24 Hours

*This is my entry in the Literotica Winter Holidays Contest. Enjoy!

If you had me alone, locked in your room for 24 hours, what would you do with me?

Virtual vs. Reality

As she ducked into the warmth of the hotel lobby from the October chill of New York, Susan quickly slipped into the ladies' room to check her preparations. Oh, better pee—don't want the stress interrupting something. I'm already getting a bit wet, just thinking about the next 24 hours, she smiled to herself. Okay, done...now, mirror, mirror on the wall... She was having a good hair day, as her mahogany curls streaked with silver tumbled over her shoulders. Her eyeshadow added just the right amount of "smoky" around her blue/green/grey eyes.

She had dressed very carefully, knowing she'd be wearing (or NOT wearing) these clothes for 24 hours. Color wasn't an issue. Everything was Manhattan black, which was half her wardrobe in any case. She tugged at the strapless, black lace bustier under her body-skimming deep V-neck black cashmere sweater. She re-positioned "the girls" slightly for maximum cleavage, and left a taste of black lace showing under the sweater. She slipped the sheer burgundy lip gloss out of the pocket of her black leather jeans, and swiped on a fresh coat. There, she thought. Ready to meet Simon.

She walked out the door and back into the busy lobby, checking her utilitarian silver watch. It was the only jewelry she wore, except for her lucky silver faerie holding the brilliant amethyst who lingered on a very fine silver chain around her neck. Her feet just grazed the top of Susan's cleavage. Good...it's 8:05, my customary five minutes late.

Simon had been sitting in the bar just off the lobby since 7:45. He liked to be punctual. He glanced at his watch, as he had done every five minutes from 7:45 to 8 p.m. Now he was checking it every minute. And the minutes ticked by slowly. He sipped his gin and tonic.

Where is she? he worried. I know—she's decided not to come. After all, who would want to be locked up in a hotel room for 24 hours with me? My hair is thinning and my waist is widening. I'm not nearly as good at talking to a real person in real life as I am at writing hot chat.

Don't be so bloody insecure! the voice in his head answered back. You've both worked hard to arrange this—she perhaps more than you. She'll be here any moment. After all, it's only, he looked at his Rolex, 8:04.

Wait—she told me she runs five minutes late. Oh god, that means she's almost here! Well, no good worrying about that now, he reminded himself, rubbing his hand over his close-cropped hair.

Walking toward the lobby bar, Susan reflected on how easily the pieces of this event had dropped into place. She and Simon had been chatting on line, sometimes quite explicitly, for several months when this opportunity presented itself. He was coming to New York on business. She was already planning a trip to visit her daughter sometime in the fall. As the "magic" date drew nearer, their online chat got almost too hot to handle.

And now, here they were...ready to do everything imaginable to each other over a 24 hour period. We've exchanged so many pictures, she thought, that I should be able to find him. Well, I might not recognize him with clothes on, she chuckled to herself. As she gazed around the crowded bar, she cursed her aging eyesight. Then she saw him.

Being younger and having better vision, Simon had spotted her first and was moving toward her. Oh lord—she's actually here. And I'm quite certain I want her, was all he thought, as he felt a stirring in his trousers.

As he beamed at her, she felt her own face shyly breaking into a coy smile. The crowd parted in front of them, the string orchestra began to play, and they glided toward each other in slow motion... (Oops! Letting the imagination carry me away a bit.)

No, in truth, he walked straight up to her and gathered her into a big, warm, teddy bear hug. I hope this was okay to do. Oh, god she feels good, Simon thought. A bit shorter than I had guessed from her pictures, but even more beautiful than I had imagined.

As she smiled up at him, she thought, He's taller, and better-looking, than his pictures. Lightly touching her elbow, (Such a gentleman, she thought,) he drew her to his table, and helped her settle into the cushy chair.

As the waitress came to the table, he asked, "What would you like to drink?"

I need a stiff Scotch, she thought, to calm my nerves and help me return to this planet. But the peaty, smoky taste of a single malt was meant to be savored slowly, and Susan feared she would drink it too fast, or even worse, not finish it. No matter, she told herself, there's plenty for later. She had included her deep purple flask in her large black leather bag, along with other preparations.

