Spice of Transgression

She decided she would call herself "Rose". Not that anyone would care; not with the dress she was wearing. She could be Eunice or Bertha or Griselda or Enid, but with her tits just about hanging out and her back exposed nearly down to her ass any man would nod and tell her it was a beautiful name. But in keeping with her dress, which was a deep crimson red, Rose it would be.

With that settled, she peered into the dimly lit hotel bar and scanned the scattered crowd. She saw what she expected to see; tired, lonely looking businessmen swilling down a few drinks before heading back to their empty rooms for a quick toss and a restless sleep. It was good hunting grounds for a woman eager for some easy, rootless company. It was a good place for a neglected wife and mother to find a chance to feel like a woman again.

Roger was suppose to be "meeting a client" tonight. It was bullshit of course; she knew he wasn't in sales. But she didn't care and obviously he didn't care if she believed him. How sad that the hot fires of their once urgent love had cooled to this. But she didn't want to think of that now. The kids were at their grandmother's and she was free for the evening. She still had some good miles left on her chassis. Roger would have his fiction and she'd have hers too: as Rose.

She looked at herself in the mirrored wall panel just outside the bar and adjusted her hair. She was wearing her lustrous black tresses gathered up, showing her graceful neck and shoulders. She remembered how, before the kids threw them into a perpetual state of haggard exhaustion, Roger used to slide up behind her to run his face from the nape of her neck up to just behind her ear and greedily inhale her scent. He didn't even have to touch her to make her skin bloom in goose-bumps and her nethers go moist. But that was nearly a decade ago.

She was dawdling and she knew it. She was justifiably nervous. It had been so long since she had gone out on the prowl. When she was a young woman, really more of an overgrown girl, she would go out to parties knowing she would end the night in someone's bed without knowing who. But she was so out of practice now. It felt as strange and wrong as when she and her friends used to cruise frat parties when she was still in high school. She shook her head. Had she ever really been that wild; that free?

"It's like a cold swimming pool Rosie-girl, just jump in and get it over with," she said to herself. Taking a deep breath she opened the big tempered glass door and strutted in to the bar.

Her confidence increased as several heads turned to take her in as she strode self-assuredly across the dark, carpeted floor. She smiled coquettishly left and right at slack jawed strangers whose eyes were focused too low on her body to appreciate her tempting glare. At each step of her spiked heels she felt the scandalously exposed inner slopes of her breasts and the tightly wrapped flesh of her ass jiggle wantonly. She made her way to the end of the bar and slithered up onto a stool, letting the leg slit along the right side of her dress fall open to the top of her thigh high stockings.

The bartender was a woman in her forties. Her nametag said "Clara". She looked Rose over with a wary eye. She thinks I'm a whore, realized Rose. For some reason the thought made her quiver excitedly.

"What'll you have?" asked Clara without any pretense at civility.

"Cosmopolitan," she said, although she'd actually prefer a chardonnay. However, she was Rose tonight and it seemed to her that Rose would drink cosmos.

The bartender wandered off joylessly to find the cranberry juice while Rose scanned the room surreptitiously through the mirrored backing behind the liquor bottles. She noticed several lonely looking men eyeing her eagerly. Her exposed back felt cool from the air-conditioning, but simultaneously hot from the knowledge that several sets of eyes were sweeping up and down her display of flesh. She checked her posture, making sure to keep her back arched, chest out. Giving any hopeful stranger entering the bar the best possible show.

"Fella down the end says he's got this," said Clara as she sat the cosmopolitan down on a counter in front of her.

Rose looked over at the man in a crumpled, yellow button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hairline had receded almost to the top of his head and he had a dark, bristly shadow across his jowls and chin. Rose smiled. The lust in his eyes was flattering, but she knew already she didn't want him. He wouldn't be the one.

He gathered up his beer and drifted her way. He was a little paunchy; a doughy business traveler a long way from home. She spotted a pale band around his ring finger where his wedding ring had probably been two minutes previously. She felt sorry for him already. He was wasting his time and money on her. But then, that was part of the game; wasn't it?

"Hello there," he said with an honest grin.

"Hello," she smiled back coolly, trying to not be too encouragingly.

"My name is Bill," he said while sliding onto the stool next to her and extending a hand.

