Ey Wolf Moon

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Vacation pitfalls are averted.
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I awoke disoriented.

The room was strange and cool, half-lit with the blue light of dawn or dusk. The clock on the nightstand read 6:38 in a red glare so that was no help. A cramp rippled through my lower stomach, and I groaned. I remembered then that I was in a hotel in Arizona. Arizona had turned out to be the yuppie capitol of the free world, and I had found myself by and large not impressed with its flagrant and utterly demeaning standards. Being too tired, however, after driving for several days straight and in no mood to hurry back, I lowered my standards enough to spend a night at least in one of the many hotels that plagued the area like cockroach eggs. This little vacation was turning out to be a real drag.

Another cramp rippled through my stomach and I looked down. I was covered in blood. Bullshit. This was proof that Fate had it in for me. My contingency plans for my period had consisted of one pad wedged into the dark recesses and unholy of my purse. Now I would have to venture out into this sandy little hellhole for the heavy artillery.

I took a quick shower and was grateful I had packed at least one normal pair of skivvies. I am a thong type of girl, but you never know when luck would have it another way.

I locked the room up tight and looked around. The world was far too busy for it to be early on a Sunday morning, so I concluded it must be Saturday night still. Which meant at least one grocery store in the near vicinity wouldn't have a bitchy and jaded clerk working the register. Hopefully. At least, that's the way it works in the rest of the country.

I got into my beat up Mercury and cruised a few blocks in search of your run of the mill grocery store. Even yuppies needed to shop for their hemorrhoid creams and store brand corn flakes, I concluded. I tried to hate each and every individual on the way there, but soon it got too confusing, so I gave up and continued with my mission.

As luck would have it, I soon found what I was looking for. Give me a dirty old IGA with scuff-marks and outdated canned food over this halogen lighted nightmare, I prayed. No such luck, as I was thousands of miles away from the nearest New England drag where appearance meant as little as quality, which meant next to nothing. Philly was my favorite for quality shopping. It was more duck and run and don't slip on the shit coating the floor. That's my type of town.

It was, lucky for me, an in and out type of deal. I'm not saying there wasn't their fair share of idiot college kids hanging out in the beer section, but my mission was not to be interrupted. I got my shit, a bottle of mad dog 20/20 (for the cramps of course) and I was gone. No sense on being more miserable than I already was.

In the hotel room I flicked on the TV and found some quality movie with puppets in it, and downed the Mad Dog like there was no tomorrow. Loneliness is bad when you're in a room full of people who've known you all your life; loneliness in a strange land is hardcore.

I'm a cheap drunk. Two hours later, with only half the bottle gone, I was feeling rather pleasant. David Bowie was singing about how he moved the stars for no one, and I couldn't blame him. The cramps had become a pleasant roll in my lower stomach, and my breasts no longer ached quite as they had. I hate drinking, but sometimes it's the best possible alternative. However, piss warm Mad Dog is unacceptable no matter how drunk you are and it then occurred to me that I had better find some ice. Let's see if yuppie central has thought about the finer things in life.

I ambled out of my room and down the hall, not locking the door because I was pretty sure it would take me forever to get it open again if I did. I wandered about long enough to realize that if I didn't stop and think about where I was going, I wasn't going to get anywhere. I passed by Room 203 what seemed like six times before I thought about changing levels. Even a soda machine would be a fair deal I compromised. I fell up a flight of stairs, giggling at the head rush, and suddenly it occurred to me to be paranoid. I looked about, but there was no one. The feeling was there, though, like when I could feel the TV on in the next room even though I couldn't hear it. I tried to sober myself up and began in earnest to find a soda machine. It wasn't until I found it that I realized that I forgot my change in my room.

I groaned and fell against the vending machine. It was my fault, I knew, but somehow that knowledge didn't make the matter any better. I was muttering and berating myself when I heard a soft human throat noise behind me. It took a few long seconds for my eyes to catch up with my head, but when they did I was looking up into a pair of soft brown eyes. And those eyes were embedded in the epitome of tall, dark and handsomely scary. My type to the letter T. He was, however, wearing a loosened button up faintly stripped silk shirt and polyester business slacks, and I was having none of that. My body, on the hormonal front, betrayed my principles, and got interested, and the cramps in my lower stomach grew sharp and heavy.

"Damn it," I breathed, "Excuse me."

I stumbled back to the stairs, and nearly fell.

He grabbed my arm before I succeeded in falling and breaking my neck and said, "You look lost. Need help?"

How tactful can a guy be?

Denial has never been a strong point of mine, though, and even if he had accused me of being flat out fucked up, I would've agreed with him.

"Yeee-ah," I said carefully, "Maybe a bit."

He grabbed an orange soda and offered "Maybe I can help you find your way to your room?"

Not waiting for an answer he threaded his arm through mine and walked me down the treacherous stairs.

I put up a feeble protest after about two minutes of walking but it was immediately brushed aside. He smelled really good and it was irritating the crap out of me. One doesn't just jump strangers in strange hotels, but I was contemplating exactly that. We passed underneath a light in the hall and I noticed for the first time that he was far more pale than myself, which all but settled it for me. I don't have sex with anyone who is too much darker than my person; consider it self-directed racism. I feel too self-conscious near tan people.

As if reading my thoughts, he shrugged and said, "I have a 70 hour work week. That doesn't leave a lot of time for the tanning salon."

I pushed my way through my hotel room door and dragged him in the room with me.

He chuckled and said "Well, I guess I could get my mind off work for a few minutes."

I got to my knees in front of him, and unbuckled his belt. I love zippers, the concept behind them; one tug simple and downward and there was the object of my attentions, half-hard and marble veined. It's still nice to know some guys don't subscribe to either boxers or briefs. I closed my eyes and took the head of his cock into my mouth, letting my teeth lightly graze the underside of its head. Creating a slight suction by sucking my cheeks in, I began to work that wonder in earnest. Giving can be such a turn on, the cramps were coming in rapid succession now, and the blood began its thick dark course down my thighs.

I pulled back and said "Hope you're not squeamish."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm bleeding,"

"Well, I guess it's your turn then."

Clothes came off quickly after that. It wasn't until I was on my back and he was over me that I realized I was starting to sober up. Kissing me gently on the lips, he started to work his way down slowly. Teeth latched insistently on a nipple and I moaned. Then on downward, kissing and dragging his tongue across my skin until his head was between my blood smeared thighs. I grasped his hair and pulled him in, and he gently settled down to his business, first licking the blood from my thighs, and then working his way inward. Feeling him lick and suck like that only made that monthly friend rage. When he came back up to my face, I licked the blood off from his mouth and kissed him deeply. I wanted him bad.

I rolled him over on his back and straddled him

I grabbed his cock, and positioned myself closer to it. I rubbed the tip of it over my clit a few times and then eased myself down on him. And slow, deep and hard it began with the tip of his cock going straight the center of my pain. He put his hands on my hips and I rolled my hips forward and back slowly, taking the entire length of him up inside me. Soon he was wet with my fluids and I began to fuck him hard. I came three times rather quickly and in the midst of my own spasms he came hot, wet and hard. We were a mess of blood and cum, but I had a smile on my face. I handed him his clothes and went into the shower. Washing away the mess, I reflected about how maybe yuppies weren't so bad, at least in the dark, and I might consider vacationing here again sometime.

When I got out, he was long gone. I picked up the bottle of Mad Dog and resumed my evening. Type O Negative's Wolf Moon came through on my CD player.

What a wonderful way to alleviate the pain.

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