Motel

It was 11pm at the nondescript motel just off the freeway, somewhere near Fresno. The room was almost pitch black, with two tired queen-sized beds separated by a night stand. We laid there and listened to his 13-year-old daughter in the next bed as she tossed and turned her way to sleep. The air conditioner fought the August heat outside with alternating periods of purposeful growling and dead silence.

After four hot days and nights of dusty camping in Yosemite, we were in no mood to complain. Solid walls separated us from our neighbors, which certainly was an improvement over the thin walls of a tent. At least she was eight feet away instead of three.

Not that the motel made it much easier, though. His daughter had been visiting him for three weeks. Three weeks of celibacy, with him in his house and me in mine, then four nights in a shared tent in a crowded campground. And now, as we were finally returning his daughter to her mother in Phoenix, I was showered and comfortable and horny beyond desperation.

I didn't mention that the bed creaked and groaned at the slightest movement, did I? It wasn't going to be easy. She was a light sleeper, too. And curious.

I laid on my right side, facing her. He spooned behind me, his erection separated from me by his Jockeys and mine. His left hand snaked up underneath my oversized t-shirt and quietly played with my right nipple. His cock was nestled against my ass and throbbing. My kegels were clenching around nothing useful. She still wasn't asleep.

And now, during the dead calm of the resting air conditioner, the mattress advertised every wiggle we made. Damn.

Of course, that didn't do much to stop him. Before too long, his free hand bypassed my left breast and headed directly south. Down there, my labia felt swollen and wet, my clitoris was decidedly harder than my right nipple, and I quickly overruled any complaints from my ignored left breast and hooked my left leg behind his and hoped he'd stay there for awhile. The bed complained, of course, and she grunted and rolled over again, but we were soon motionless again.

Well, almost motionless. His fingers weren't motionless. They flickered across me, alternatively soft and not so soft, wandering up and down each fattened labia, inside and out. They carefully measured the length and breadth and rigidity of my clitoral shaft. They did the Search For The Headwaters Of The Nile to discover where all the slippery juice was coming from. And they soon found the source.

And all the while we remained motionless. Only his fingers moved. Oh, he gently bit the back of my neck every now and then, and his penis twitched against my butt and we struggled to breathe normally, but we were successful in keeping the bed quiet. We swam floated through the ocean of lazy pleasures. Eyes open, eyes closed, it was dark either way. I closed mine.

When the air conditioner blessedly decided to come back alive, his hand slipped away. Then his body. He slipped to the floor beside the bed, urging me with his hands to rotate my body until my behind was perched on the edge, the top of my head aiming at his daughter. The bed grumbled, but he pushed onward, pulling my panties down and off my dangling feet. She rolled over. I held my breath. He held my hips.

We were decadence. My legs splayed wide, and he licked and sucked on me. He nibbled on one chubby lip, then another. His tongue slithered here and there, up and down, side to side, in and out. His hands lay flat on my hipbones. His thumbs pulled me open. I felt deliciously exposed. I felt delicious.

He didn't just taste me. He consumed me. His mouth drew me in, morsel by morsel. I felt savored. Suckled. I was engorged, flowing and fragrant. Then the air conditioner clicked off.

After three weeks of only my own fingers, and then four days of not even that, it didn't take long. When he sensed I was close, he drew my clit between his pursed lips in one strong, drawn out suck, relentlessly inhaling me in and out until he pulled me over the edge. I held my breath and opened my mouth in a silent scream. My hands pulled at the back of his head, my hips pushed up at his mouth, hungry for it all and greedy for more. Was I quiet? I think I was.

His mouth finally relaxed its grip, and I allowed myself to breathe again. Now my back was sweaty. I became conscious of his thumbs, gently sliding the length of my thick inner labia and thankfully taking care to avoid further torment of the supersensitive tip of my clit. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure she could hear it. Was she asleep? Above the top of my head, beyond my sight, there was only silence from that part of the room.

The air conditioner blessedly rejoined us.

