Solo Hotel Room Romps

You’ve done a lot of wanking in hotel rooms. Those one-night trips away for work, from the same anonymous chain hotels transplanted across the cities of England to the occasional quirkily unique independent hostelry; upon entering your chamber, the first thing you look for is masturbation possibilities. Full-length mirrors? Underfloor bathroom heating? A tiny slice of viewpoint within which a glimpse could be caught from the outside world? Perhaps a comfortable chair on which to sprawl, loose-limbed and wanton; imagining hands, eyes, tongues upon you?

You kick off your shoes and allow yourself a moment to recount in memory, the toys that were hastily grabbed from the cupboard and stuffed into your case. Bullet? Chunky glass dildo? Perhaps it was the clamps and buttplug this time? Or maybe you know exactly what’s in your case, having occupied most of the journey to wherever you are now planning your evening’s entertainment in gleeful detail as your knickers dampened and you shifted in your seat, swelling and throbbing and tingling in anticipation.

An early dinner, a cup of tea, all the while at the back of your mind; how the bedcover will feel against your bare nipples, how the walls will be cold against your skin as you press yourself flat, arms held above you and imagine cuffs, threats delivered in rough voices, commands, words of lascivious appreciation and authority, whether the sheets will smell of impersonal, institutional hotel bleach when you bite at them to quell your moans of arousal.

You make your way at a leisurely pace back to your room after the customary post-meal cigarette – huddled under eaves as the rain bounces off asphalt and concrete, listening to the sounds of late evening in this place and that – drawing out the looking-forward is part of the fun.

Inside, with the door locked and the chain in place, you have a choice – now or after you’ve laid everything out for tomorrow and prepared for bed? Can you wait? Or is the aching of your cunt and the tingle in your clit simply too overwhelming to defer any longer?

If there’s a suitably-placed mirror, you might watch yourself disrobing, a tweak here, a handful there, a reaching-down to tease apart your wet folds and swirl across the slick nub, but not too much too soon, you’ve only just started and want to make the most of your Me Time.

So you take out the accessories you’ve bought along with you; play with sight and sensation, wallow in dark-tinged fantasies; faceless strangers, restrains and cruelty, all the whole your breath coming faster and your skin flushing but you’re looking for the long game here not the Standard 5-Minute Power Assisted Wank, so you force yourself to open your eyes and find another position, a change of pace.

Rolling around a nest of cushions on the floor, kneeling on cold bathroom tiles, splayed open and head dangling from the bed with a pillow over your face as you pound yourself furiously with dildo or vibrator until it hurts but the pain is so sweet, as are your whispers to yourself of “slut”, “fucktoy”, “fucking whore”; words that make you squirm and gasp until you stop up your mouth with ball gag, fingers, your discarded knickers. Your cunt, your mouth, your arsehold are yearning to be filled and used; you can almost feel cold metal around your wrists and ankles and throat while you picture yourself roped, shackled, chained and at the mercy of….well, anyone.

One hand about your throat as you press the bullet hard to your clit, shifting to feel the stretching and filling of the butt plug. “Room service” you think; and picture yourself tied naked, spreadeagled to the bed awaiting a thorough servicing, mouth fucked, choking on hard cock, struggling against your bonds while the delivered pot of tea cools on the sideboard.

When you finally give in and let your orgasm build unabated, it is with almost-resignation that you surrender to the swirling maelstrom of electricity, eking it out as long as you can before collecting yourself, packing away your toys and preparing for tomorrow’s return to the vanilla life of meetings and reports.

You check the chain on the door before you settle down to sleep, part of your mind constructing fantasies of faceless invaders and a hand over your mouth in the middle of the night, rousing you from sleep in the darkness, the weight of an unfamiliar body bearing down on yours, the words “don’t scream” hissed in your ear.

And roll over, nestle among the pillows, slip gently into satisfied sleep.