"Just a glass of red wine, please," she turned to the waitress. "An Australian Shiraz if you have it."

And then they sat back and smiled at each other, like people who were about to do something very naughty...because they were. The "lock ourselves in a room for 24 hours" scheme had come about because of a silly post that had been making the rounds. "If you had me alone, locked in a room for 24 hours, what would you do to me?"

She had forwarded it to him as a lark, but within hours he had sent her a very steamy poem, answering the question in enticing detail. And soon after that, they had determined to make it happen, even though he lived in London, and she in Iowa. Now, here they were, splitting the distance in New York City.

He finally broke the nervous silence. "How was your flight?" he asked, then sighed with relief as the conversation took off. They began chatting as naturally as they had on line, as if they were old friends. Small talk mostly—airlines, weather, New York itself, along with some fairly innocent flirtation.

She had emptied her wine glass. He also had finished his drink.

"Would you like to have another?" he asked politely. "Or, I have some champagne chilling in the room."

Okay, here were go, she thought. She checked her watch as she stood up to leave and smiled, giving him her silent answer. It was 8:45 p.m., New York time, and their 24 hours were about to begin.

Commencement to Consummation

As Simon led the way out of the hotel bar, his first-date jitters kicked in again. What the bloody hell am I doing? he wondered. I'm a 39-year old man, in a posh New York City hotel, about to begin a 24-hour sexual odyssey with a hot older woman from halfway around the world whom I met in the flesh for the first time less than an hour ago. Ah, but what charming flesh it is.

What the fuck am I doing? Susan mused. Here I am, a usually sensible and generally respectable 52-year old woman, about to step into a 24-hour fantasy with a delicious younger man from far away whom I just met.

Well, he told himself, taking a deep breath, it's an adventure. And she certainly seems up for it. Sure, it may be awkward at first, but I know simply by looking at her that it will be good. He smiled.

Susan took a deep breath and reassured herself, Well, I can't imagine this being a disappointment. And if something goes wrong and I need to "escape," I have cab fare and a key to my daughter's apartment. Justine knows where I am (though not what I'm doing,) and I can rely on that tenacious little spitfire to tear this hotel apart looking for me if I haven't arrived or called by tomorrow night. She smiled to herself, wondering, How did I manage to raise a native New Yorker in Sioux City, Iowa?

He noticed that she had stopped walking. Oh no, she's having second thoughts, he fretted. "Shall we go up, then?" he inquired politely.

With another deep breath to clear her head, she replied, "Sorry, I was lost in thought for a moment. Yes, please lead on."

They exchanged a smile that clearly said, I know you're nervous about this. So am I, as they walked toward the elevator that would convey them to the penthouse suite, and the beginning of what they both hoped would be an utterly erotic 24 hours.

The bar had been dark. As her eyes adjusted to the brighter light in the elevator, she surreptitiously looked him over thoroughly for the first time. He's clearly the man in the pictures I've been fantasizing over many a dreamful night, but he's real, he's actually standing next to me, and I can feel the warmth of his body only inches away. No, he isn't a hard body with six-pack abs, she thought, but then neither am I.

They had often discussed both of their preference for softer bodies, true human bodies in all their beautiful forms.

And he DID find her form beautiful. That smile, he thought. Pictures could never capture that radiance. Her luscious curves are almost begging for me to stroke my hands all over them, and that gorgeous hair—well, I just want to tangle my fingers in it in passion.

She also was pleased with what she saw before her. He was easily a head taller than she, and his expensive, perfectly tailored charcoal grey suit hung nicely from his broad shoulders and his ample waist. Oh! Is that a bulge beginning in his pants? She nearly giggled.

Instead of a shirt and tie, Simon wore a surprisingly light blue soft knit turtleneck. Oh, that practically cries out to be touched, she thought.