"Mine is Eunice," she said, taking his hand for the shake.

"That's a pretty name," he replied and brought her fingers to his mouth to kiss. She smiled in amusement. Of course he thought Eunice sounded pretty; behold the power of the slutty dress!

"But everyone calls me Rose."

He mistook her bemused smile and grinned back hopefully. "OK, Rose. I have to tell you, you're the loveliest woman I've seen in ages."

"Don't let your wife hear you say that, Bill."

"Oh, this," he said indicating his pale ring finger tan-line. "I just wear a band on sales calls. People trust a married man more than they trust a single guy."

"That's clever," she said. She meant the lie, not the sales strategy. She was expecting something about just finalizing his divorce or an open marriage, maybe the tragic death of his late, loving wife if he was extra ballsy.

"Actually I just finalized my divorce last month."

"Oh, that's too bad." She meant the excuse again.

Bill started going on about the life of an industrial pump salesman; the meetings; the pressures; the politics. It was deadly dull. He was such a typical man, so wrapped up in the petty victories and defeats of his dull life that he assumed they were fascinating to everyone. It occurred to her that he reminded her of Roger in that way, always going on in painfully minute detail about his office squabbles. It made her sad to realize how very much Roger and Bill were alike in that regard. Men will be men.

She cast her eyes down the bar to focus on anything but the bland life of Bill. That's when she saw a new man leaning on the bar. He was tall. His hair looked freshly cut and neatly styled. His face was newly shaved but for a smartly trimmed mustache; so unlike Roger's full, often scraggly beard. He wore a crisply pressed charcoal grey suit with a green silk tie and a dark green shirt. He stared at her with an unwavering, knowing look. His glare dropped to take in her bountiful cleavage and looked back up to smirk at her through his eyes; unapologetic at having ogled her so openly, almost daring her to take offense. He was a cocky bastard; so sure of himself, so sure of his intentions. Rose felt her pussy tingle in spite of herself.

She looked away. She wouldn't give that arrogant ass the satisfaction of staring back at him.

"The gentleman down the bar wants you to have this," said Clara, interrupting Bill's monolog about his many sales successes. She sat down a second Cosmopolitan.

Bill turned around to look at the cocky stranger, his face livid with annoyance. The stranger sauntered over with a martini in hand without taking his eyes off of Rose. Ignoring Bill completely, he spoke to her.

"Hello there beautiful, I'm…"

"Hey. Jerk. The lady and I are having a conversation," growled Bill.

The stranger looked at Bill with a friendly smile. "Oh come on now, surely you can see she's way out of your league."

"You want to take this outside asshole?"

"OK. But only if the lady has no preference who she'd rather sit with."

Bill's face was red with irritation. He looked from the stranger to Rose.

"Sorry Bill, I'm just not that interested in industrial pumps," Rose said sympathetically as she shrugged. "I think I'll give this gentleman a try."

"Well fuck you then, you cunt. And you too, asshole," hissed Bill who grabbed his beer and stormed out of the bar. Every eye in the bar followed him out. As he left the tall stranger settled into Bill's vacant seat.

"He seemed nice," said the stranger with an ironic smile.

"If you ever need and industrial grade pump, he's your man: according to him anyway."

"Interesting, I was planning on doing some pumping later tonight, although it's not him that I…"

Rose shot the stranger a warning look. He thought himself too clever by far. He'd better watch it with that frat boy bullshit.

Fortunately the stranger picked up on the warning and started again. "Well, your pump salesman was right about one thing."

"What's that?"

"My name really is Asshole."

"I guess that makes mine Cunt," she said laughing.

"Oh really? That was my Grandmother's name."

"But I generally preferred to be called Rose."

"Rose? That's very pretty. My other Grandmother was named Rose."

"Why do I have a feeling that if I told you my name was really Dingo you'd have a third Grandmother up your sleeve?"

"You're a very suspicious woman, Dingo. I guess I can't blame you. Absolutely ravishing women such as yourself must get hit on by creeps all the time."

"You can say that again, Mr. Asshole. And it is Rose by the way, not Dingo," she was smiling like an idiot. This swaggering dude in his fresh suit and haircut was so fucking smooth that she was ready to melt into her chair. "And what's your name, and don't tell me something stupid like Dingo or Asshole."

