3 Unworn Words

The fingers on both his hands nearly touched. They squeezed around my waist like a belt, so big and strong I wasn't about to escape. Not that I wanted to.

Until now, the only hands to touch my cotton and nylon clad body were my own. Feeling a man's hands—a real man's, with meaty fingers and calluses from yardwork—had my senses on overload. I tried not to faint as I suppressed the other male in the room, the one hidden under a coating of makeup. But there wasn't much left of him to speak of.

I knocked on his hotel room's door at a quarter to nine, and waited two minutes before hearing footsteps. I think he took his time on purpose. He wanted me to squirm. He wanted to give one last test before the point of no return. Twice I thought about running, or tottering, away on my wedge heels. Down six flights of stairs and across the parking lot. Bystanders be damned.

But I remained outside his room, hearing the voices of other lodgers down the hall, feeling the vibrations of slamming doors from upstairs. I was just happy my knees held out.

Then his door opened—agonizing and slow—and those tenacious knees almost buckled. He smiled at me. A lazy smile, amused and carnivorous, barely visible from the shaded threshold. I tried to introduce myself, but my throat didn't cooperate. God willing, it would learn to before long.

Wink.

He pulled the door open without saying a word, turning sideways and extending a hand into the suite. I entered. Short steps, heel to toe, remember to sway those hips. Just like I'd practiced for so many years.

For a brief moment, I forgot all about posture and form. The suite was breathtaking. My entire apartment would fit inside its oak-paneled walls. A picture window overlooked the cobalt waters of Miami harbor, while a few candles flickered on the bedside tables.

That's when he grabbed me. I was spun around to face him, almost losing my balance on three inches of heels. Again I tried to speak, but this time it wasn't my throat that got in the way. He shushed me and exhaled through his nose. I felt it on my neck.

Thanks to my shoes, we were at eye-level. His were dark brown, bordering on black, but I only saw them for a second. Mine automatically turned to the floor, studying the carpet's swirling pattern in a desperate attempt at calming down. We were at eye-level, yes, but I felt a whole head shorter.

My body trembled in his grasp. That made him clutch my waist even tighter. He exhaled again, this time flipping up my skirt, one big hand still on my pelvis. It was more than enough to secure me in place.

He leaned his head back and the smile returned, this time a bit less lazy. He gently stuck a finger into the waistband of my silky white panties—a choice I made after 30 minutes of consideration. Then he snapped them against my hip.

He let the skirt fall back down to my upper thigh and walked to the fridge.

"Something to drink?" he asked.

His voice startled me. It belonged on stage, the kind of voice that silenced a room. He spoke softly, but I felt it in my bones.

"I'm—," I began, forgetting my voice exercises. I tried again, wary of sounding cartoonishly high-pitched. "I'm okay. Thank you."

He raised an eyebrow, looking at me with one arm in the fridge. "If you don't hydrate, I think you'll collapse."

His arm emerged with a water bottle, which he walked over to me. "Sit," he said, pointing to an armchair across the room.

I didn't like being treated as a dog, but that didn't stop me from complying. I'd only been on my feet for ten minutes, but it felt like days. I flattened the skirt against my butt before sinking into the cushion.

He returned to the fridge and grabbed a glass filled with ice. He poured a dark liquor in—scotch maybe—and walked to the chair across from me. I took a nervous sip and crossed my legs.

"I'm Robert," he said, offering a hand.

I delicately shook it. "I—," Exercises, dammit. "I go by Isabella. Izzy if you prefer."

"Not Bella?" he asked, sitting down.

Kristen Stewart flashed in my mind. An ex-girlfriend forced me to watch those vampire movies, I swear it.

"No, not Bella."

He grinned. "You've never done this before, have you, Izzy?"

I felt like a zoo animal under his dark gaze. Strangely though, it calmed me. Just a little.

"What? Met a stranger after five minutes of chatting online? Can't say that I have." I gave him my cutest, dimpled smile.

"Been with a man, I mean." He folded a leg over the other. "There are two kinds of nerves. You're showing me the extreme kind. The virgin kind."

Those three words—the virgin kind—put me on the defensive. My thighs clenched together. Who was this guy to sum me up?

"I've been with men before."

Somehow, his eyes grew darker. "Prove it." He snapped his fingers, pointing to the floor. He unfolded his legs and spread them wide.

For a moment, we played a strange game of chicken. I stayed in the chair, biting my lip, feeling those eyes on my body. After a few more seconds, I sunk to my knees and waddled over. My stockings felt cool and thin against the carpet.

I wasn't thrilled with his know-it-all attitude, now hellbent on proving him wrong. Maybe I was a virgin—good call, Robert—but I could suck a mean dick. Of that, I was certain.

His legs narrowed when I was in position, until they nearly touched my shoulders. I felt tiny there on the floor. The bows on my stockings looked up at him, which was good, because my eyes weren't brave enough to. Hands folded in my lap, the extent of our size difference fully sunk in. They were weak and delicate, contrasting with the tree trunk thighs engulfing me.

Robert sipped his scotch. "Go on, Isabella. Prove it."

