Telling Lies in the Hotel Bar

It threw him, it ripped him from the moment and broke the spell of heat and potential that had been spreading through his body, amplifying every sensation and thickening him in his underwear - but only a little. He looked at the piano squatting on the floor in front of them. An upright, not like the baby grand downstairs. Who knew if it had been tuned, but he wasn't much of a pianist anyway, it was true that it was only when he was drunk.

"No more lies then," he said and she straightened up as he, reluctantly, slipped off the stage away from her. There was even a proper stool next to it, he noted as he lifted the cover. "It's true, but I'm not very good. Hence - when I'm drunk." He sat down and brought a few chords and runs into the ballroom. How long had it been since he'd played? He was rusty as all hell.

"Wow," she murmured in a way he couldn't read.

He fell into something pretty and romantic that he remembered. Something that wouldn't kill the mood but that was at least not too lugubrious. He made a fair pass at it, but wasn't drunk enough (still!) to be unaware of his slips and hesitations. She listened, head cocked to one side slightly.

"Play something slower," she interrupted, not nastily, but in a way that was sharp enough to make him stop. "Don't try and show off."

He abandoned what he was playing and sat for a moment with his fingers on the keys, trying to remember what he knew. Finally, hesistantly, something came. Melancholy and beautiful, perhaps not the kind of thing to seduce a girl with, but the perfect piece for this empty, ghostly hall.

And he realised that playing slower was a much better idea. He knew the piece better than he had thought too, and this time it felt right. He couldn't even remember the composer or the name of the piece, but it was the perfect piece for that moment, for that room and for that girl.

He almost didn't notice when she slipped down off the stage herself. She filled the glasses again, placed his on top of the piano and shot hers back without waiting while he went on playing. Then she was wandering away into the hall, and he wanted to look back over his shoulder to watch her, but he wanted to maintain the music and the moment more.

He was impressed that he could keep his left hand going as he reached up with his right to take the shot and down it. Now the booze was really working, really doing its job.

When she returned she brought a chair with her. She put it next to the piano and carefully climbed up, step by step, until she was kneeling on the thin top of the piano. Then she stood.

He looked up at her in the darkness. Her legs vanished into the darkness of her dress in the low light, but he could see the curve of her cleavage and tell that she had her head thrown back and her arms stretching upwards. As his fingers kept moving, kept summoning that longing melody into the hall, she looked down at him.

"I'm not married."

"Ok."

"No more lies, you said."

"No more lies feels right."

"I know this piece," she swayed above him, a statue in the darkness, "you play it well." She shook her head suddenly, tossing her short curly hair around, and the movement almost made him think she would fall. He braced himself to catch her.

Still looking up he watched as she brought her hands up from her side, up over her body, bunching and pulling at the fabric of her dress, lifting it high up her thighs and then letting it slip back down. He let the music move on, a little more andante, a little darker too. Her hands kept sliding up her body, over the swell of her large breasts until they were at her neck... then they slipped back down and she caressed and lifted them, seemingly lost in a fugue of vodka and piano.

He was mesmerised, amazed that he could still play while he watched her. When she moved again it shocked him into making a mistake.

"Keep playing," she said, her voice different - more forceful.

She lowered herself and sat, facing him. At first he thought she was going to climb down somehow, onto his lap as he played. But instead she brought her legs down together, down as if she were going to stand right in the middle of the keyboard, and then she spread them.

He played, not thinking about whether his fingers were getting tired or not, not thinking about where this was going, just playing, losing himself in the music like she was.

She sat above him, facing him from the top of the piano, and she spread her legs wide, then wider. She arched her feet and rested the balls of them on the raised key cover as she bit her lip and looked down at him. Her face was in darkness - all he could see was the shine of her teeth and her eyes. Then, inevitably, irresistibly, his eyes were drawn down.

Her dress had never reached all that far down her thighs, and sitting as she was, with her backside on the edge of the piano and her legs spread almost as far as they could be, it was pushed back and up. She lifted it a little more, but she barely needed too - he could already see the black triangle of her panties, stark in the darkness against the lighter colour of her thighs.