He noticed her looking at him then, and gave her a warm smile which said he appreciated the attention. She smiled back into a lovely face—open, wide and friendly, with moist, fullish bow-shaped lips that most women would kill for, a slightly wide nose, and large and expressive eyes with an unmistakably naughty twinkle that came through even in pictures.

But even the pictures couldn't capture that color, she sighed to herself. His eyes were a vivid blue, exactly two shades deeper than his shirt. Completing the picture were blond hair, cropped short and receding a little, and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. Ah, yes, she smiled. Now I remember why I'm here.

The elevator had stopped. Again, his gentlemanly hand on her elbow guided her to the door of the suite. He swiped the key card and opened the door to what was now their chamber, their dungeon, their paradise. Simon already had checked in, but Susan audibly gasped as she looked around the fabulous suite, outfitted with every luxury, including a cheery fire in an ornate fireplace and, of course, a huge furry rug on the floor before it.

Wealth didn't normally turn her head, but she had known from the start that he was a successful professional man. Adopting a mock air of snobbery, she turned to him and joked, "Well, I suppose it will do," before breaking into her typical bubbling laughter. He laughed along, and they both began to relax.

Simon took off his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair, then motioned her to the plush cranberry-colored couch that faced the fireplace. How close do I sit? he wondered. I don't want to appear aloof, but I don't want her to think I'm eager to jump on her—even though I am. He decided to let her decide, settling immediately into the corner.

How close should I sit? she fretted. I don't want him to think I'm not interested, but I don't want him to think I'm throwing myself at him either.

The voice in her head said, Yeah, right! That's exactly what you're doing.

She chose to sit about two feet away. She took in the richly lacquered coffee table in front of them, which held an artfully arranged fruit and cheese platter. Standing next to the left arm of the couch was a silver ice bucket on a stand, holding a bottle of something she knew was sure to be marvelous.

He expertly drew the bottle from the ice, wiping it with a towel that appeared out of nowhere. As he easily uncorked the bottle, she thought, My, my! Real French champagne.

Now don't bungle this, he thought. He filled two crystal flutes that had been lurking amongst the other delectables on the coffee table, and handed one to her. "To our 24 hours," he smiled, as they clinked glasses and began to taste and feel the delicate bubbles.

As they both settled into the cozy comfort of the couch, laden with a dozen small pillows, he stretched out his legs toward the coffee table. What are you doing? You're not at home, chided the voice in his head. You don't even have your shoes off. So he thought better and slipped off his neatly polished shoes under the table.

She grinned broadly, as she knew what was next to come. Will he think I'm strange, or just practical? Brits are known for being sensible, right? Pulling up the leg of her leather jeans, she reached to unzip her shiny black...........combat boot. She was relieved when he chuckled at her nod to practicality. Then, they both laughed when she slipped off the boot to reveal her nod to whimsy—purple and black horizontal-striped Wicked Witch of the East trouser socks. Well, now I suppose he might really think I'm strange. But she laughed and sipped her drink, removing the other boot and standing them both at the right arm of the couch.

The champagne was delicious, and the conversation equally bubbly. Oh she is delightfully eccentric, he mused. And her laugh. I could listen to it for, well, 24 hours. Now I feel at ease with her, much as I do when we're chatting on line.

They talked, making bad puns and transparent innuendos just as they had on line for the last several months. He's funny! she thought. Of course he was when we were chatting, but laughing together feels so comfortable and right.

They both became at once more relaxed and more animated, as the champagne and the anticipation worked their magic. Now, the flirting began in earnest.

She batted her eyelashes and smiled coyly over the top of her champagne flute. He stretched his arm out over the back of the couch, not quite touching her. She leaned toward him and touched his leg as she giggled at one of his bad jokes, and he took the opportunity to casually move his arm closer to her.

He stretched his legs, repositioning them so that their knees brushed together. They both felt a snap of sparks each time their bodies touched. She was beginning to feel an aching and a wetness between her legs. The leather pants were a smart choice, she reasoned. The wetness won't seep through or show.

The bulge in his trousers was clearly not concealed now. He thought, Damn, I hope she doesn't think I'm in a hurry to get on with it. I want to enjoy every second of this.

