From: izzy pywacket To: Subject: New story-- Impure Thoughts by Pywacket NC-17 Date: Wednesday, March 21, 2001 1:16 PM Title: Impure Thoughts Author: Pywacket Email: Pywacket1975@hotmail.com Classification: S Spoilers: None Archive: Go ahead Rating: NC-17—no, I mean really NC-17. Disclaimer: They aren’t mine. I’d certainly make sure they had more fun if they were. A man walks into a bar. To be specific, it is a generically elegant hotel bar, populated by bored businessmen attempting to drink themselves out of their loneliness. He stands in the doorway, the bright lobby lights behind him and waits until his eyes adjust to the dark. He’s away from home, restless and off kilter. It’s dangerous, he thinks, to feel this way. Men get in trouble this way, allowing themselves to be tempted by possibilities they would normally walk away from. Temptation--like the beautiful woman at the bar. She’s the kind of woman that men leave their wives for. She wears a dark red silk blouse cut so low he can see the hollow between her rounded breasts. Her black leather skirt has a deep slit, offering a view of one smooth thigh. But it’s her lips that grab his attention, shiny garnet colored lips, swollen as if she’d been doing wicked things. She’s perched on a bar stool, the very embodiment of impure thoughts. Legs crossed, one stiletto heel dangling from a high-arched foot, she chats with a rather pudgy man in an ill-fitting suit. She laughs, like tiny bells ringing, tossing her head. Does that fat slob think he has a chance with this woman? She leans forward, her red, red lips inches away from the chubby man’s ear. She whispers something, her hand pressing into his fat thigh. The man’s face becomes red, sweat popping out on his brow. He stumbles down off his bar stool, hands shaking as he drops some cash on the bar to pay for his drink. He barrels from the room, his backside straining against his too-tight jacket. The woman laughs again, turning her head to take in her observer. She lifts her chin, daring him to come closer. He is torn, half terrified, half burning at the idea of a walk on the wild side. He can’t fight the desire, the need to hear what her voice sounds like. He hitches himself onto the recently vacated bar stool, folding his long legs up to brace against the footrest. His mouth is dry as he watches her sip white wine. One drop beads her full lower lip. She catches it with the tip of her pink tongue, catlike. The bartender takes his drink order, clearing away the fat man’s glass and money. He wonders how many men the bartender has seen make that irrevocable decision to stray. “Your friend left rather quickly,” he comments. He hope he sounds appropriately casual. “He did, didn’t he?” Her voice is crème de menthe over crushed ice. “What did you say to him?” he asks, feeling bold. The bartender returns with his whiskey. She holds her answer until the barman retreats again. “I told him I was a man.” Her eyes glitter beneath incredibly long lashes. He chokes on his drink, “Are you?” “I could say no.” She smiles wickedly. “But you couldn’t be sure without checking, could you? Oh well, maybe I just wanted to get rid of a pest.” “Very effective—he’s probably checked out of the hotel by now.” “He wasn’t my type. So, are you staying at the hotel?” She sits forward, looking into his eyes as if he were the only man on the planet. “I’m here for a conference. I delivered a paper today.” “What was your paper about?” she asks. Her breasts are almost spilling out of her blouse. He can’t remember the name of the damned paper. “It isn’t important,” he says. “No really, I want to know.” Her hand is on his arm now, perfectly manicured garnet fingernails. If she leans any closer, she’ll be sitting on his lap. He can smell her perfume, heady and intoxicating and unfamiliar. “Okay. The paper was on the validity of the alien abduction experience.” He is completely under her spell, unable to take his eyes off the curve of her lips. “Really?” She asks. “Is there any validity to alien abductions?” She shifts in her chair, uncrossing and recrossing her legs so her thigh presses against his. He can feel her warmth through his trousers. She moves her hand from his arm to his knee and he can barely summon the will to speak. “Depends on who you talk to. But I’d rather not talk about work now.” He feels her hand move from his knee, straying higher up his thigh. “You’re absolutely right, let’s not talk shop.” She tilts her head, purring, “But I would just love to get to know you.” Her gaze is intent, never leaving his face. He feels drawn to her, as if he were metal shavings being pulled by a powerful magnet. Her hand is mere inches from his cock. This is rather appropriate as he seems to be thinking with his little head right now. “What’s your name,” he asks. He winces inwardly, wishing he had thought of a more original question. “Names are inconsequential,” she says mysteriously. She sips her wine and smiles. Her fingers squeeze his thigh, almost idly. “Come on, I’ve got to call you something.” She lifts her wine glass and nods, “Why don’t you call me Chardoney. And you?” “Marty. You can call me Marty.” “You know, I don’t think you look like a Marty. You’re too sexy to be a Marty, too smart. So Marty, do you have a room here?” He can’t speak. He can