Just above him, just in front of him. This cute, mysterious woman showing him the soft heaven of her thighs, the hidden treasure behind those panties. He could hear her breathing, even over the sound of the piano, he could hear her breathing get thicker and heavier. One hand went back to support herself on the other edge of the piano-top. The other hand came down, down, down.

It pressed the front of her dress back up and trapped it between her wrist and her body. Then her fingers came together, flat, they curved and straightened and slipped into the top of her panties.

His cock had been thickening, now it was hard. Bent and pressing for release in his pants, he felt it buck. He gasped as he saw the dim light picking out the shape of her hand sliding down, stretching out the front of those tight black panties. Then she gasped, her thighs, almost imperceptibly, lifted as her fingertips reached that first moment, the start of her hidden cleft. He could only imagine, and that was all he was doing.

He played and she moved her hips and found an easier position. He watched, heart hammering, head buzzing. His fingers ached as hers started to move behind the black lace. He could see her wrist clearly, how the muscles and tendons were controlling her fingers, but he couldn't see how she was touching herself.

Her panties, stretched over her fingers, pulled away from her body a little as she arched her wrist for a moment, and he caught a glimpse of dark, tangled hair. Then he was fixed on the crotch of her panties again - the almost imperceptible movement of her fingers under the cloth. Stroking, teasing, circling herself until she made a soft noise, almost a whimper, above him. He looked up and she was barely there, eyes closed, biting down on that lower lip hard enough to hurt.

Then her wrist slipped, her fingers shifted under the fabric and he knew she was inside herself. One finger, two fingers maybe. He couldn't tell. Her wrist started to move differently, not allowing her fingers to play, but using them now. Her wrist moved, fucking her fingers into her pussy, and she gasped, voicing her pleasure, but barely.

He could hear her breathing, God, he could smell her arousal, and suddenly he realised he was hearing it too. Soft under the sound of the piano and her heavy breathing there was a sweet, sticky rhythm as she spread her legs and touched herself.

He felt dizzy. He wanted to stand from the piano stool, kick it away and play standing, tear those panties away with his teeth and bury his face in her. The cavernous ballroom stretched out around them, as silent and empty and massive as before, but the only thing that mattered in it was the piano and the two people with it.

"Mmn, fuck." It was the first thing she had said, but he said nothing in response, he just played and held his breath and watched as the dark movement of her fingers became faster and faster. "Fucking fuck." She cursed.

The muscles in her legs tensed, and, putting all her weight on the piano key cover and the hand behind her, she lifted her hips up off the piano. She was arching her back, and before she threw her head back he saw her brow furrow - torn and lost. Then she was panting, fast and hard as if afraid of losing control, her thighs were tight and without thinking she thrust her panties, her fingers, her pussy out at him. She came with a short cry and a savage shudder that dropped her backside back onto the piano with a bump.

"Jesus fucking fuck."

"Wow," he breathed. Now he felt how tired his fingers were. He slowed, almost to nothing, just some low chords ringing out into the darkness. She straightened up, stretching her back, rubbing at the back of her neck with one hand, the other still deep in her panties. She giggled, but it was low and caught in her throat.

"I don't really know what happened there."

"It was... you were beautiful."

"Well..." she didn't seem sure what to say, "Thank you." She finally moved her hips again, and with another barely vocalised gasp, he realised that she'd slipped her fingers out of herself. They came out of her shining wet, catching all the light they could. Her index and third fingers.

He didn't know he was going to do it until he did it, but with his free right hand suddenly he was catching her wrist and bringing it to his mouth. Then her fingers were between his lips and he was tasting her, sucking her clean.

"Oh, oh wow," she said, eyes wide, as clumsily surprised as he had been several times that night. When he released her wrist she didn't pull her fingers out straight away, she pushed them further in, over his tongue for a moment before she slipped them out.

He stood up from the stool and held out his arms to help her down. She stepped noisily on the keys, then the stool, giggling as she made her way on shaky legs to the floor.

