely have touched the floor. When the dance was complete he held her, cradled her for several minutes.

He dressed and watched as she dressed, not a word was spoken. When they were presentable they left the room. An elderly woman in a mink coat was waiting for the elevator. No one spoke as they waited or as the elevator descended. They walked through the lobby in silence. When they reached the sidewalk they stopped. He took her hand and softly kissed her cheek.

“When is the wedding?” He asked.

“Couple weeks.” She tossed her hair and tipped her head back in an attempt to show confidence, to say, “I can have sex with a stranger in a strange hotel room and walk away without any emotional connection.” Wham, bam thank you mister, was the attitude, but he could tell she was shaking inside.

“Hope you have a happy life.”

“You too.” She wanted to say thank you but did not.

“Maybe we’ll run into each other again some time. I’d like that.”

“Yes,” was all she said.

He turned and walked away. She walked a few steps in the opposite direction, then stopped to look in the window of a luggage shop next to the hotel. She didn’t want to look, she wanted to be strong but she had to look. She turned her head and glanced back in his direction just in time to see him turn the corner and disappear. He did not look back.

She knew she would never see him again, yet she hoped she might.

Note: All material contained on this web site is ©Copyright Daniel Region 2003 and may not be used or reprinted in any form without the express permission of Mr. Region.

This site a creation of Blue Mesa Productions

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