"Hey, I'm not the one that came up with 'Dingo'," he said raising his hands, palms out. "I'm John."

"I bet your last name is Smith, huh?"

"No. It's Van Halen."

"Oh come on. 'Van Halen'? You can do better than that."

"No really. John Van Halen is my name. No relation to the musicians though."

"OK. I guess that'll have to do, Mr. Van Halen."

John Van Halen feigned offense, "What have I done to earn this level of distrust, Rose?"

"Oh, I'd say it's your attitude; the way you come strutting over here like you just expect me to melt into your arms makes me think you're pretty damn full of yourself."

"I thought women liked confident men."

"Yeah, but we like a little effort too."

"A little effort, huh? How little? I'm very lazy."

Rose laughed. John Van Halen was a kidder and she loved a kidder. She had to hold back though; make him work for it. She didn't want to be too easy.

"I made you laugh, that's got to be worth something."

"It's not worth enough Mr. Van Halen."

"Well, and I'm not joking here, can I tell you that you have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen?"

"Sure, go nuts."

"OK Rose. Your dark brown eyes are so mesmerizing I feel like they are going to pull me in. They are so big I… I think I might… um, actually fit if they do."

"No offense, but that's some pretty weak flattery John."

"I'm not a poet. But I do mean it. You have beautiful eyes."

"My eyes and…"

"Your lips are full and beautiful, your face is like a perfect sculpture of a flawless goddess, your graceful neck is sublime… I'm afraid if I go further I'll get pornographic.

"You didn't mention my hair. You could tell me it's like fine strands of lustrous mahogany."

"Yeah, ditto to that. In every detail you are a delight to behold."

"That's pretty good. But I still have a feeling you're a shady character."

"Shady, huh? Like the kind of guy who would ask you to come up to his room for a nightcap in private?" His eyebrows climbed up his forehead hopefully.

"You move awful fast Mr. Van Halen. What kind of girl do you think I am?"

"Well, you're wearing a tight, revealing dress and hanging out alone in an airport hotel bar waiting for strangers to come in and rain complements down on you. If I had to guess, I would say you are a neglected wife who feels like her husband doesn't appreciate her any more; a beautiful lady who wants to feel like a woman again."

Rose looked at him with serious eyes. "Oh really? Am I that transparent?"

"A little. If it makes you feel better you can tell your husband I said he's a fool. You are an absolutely gorgeous woman. Any man who could ignore your beauty is not longer alive inside."

"Maybe I will tell him that," she said looking deeply into John's eyes. "So what's your story? Are you escaping the nagging wife and squalling kids to prowl for some cheap slut?"

"Pretty much: except I never suggested you were cheap."

"Just a slut then?"

"A shady bastard can hope, can't he?"

She laughed again as he grinned wickedly at her. She was feeling light headed from the first cosmopolitan and she was nearly done with the second. She checked John's martini and it looked like he'd barely sipped it. She needed to be careful. Liquor made her reckless; reckless and horny.

"So we're both philanderers then, hmm?"

He shrugged. "We are awful people aren't we?"

"The worst."

"In Arabia they'd behead us."

"And we'd deserve it."

There was a lull in the conversation as Rose drained off the rest of her cosmopolitan and John took a few sips of his martini. Rose went to look into John's eyes, but he was already looking into hers. She smiled and he smiled back.

"So do you have a room here?" she asked.

"Right up stairs, third floor."

"Does it have a view?"

"Best view of the rental car lots in the whole damn city."

"Sounds wonderful."

"Shall I escort you up for a viewing?

She pretended to think if over. But she already knew. "Yes, Mr. Van Halen. Please do."

He helped her from her stool and guided her out of the bar. His hand found its way to the small of her back and the feel of his fingertips brushing her skin sent a thrill up her spine. Soon his palm was resting against the subtle curve of her waist and his fingertips slipped under the fabric. He was a forward son of a bitch. But she didn't stop him.

He guided her into the elevator. It was one of those clear boxes that provide a spectacular view of a bland lobby and the parking lots beyond as it slowly whisks its passengers to their floors. Rose turned to the glass to check her hair in her dim reflection. She saw John loom behind her. His hands lightly took hold of her waist as his lips kissed her on the back of her neck. Rose felt her knees go weak at his touch.