He leaned back, his moist hands still attached to my hipbones. Dare we? Three weeks was far too long, as far as I was concerned. I expected he shared that same belief. I sensed his body rising to lie on top of me, but I halted him with my hands and silently directed him to my side. The bed creaked and groaned anew. I nudged him onto his back, and then in one fluid motion I rolled on top of him.

The mattress squeaked and complained. Shut the fuck up, I grumbled back to it.

He'd shucked his underwear, of course. I bit my lower lip and lined up his shaft for a direct approach and, with a minimum of squirming and readjusting of legs and angles, he just slipped smoothly inside my well-lubricated vagina with the familiarity of comfortable lovers. It was a relief to again be wrapped around his thick, sturdy flesh. His quiet sigh and surging stiffness clearly echoed my own thoughts.

I was sopping. I had him buried all the way up inside me, and I ached to move around on him, to feel his hardness impaling me and scratching my itches. To my dismay, even the slightest movement set the bed off. I strained to look at his daughter. She was an indiscernible black shape. Facing away from us? Probably. Awake? Perhaps.

The fucking air conditioner turned off.

Now we had to be quiet. I opened my legs and wormed my hips around to draw him deliciously deeper. And there he remained, held in my snug grasp, my body sprawled on top of him, my legs outside of his, my mouth breathing moistness on his neck. I clenched around his root and he throbbed back in response. Clench, throb. Clench, throb. He stopped breathing through his nose and switched to his open mouth. Clench, throb.

Clearly we were getting somewhere. I felt him get more and more aroused, signaled by his straining breath and his thumping heart and by that ever-present response of surging stiffness every time my vaginal muscles clenched down as tightly as I could around his wonderful cock. His body lay there silently and allowed me to grasp him, encircle him, rejoice in his warm intrusion into my soul.

It was then I knew I could get him to come. It was a challenge, of sorts. Were my kegels up to the task? Well, we were going to see, weren't we?

Clench, throb, surge. Clench, throb, surge. Almost every breath was quicker, deeper. Less controlled, more ragged. Clench, throb, surge. I was liquid. He was steel. I had him.

Clench, throb, surge, lunge, clench.

I knew I had him.

I cheated only once, gripping him with one long, continuous hold and sliding up just a bit, no more than an inch or two, then sinking back down on him to socket him again. I couldn't help it. I had to feel that flesh-against-flesh friction just once, to feel how juicy I really was, to remind him about my slippery velvet walls and how, when we finally dropped his daughter off in Phoenix, how much he was going to want to slam that fat cock of his into me over and over and over again until we were both rubbed raw.

But right now, all we had was the power of my kegels. At this point it was a matter of pride. Superwoman I wasn't. It was only so long that I could keep this up. Now or never, I thought to myself.

Clench hard, he throbbed, then his hips surged upward, hard. Clench *hard*, and his straining hips surged *hard*. I found my rhythm. Or rather I found *his* rhythm, and it was working.

Clench, clench, clench. He held his hips high, his cock expanded and stiffened into a solid rod inside me, and I knew then I could do it. Clench, clench, clench. He cleared his throat and clawed his fingernails into my butt, and I was as relentless as he was earlier.

Clench, clench, clench, clench. His cock spasmed with that telltale big jerk and his fingers dug in and froze. I squeezed my vagina as hard as I could and, oh fuck right *there*, I felt his initial ejaculation. His body shuddered beneath me and he exhaled a throat-throttled quiet grunt. I relaxed my grip, felt his second spasm, and I clenched down around him again, *hard*. He exhaled a tiny squeak. Another spasm. I gripped around the base of his cock, timing my squeeze to hit him just before each twitching ejaculation flung another glob of sticky warm white deep into my vagina. Three weeks of semen poured out of him.

Sixty seconds too late, the air conditioner again rumbled to life.

And when it was over, when he had shriveled back down and finally one of my soft clenches only served to squirt him out of me, I continued to lie there on top of him, breathing in syncopated rhythm. He reached a hand between my legs and greeted a finger inside me. I tried to clench down on his finger. There wasn't much left. I was going to have to work on those kegels. Tomorrow, I thought. I'll start tomorrow.