only nod as her hand grazes his now erect member. “Marty, if you don’t take me up to your room soon, I’m going to melt right here.” Her voice is husky and low, her lips inches from his ear. There is no turning back now. No resisting the pull of this woman. She literally has him by the short hairs, and he can offer no defense. He does the only thing he can and reaches for her hand. She downs her wine in one gulp, smiling at him ferociously. Signing his drink receipt with his room number, he stands. He pulls his jacket around him, hoping to disguise his raging hard on. She pulls him from the bar, looking back at him like a lioness regarding at her prey. Her walk is that of a predator, swaying on stiletto heels, graceful and feline. He wonders if the people in the lobby, innocent travelers all, perceive his fall from grace. He imagines them pointing long fingers at him, shouting, “Sinner, sinner!” He decides he doesn’t care, he only wants to tear the clothes off this woman. A staid, older couple enter the lobby elevator with them. The couple take in Chardoney’s bright tousled hair and fuck me eyes. He tries to make his face into an expressionless mask, but it isn’t easy with Chardoney’s red fingernails drifting up his thigh. The older couple disembark on a lower floor, shooting stern looks, leaving him alone with his temptation. Chardoney fondles him, her touch firm, and her look tells him that she knows all his secret desires. She is too bold, and he can’t wait a moment longer. Turning the tables on her, he presses her into the elevator wall, the hand rail causing her hips to bow toward him. He grabs her head and forces a kiss on her lips, his tongue plundering her mouth. She tastes of white wine and sin. He only pulls out of the kiss when the elevator lurches to a stop. They both draw ragged breaths as the door slides open. He takes her arm and pulls her along down the hall to his room. He doesn’t let go of her while he fishes for his room key. She looks up at him with cool assessment, perhaps redefining him in her mind from putty in her hands to dangerous entity. His hands are shaking and he can’t get the door key to work. It’s one of the credit card types that won’t open the door unless the lock flashes green. Finally, the magic color appears, and he pushes the door open and pulls her into the room with him. She pulls her arm out of his grasp and stalks around the room. He thinks she must be very familiar with hotel rooms and wonders if his passes muster. Her gaze takes in the lush details of the richly appointed yet soulless room, pausing for a moment at the huge bed. She comes to rest against the desk, leaning back, stiletto-clad feet crossed at the ankles. He won’t be satisfied until she is writhing under him on that bed. Witty conversation would be out of place in this room charged with sexual electricity. He pulls off his jacket, no longer needing it’s camouflage, and tosses it over a chair. She moves toward him, swaying on her impossibly high heels, her fingers working the tiny buttons of her blouse. She probably realizes that if she doesn’t take the blouse off voluntarily, it’s likely to have all the buttons torn open. Experience has probably taught her that leaving a hotel room with her blouse hanging open is a tricky proposition. She slips the silk from her shoulders, and he thinks he might have stopped breathing. Her skin is the color of Devonshire cream, her breasts offered up like a sacrifice by a scrap of garnet lace. She drops her blouse atop his jacket and comes to stand before him. Men have heart attacks, he thinks, from sights like this; white skin, tight leather skirt and dark red pushup bra. His hands are on her, kneading her round breasts through the lace. She moans and pushes her breasts into his hands. He jerks the bra straps down, allowing the breasts to pop out over the material. Her nipples are diamond hard against the palms of his hands. She twists her arms around to unhook the bra, arching her back with the effort. He tweaks the coral tips, mauls the0 ripe flesh presented to him. “You like to play rough, do you?” she gasps, cupping her breasts to offer them up. “Is that a problem?” he asks, as he watches her breasts pink at his attentions. “I like it rough,” she answers, stretching up to kiss him. True to her word, she kisses hard, sliding hungry lips over his, pulling his lower lip between her teeth. When she pulls away, breathing hard, he sees a streak of blood below her lip and he realizes it is his. Rough indeed. He cups her ass, raising her feet off the floor, so he can rub his hard cock against her leather clad crotch. Her arms are wound behind his neck, her breasts smashed against the starched cotton of his shirt. She wriggles under his hands, as if trying to satisfy an itch. He places her back on her feet, and she wobbles a bit on her heels. He unbuttons his shirt with shaky hands, not caring when he pops a button and it flies under the bed. Impatiently, he unfastens his trousers and pushes them down along with his boxers. His cock springs free, standing hard along his belly. She reaches behind to unzip her skirt, wriggling her hips as she pushes it down, finally stepping out of its leather confines. He can’t take his eyes off her high cut panties, the tiny scrap of garnet