The next moment held the kind of serendipity of which legends (or at least romance novels) are born. She leaned forward to set her flute on the coffee table. As she leaned back again, unbeknownst to her, he was leaning toward her to kiss her cheek. Then she turned to face him and the kiss connected squarely on her lips.

They both sighed softly as they leaned into the kiss, and it grew into a symphony of parting lips and darting tongues. His arm left the back of the couch as he pulled her toward him, while her arms encircled his neck and she fell deeper into his embrace. As she deftly nibbled at his lower lip and sucked his tongue into her mouth, she had the magical sensation of falling, sinking into his welcoming body, deep into the blue water of his eyes, into blissful oblivion.

He too was lost in time and space. Nothing existed at that juncture but lips and tongues, moistness and hardness, bodies entwined. Neither had any idea how long the kiss lasted. When they finally came up for air, their breathing shallow and ragged, they still acted as one.

At the exact same time, they each removed their eyeglasses and tossed them to the coffee table, both smiling devilishly at the implications of the simple act. They shifted positions slightly, he leaning back a little into the pile of pillows, and she pulling her legs up onto the couch, half kneeling, half sitting, the better to lean into his taller frame. Then they simply merged again, with bodies as well as lips and arms.

Their tingling hands began to explore each other. She ran her smaller hands over his soft, stubbly hair, and he held her face in his bigger hands as the kiss became more ardent, more passionate. It was no longer merely a kiss, but a preview of the delights to come. He caressed the luscious softness of her sweater, all over her shoulders and back, slowly progressing to her leather-clad bottom.

He shifted his body, drawing his legs onto the couch, fully reclining, while positioning her completely on top of him. They both moaned as the hot kiss recommenced. For a while they lay like that, like horny teenagers making out on the family room couch.

But they were not teenagers. They were adults with full-grown needs and desires, which were increasing by the minute. His hands had pulled her now-aching pussy directly over his rock-hard cock, kneading her buttocks over the leather. Then, in one smooth move, his hands slid into the waistband of her pants, caressing her satiny panties. And just as smoothly, they reached under the panties, cupping the satiny-smooth skin of her bare ass, pulling her even closer to his hardness.

Moaning softly into his mouth, she began to stroke his chest through the so-soft knit of his turtleneck, smiling inwardly as she felt his hard little nipples. Her own nipples had grown even larger than usual, and rock hard.

Again he shifted their bodies, sitting up so that she was straddling him, and broke the kiss, allowing him to move his hands all over the front of her sweater. He could feel her hard nipples even through the sweater and the padded cups of her bustier, and he gave her a surprised yet delighted smile. Somehow she knew what he was thinking, raising her arms as he smoothly whisked the sweater off over her head, dropping it beside the couch. He took a long moment to appreciate her pearlescent breasts above the black lace of the undergarment.

With her hands on the back of his head, she drew him down toward her, aching to be touched. As he groped her firm mounds, his lips fell to her neck, to her collarbone, and slowly to her décolletage and her breasts as they peeked out over the low-cut bustier. He stopped momentarily to lightly kiss the silver faerie with her sparkling amethyst, which gave them both a smile.

The bustier was satin covered with black lace, decorated minimally with a few strategically placed tiny lavender satin roses. It closed in the front with two dozen hooks and eyes, which he immediately set to work unhooking from the top. Her head fell back and she purred at the feel of his fingers as he undid the hooks slowly at first, then more urgently as he continued down. His cock jumped under her, bringing her back to acute awareness of the hardness she was still straddling, and of the wetness she could feel dripping into her panties.

As the last few hooks came apart and the bustier fell away, he instantly fell upon her tits again with hands and mouth, squeezing, sucking, licking, and especially nibbling on her large nipples. He lifted his head to appreciate the sight of them, and a look of astonishment spread over his face. Larger than any he had ever seen, and rock hard, he smilingly admired them for a moment before going to work upon them again. She was moaning now, and grinding her sensitive parts through the leather and satin onto his growing and still hardening rod.