I reached up to the waistband of his sweats and gingerly lowered them a few inches. His cock leapt out at that wonderful point where too little fabric was left to contain it. I've always loved that point. But I'd have a black eye if my face was any closer—it was more of a club than a penis.

My chest swelled with pride. That was the narcissist in me. Biology drew men to certain qualities, but I was a close enough replica to suffice. He was hard and all I did was drop to my knees. I smiled with apprehension, feeling my cheeks heat up. I could have skipped the blush after all.

"Impress me," he said.

No two words were spoken as gently, or as lustfully. His tone told me everything would be fine, so long as he was there. And everything was fine, just like that. I desperately wanted to impress him.

I wrapped my hand around his shaft, but part of it remained free of my touch—this thing was thick, and should have come with a warning sign. Not for the faint of heart. I closed the circle with my other hand, still not certain I had control of it.

Its warmth was calming though, something to pull up to your face and fall asleep with. But I wanted it by my face for other reasons too. I kissed the tip. He smiled again, running a strand of my blonde hair between two fingers.

This was not my first rodeo—I'd given blowjobs before, but only as Isaac. Never as Isabella.

Sucking cock was different as a man. It was more feral, more vocal, more improvised. As a woman, everything was calculated. The kisses I planted down his shaft certainly were. I was doing a dance I'd never performed, but somehow knew all the steps.

"No hands," Robert muttered. They were off a nanosecond after he said it, laced firmly behind my back. His cock bobbed up and down for a moment.

I kissed his unrestrained member one last time, leaving a perfect lipstick mark. Something to remember me by. Then I took the head in my mouth. I ran my tongue in little circles, diligently cleaning his precum.

Centimeter by centimeter, I went deeper. Robert was calling the shots, but there was still power in my position. You get the full treatment when I say, Robbie. I looked up at him, batting my eyelids. His head leaned back; his legs closed in, softly holding my shoulders. His moan was the stuff of fantasies.

Half of him sat heavy in my mouth now. Twitching, maybe to build as much friction as possible. My mouth stretched to its limit. I tried swallowing deeper, but it wasn't possible. Not with the old gag reflex so rusty. My eyes bulged. Like this ritzy hotel, my throat had no vacancy. A gust escaped my nose as I recoiled, and his beautiful cock escaped my mouth.

Robert chuckled silently. He was reclined like a king; his chest rolled like the tides.

"By virgin standards," he said, "I am impressed. A little bit."

My crimson cheeks became a crimson face. He leaned forward, casting a shadow that swallowed me whole. One hand grabbed a ball of my hair, just forceful enough to put me on high alert. Something like a caffeine shot. The other cupped my chin.

His tongue invaded my mouth before I could react. My hands moved to his shoulders—a reflex. I arched my back, pressing into his strong body, savoring the feeling of my lace bra and cotton sundress against his T-shirt. His cologne smelled like pine needles.

Then his hand released my hair. It pressed down on top of my head until my butt touched the floor. He grabbed his cock like a weapon and placed the tip in my mouth. My tongue went to work while he stroked himself, occasionally grunting until the finale.

The first burst surprised me, coating the back of my throat. God was it thick. The second and third were more manageable. My throat opened like it was taking a beer bong, and only a bit dribbled from the corner of my mouth. He wiped it with a finger. I cleaned it off, not at my quota of sucking, apparently.

I really knew this dance. Maybe it was in my DNA—I did always prefer salty over sweet.

Robert's face glistened. His breath had yet to stabilize. "Staying the night?" he asked.

It was strange. I expected two words instead of three. I expected 'get out' and a finger towards the door. But he didn't cringe when reality set in. The reality that it wasn't a woman there on her knees—not a real woman, at least.

I wasn't just an outlet to him, and my real smile emerged. Not the over-practiced, girly one. My authentic, uncontrolled smile. I wanted to grab hold of those broad shoulders for dear life. A choir should've rang out when he climaxed.

He saw the answer in my eyes, I guess. He pulled the sundress over my waist, then my shoulders, then my head, leaving matching bra and panties behind.

"Come on," he said.

I kicked off my heels and hurried to keep up. Robert laid on his back, shirt already off, inviting me into bed with an extended arm. I curled up inside it, my head against his chest, my hand against it too. On his tanned skin, my white nail polish looked fluorescent.

Robert was asleep in seconds—he must be a hard worker to afford a suite like this one—but I stayed awake for the better part of an hour. Tracing patterns over his muscles. I tried not to grind against his leg too often.

When I woke up, the bed felt a lot colder and a lot bigger. A hairless leg sprawled across the mattress, where Robert would have been. The taste of cum overpowered my morning breath.

I knew it was silly to expect room service omelets, or god forbid, a day in bed, laughing and reveling in how similar our personalities were. He gave me three words instead of two, and that should have been enough. Still, I pictured that smile, imagined what laugh would come from his deep, public speaker's voice.

He'd left a toothbrush on the bathroom sink, beside a travel-sized toothpaste. I looked in the mirror. My foundation was mostly gone, and I ran a finger over an incoming five o'clock shadow. Smooth skin only lasted so long for a girl like me. Apparently, men didn't last much longer.

With heels in hand, mint in my mouth, bristle on my face, I trudged down those six flights of steps. Across the parking lot. Bystanders be damned.