"Thanks for playing for so long," she looked up at him mischievously. He felt no uncertainty at all now. He just pulled her to him, one hand in the small of her back and he kissed her. Their lips parted, their tongues met and the heat inside each of them seemed to fuel the other's fire.

"You're welcome," he answered after they had separated, then he grinned, "But my wrists are killing me, that was the most I've played in years."

"Come on," she took his hand and pulled him towards the stage. A step away she stopped. "But what is your name?"

"Jay," he smiled, "I told you."

"But what is it short for?"

"Ah, I really don't like it. Jay's fine."

"Noooo," she pouted, taking the last step to the stage and turning to face him as she boosted her backside up onto it. He put both hands on it and climbed up like that. "No more lies, remember." He hesitated, then sighed.

"Judah."

"Judah."

"Blame my parents."

"I like it. It kind of sounds right. Judah."

"And what your name?"

She half smiled and hesitated, as he slipped his jacket off and tossed it away onto the stage.

"Veronica. But, it's Polish, so it's spelt with a W and a K. But, Veronica, like this." She pointed with a single finger to her lips and dragged her teeth over her lower lip. 'V'.

"Veronica." He put his hands on her hips and started to slide her dress up. She reached out and started popping open the buttons on his shirt. "I'm glad I met you, Veronica."

"I'm glad I was here today," she answered, and before he could respond she had his shirt open and was kissing his chest. He gasped, and kept his hands going, lifting the silk dress above her rear, up her body, until she had to lift her arms up and let him take it all the way off her.

She stepped away as he sent her dress to follow his jacket. His shirt went the same way, and he kept his eyes on her as he lost everything but his underwear. Her steps traced a circle around the stage, always glancing up at him - watching him watching her, watching as he revealed the prominent, hard bulge that he'd been keeping leashed since the piano.

He loved her pert backside, and the way is fit so perfectly into her low, tight panties. He loved the tiniest hint of a belly that she had, and he loved her full, heavy breasts, and how the bra she was wearing seemed to be restraining them, holding them back. Maybe it was even a touch too small. He wanted to help. He wanted her to lose it.

Most of all he loved the curves of her. From her hips to her tits to her ass to her neck - it was all she was made of. And the nape of her neck, he moved as she came closer, caught her as she turned and kissed her right there, inhaling her scent as her hair spiralled around him.

He pressed her against him, her back against his front, his throbbing member against her sweet rump. He gave a low laugh of delight as she moved her hips - ground against him. Then he pinched the clasp of her bra, released, and set her glorious breasts free.

Reaching around her with both hands he cupped and lifted them. The bra had contained them inside the dress, but unsupported, unrestrained, they were bigger than he expected. Surprisingly big, perhaps, for her slender frame. She had curves, but he had still been able to wrap his arm around her as if she were nothing.

He caressed them gently and felt her lean back against him with a sigh. Her nipples hardened under his touch. Her breasts were divine, plump and perfect, like nothing he'd ever felt before.

And as he lost himself in her, kissing the back of her neck, the side, she found something to do. She made space between their hips and reached back behind her. Her hands slipped into his underwear, and before he knew it her hand was on him, her fingers were around him. Stronger and firmer than he'd expected.

She took control of his shaft, of his head, explored it, learned about it with her fingers as he learned about her. He took each nipple between finger and thumb and gently pulled.

"Ahhhn!" She moaned, then spoke. "Judah," it was one of the first times he had enjoyed hearing his name spoken aloud, he realised. "Judah, I want to see it."

So she turned, and as he stood she slipped her hands over his hips and into his boxers, then pushed them down. His prick, swollen as hard as it could be, strained against his waistband then sprung up. She looked up at him with a sinful smile.

"You have a nice cock, Judah," she purred.

They were in the middle of the stage, he realised, and before he knew it she was pushing him down onto the old wooden floor. It was cold against his back, but he didn't care.

He lay back and the cold crept into him, but his prick stayed hard, bobbing in the air. She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her panties as if they were about to come sliding down, but then suddenly seemed to change her mind at the last moment. He was almost disappointed until she slipped her hand across and simply pulled the crotch aside instead. He glanced to her face and saw the white of her teeth as she flashed a teasing smile.