"Careful. My husband is supposed to be meeting some clients. What if they were staying here? He might see us."

"Let him," whispered John as his teeth gently but firmly rasped against her neck. She felt her skin bloom in goose-bumps.

The door chimed open and John moved away from her to let her lead the way out into the hall. She strutted out ahead of him with a pronounced sway to her hips and folded her arms together to gather her cleavage tight as she turned to face him. "Which way is your room?"

He cracked a leering smile at her and nodded to the left without speaking. He stepped to her side and again placed a hand on the curve of her lower back to guide her along. He let it slip down a little; down to where it could easily slide lower into her dress and onto her ass. Again, she didn't stop him.

He led her to a door and opened it with his key card. She strutted in without a pause feeling confident and sexy. He followed close behind. The room was generically furnished and decorated. It contained a single king sized bed, a small table, a couple of chairs and a wall mounted flat screen T.V. Rose strutted across to look out the window. Sure enough, sprawling rental car lots stretched out toward the interstate a mile away.

"You weren't lying about the…" she began, but John was behind her again; his hands firmly grasping her hips, his mouth finding the nape of her neck. She shuddered in pleasure as he lightly nipped and licked his way up to her jaw-line. She turned her head and leaned back to accept his kiss. He was gentle at first; merely brushing her lips with his and breathing her breath as his mustache tickled along her cheek. Together they built up the urgency of their kissing, slowly progressing from darting probes of their tongues, to full soul kisses, into frenzied making out. His hands strayed from her hips to fan out over her abdomen and glide up to her chest; stopping just below her breasts. He turned her around to press himself into her as they locked their mouths together like desperately horny teenagers. She could feel his firm manhood pressing through his trousers.

His hands moved up her body; ascending along either side of her waist to grasp her lower ribs in a firm, powerful grip. He tried to move them up over her breasts, but she played defense; brushing them away as he attempted to take her mounds in hand. He changed his tactics; pulling his hands up to cup her face; pulling her close as he kissed her; dropping them down to hold her shoulders before beginning to pluck at the straps of her gown. She pushed him back.

"I hope you haven't changed your mind now," he said, breathing heavily.

She only smiled at his frustration. She was now as wet as he was hard and she wouldn't stop the action for anything. She reached up and brushed the straps of her dress from her shoulders and slowly began to peel it off. He stood close, looking down gratefully as her breasts bounced free of the fabric. He took them in his hands as she gave her dress a final push past her hips and it dropped to the floor. She looked up at him and smiled. His pupils were dilated. He had the look of a mad beast; of a horny demon.

"No," she said. "I haven't changed my mind."

He pulled her close and they kissed hungrily. She pressed her body into him. She was nude but for her panties and thigh-high stocking. She liked being nearly naked while he remained clothed, it made her feel naughty; sexy; wanton. His hands cupped her ass, slid into her panties to feel her cheeks and tease down along her crack, nearly reaching to her sex. Again she withdrew.

"Sweet Jesus. You are so goddamned hot," he said.

"You ain't seen nothin' yet," she replied with a smile and sank to her knees. He guessed her intent and opened his fly to bring out his long, fat prick. She reached up to circle her fingers around the base as she brought her lips to his glans. She kissed it chastely while looking up at him through wide, teasing eyes. She began to lick up and down the sides of his shaft before moving up along the underside with wet slurping kisses. Finally she opened her mouth to take him in; letting John, the stranger she had met so recently, slide his thick musky cock back along her tongue. She felt so dirty. Tonight she was a cheap slut sucking a stranger's cock. Every cell in her body burned with sinful fire as her tongue played along every vein and ridge of the fat rod of meat sliding back and forth past her lips.

God she was so wet.

As she bobbed along John's shaft, he reached down to thread his fingers into her hair. Her piled up hairdo slipped and cascaded down her bare back and partially obscured her face. It had taken so long to get that hairstyle just right. But it was OK; it had served its purpose. She was getting what she wanted. Or she would be anyway: soon.

John was leaking copious pre-cum and his dick was quivering as if he was close to losing himself too soon, so she let him slide from her mouth and stood up. John quickly began pulling off his tie and suit jacket. She sat back on the bed to watch.