lace, cut low in a “V,” dipping down from her navel. She is wearing thigh high hose, held up by a thin strip of lace at the tops of her creamy thighs. His hands grope the round globes of her ass, left bare by the thong back of her panties. He tears the delicate lace in his hurry to uncover the rest of the package. The panties fall away to reveal Chardoney’s completely shaved pussy. She’s every porn fantasy, come to vivid life. He can’t believe the smoothness of her skin as he strokes her flat belly and reaches down between her legs. He is fascinated, more turned on than he could have imagined. He wants to investigate, discover all there is to this sensation and then he wants to bury himself in her, until his rough pubic hair abrades her tender skin. She bends slightly to remove her stockings and he closes his hand over hers. “No, leave them on. And the shoes.” He pushes her onto the bed, spreading her legs wide. He hopes he doesn’t come right there at the sight of her, opened to him, dark stockings and stiletto heels. Her vulva glistens pink and wet without curls to hide it. “And I was hoping to find out if your hair color was real.” “You’ll have to keep wondering,” she gasps, as he parts her slick folds and and plunges a finger into her tight wetness. He presses her knees back toward her shoulders, her high-heeled feet straight up in the air. His mouth is on her, licking and sucking her clitoris; it throbs under his tongue. She thrashes her head, arching her back, and moans under his onslaught. His fingers play over her swollen bud and she actually screams out when he plunges his tongue into her vagina. He realizes he has definitely underestimated her strength when she flips him off her and onto his back. He is puzzled until she climbs between his legs and grins up at him. She licks her garnet lips, slowly, wickedly. His heart pounds at the knowledge that those incredible lips are going to be wrapped around his aching cock. And then her hot, eager mouth is on him. Her tongue traces a path up his length, caressing every sinew. She circles the head, swirling and swirling with that talented little pink tongue until she finally she eases her mouth over him until she has him to the hilt, lips up against his balls, sucking hard. Her blow job abilities are masterful, bringing him almost to the brink of orgasm before easing him back down. She teases him this way three times, licking delicately, sucking his whole length, then holding back. He lifts his head to watch her cheeks hollow in effort, head bobbing, bright hair bouncing. His senses are on fire, orgasm frustratingly just out of reach, when she stops and squeezes him hard. He could almost cry. “You. In me. Now,” she orders, words clumsy from swollen lips. He doesn’t need further invitation. He does have one requirement, though. “On your hands and knees—I want to fuck you from behind.” She crawls obediently onto the bed, knees wide spread and back arched, her bare pussy almost dripping in anticipation. She looks wantonly over her shoulder at him. He climbs behind her, enjoying the sight of her ass, perfectly rounded white globes. He grasps her firm flesh, kneading and pinching. She wriggles her bottom, gasping at his roughness, but begs for more. He enters her, sliding into her hot, wet depth. He can see both of them in the mirror over the dresser. Her breasts bounce with every thrust of his cock, her hair swaying with the motion. Her face is contorted in pleasure, swollen lips pursed. He reaches forward to fondle her breasts, watching his fingers dig into the ripe flesh. He is pounding, pounding hard, gripping her hips tight enough to leave marks. She’s going to have bruises tomorrow. He can hear the wet slap of his belly impacting against her ass. She moans with every driving thrust. She balances on one arm, her free hand working her clit until she screams in release, her internal muscles contracting around him. He wants to prolong this, but he is too far along. He pumps into her a few more times before exploding into his own orgasm. She collapses, muscles shaking, breathing hard. He is still inside her, his cock twitching with its last ejaculation. He rolls off her, his cock slipping out, spent. He rises up on one elbow, as she rolls onto her back. She shivers a little and flips the end of the bedspread over her. He should get up now, wash himself, think about tomorrow. But right now, he just wants to look at this woman. “So your mother didn’t mind babysitting?” he asks, cupping her breast gently. “Not at all. She thought it was very romantic for me to surprise you at your conference.” Her voice is honey, sweet and thick with exhaustion. He slips his hand down under the cover to touch her shaved pussy. “I’d say you surprised me.” “Well, Mulder, we said we wouldn’t let our relationship go stale. I just wanted to make things a little exciting.” “Any more excitement and you’d have to do CPR on me.” “I’m going to take a shower,” she says rolling off the bed. She bends down to retrieve the torn panties. “You had to rip these, didn’t you? I paid thirty two dollars for them.” “I’d call that money well spent. Hey, Scully, can we get room service for breakfast?” End. Okay, this isn’t exactly an original concept, but I hope a new take on an old idea. Thanks for reading. Py.