She knelt and straddled him, but not over his waist yet. She knelt, her soft thighs either side of his face, and barely paused before bringing her pussy down on him.

They were still illuminated by nothing but the dimmest of lights, so he saw nothing of the hot, wet folds of her before she was on him. He was barely able to get an impression of her body over him either, just the way the heavenly swell of her breasts stopped him from seeing any farther as she sat astride his face, her back to his throbbing, twitching member, and started slowly rubbing her post-orgasmic pussy against his lips.

The vodka was working, he realised as her smell, her perfect, indescribable taste started to dominate his senses. He was dizzy and she had him on the back-foot, slow to react to her actions. But he caught up, and he curled his arms to reach her thighs and hold her still as he first sucked her soft lips between his, then let his tongue reach out, touch, tease, trace and then penetrate.

Her thighs moved, pressing either side of his face as he started to lick her in earnest. It muffled the sound but he still heard her cry out, felt her body tense, try to move as he dragged his thick tongue through her sensitive pussy. He let her move, but only enough so that he could reach his tongue to her hard little clit. He gave it short, gentle caresses, and couldn't help a smile as her thighs relaxed and she leaned back a little.

He could hear her now as she whispered under her breath. "Oh, good boy. Good b-boy... Aahhn, that's perfect..." She sat astride his face, letting him tease her clit, and leaned back. He couldn't see what she was doing, he could barely see anything, but she must have been leaning back and supporting herself with one arm. Because somehow the other one had curled around behind her and was seizing his cock again. "Oh, you're st-still hard, good"

She wasn't gentle with him, but that was just fine. As her juices soaked his chin, and her wet pussy slipped up and back over his face, he felt her warm, firm grip stroke him, keeping him hard, using his own precum as lubrication. He started fucking her with his tongue and she lost her grip. And that was when he lost patience.

"Ride me."

"What?" she had been spacing out, riding the pleasure his tongue was sending rippling through her body. "What did you say?"

"Move back. Move down and ride my cock, Veronica."

"Ahhh," she ground her pussy against him one more time and squeezed his prick. "Tell me one more time."

"Ride my fucking cock," he growled, grinning as she kneeled up and moved herself back down him.

"T't. So demanding," she teased. She knelt one one knee, leaning to the side and keeping herself raised slightly on the other foot as she reached beneath herself with one hand to find his hard prick. Her other hand supported herself on his flat stomach as her fingers gripped him once more. He expected her to say something else, but her hair obscured her face and she seemed lost in concentration as she brought him to her wet, inviting entrace.

The sensations as she controlled him, dragged his desperate head along her lips - forward, backward, forward - instead of just taking him inside, made his head swim. He groaned and arched his back, desperate for the embrace of her body, but submitting to the guidance of her hand. He felt as though he were falling backwards, passing through the stage, spinning downwards with her riding him all the way.

Then he heard her say something, he didn't know what, and, holding him almost gently she moved down on him and let him in. Her actions were careful and almost hesitant as she took him slowly into her. She was wet, but so tight that he knew he should let her set the pace at first. But even though they seemed to him to be moving in slow motion, every slight movement sent bolts of pleasure racing to his brain. His breath caught in his chest as her pussy claimed him.

She rocked on him, bringing her other knee to the floor now and putting both hands on his chest. Still, her hair formed a curtain between them, but as she relaxed and let him slide further and further inside her, her head came up and she pushed her hair back to look at him. One hand on his chest, but only the fingertips - she wasn't supporting herself that way. Instead, as he heard and felt her arousal increasing, she was leaning back, using her thighs and hips to grind, to fuck him in a swaying motion that was just far too sexy for him to look at for long. He felt her juices on his thighs, his prick.

When it had started both of them had been breathing sharply, the air full of gasps and sudden intakes of breath. But as she started to find a rhythm, and he let his hips rise off the stage to join her, their breathing became deeper - feral in a different way. Long, drawn out sighs of lust provided a background to the soft sound of sex.