Soundproofed

WARNING: Contains graphic references to sex. Lots of them. Thou hast been warned.

I'm a screamer.

People don't expect this. When clothed, I'm reasonably quiet. I think a lot. I like to watch people. I'm friendly enough and laugh a lot in the right groups, but I wouldn't say I'm loud.

In bed, I'm the opposite of quiet. I scream, I moan, I cry, I wail. I giggle and purr and talk, a lot. Sex with me isn't ever a quiet event, and some guys probably want to shove a ball gag in my mouth just to get me to shut the fuck up...but dammit, you'll never have to ask me, "did you come?"

I think this is one reason why I love hotels. Motels, Holiday Inns...it doesn't matter to me as long as they're clean, peaceful and reasonably soundproof. There are other reasons I love staying in hotels, of course - room service (or at least a nearby restaurant), an afternoon to read without guilt, and a night where I don't have to sleep with my eyes and ears open for disaster - but sex is way up there on the list. I don't take vacations - I haven't had a week away in fifteen years - but I occasionally spring for a night in a Travelodge or Premier Inn. If I'm there on my own, I always have a little devil on my shoulder that tells me to pick up a guy in the bar. So far, I haven't done this.

Travelling with, or meeting, a lover, is always the best thing though, because you can fuck me in a hotel room in ways that you can't in my mother's house, liberal though she may be.

You can press me up against the door the instant we cross the threshold, and tear off everything I'm wearing. Nudity is fine in hotels. You have everything you need right there. There's no need to keep a robe at hand to go to the bathroom. Nobody gives a damn if you don't get dressed the whole time you're there.

You can throw me on the bed as soon as I'm naked, manoeuvring me into position before I even get a chance to shower. Face down, ass up. I'm getting the sheets dirty - so what? At home, a set of sheets needs to last a week; here the maid will change them daily if you request it. And you can slam into me as hard as you want, really force your dick deep inside me, bang me up against the headboard - I don't care if it hurts. Actually, I lie. It's better if it hurts, just a bit. Throw me around, bang my head against the wall, fall on top of me like a ton of bricks. It's fine. This isn't my elegant white cast-iron bed with the bronze finials, made for gentle lovemaking and sweet snuggling - this bed is tough. This bed was made for us to fuck hard.

You can look out the window while I suck your cock, if you want. Five floors up, nobody's going to see my head bobbing up and down just above the windowledge, and if they do - who cares? Who gives a damn if passers-by look up and see how your face contorts when I take you deep in my throat, or even if they hear you groaning my name through the open window as I lick up every drop of pre-cum just before you spurt all over my face and tits? Even if they see and hear, even if the windowsill is low enough for them to see me on my knees with a face covered in cum - what are the chances that in a busy hotel, in a busy city, we'd ever have to see those people again?

Want to take a shower together? Shower's right there, and nobody else is going to be waiting in line for it. It's non-slip, and has that nice little seat for disabled people, so if you want me to sit there and wrap my legs around you, I'm quite happy to do that. We can't do that at home - I don't even have a shower, and you just have a tub with a curtain where I constantly feel like I'm going to fall over. But here, we can sit, or stand, or lie on the floor while the water pours over us. Want to introduce me to the joys of anal? Go right ahead. It's easy enough to get clean, and it's not like the water's going to run cold.

Back in bed, we can go all night, or at least till we exhaust ourselves. And you can talk to me. You know how I like it, with that hard dick forcing its way into me roughly, and a voice in my ear ordering me to cum. Nobody's going to bang on the walls to shut us up. Pull my hair, or reach around and put your hands on my belly and thighs, and force me back even further onto your cock, or press our bodies together as tight as they'll go. I don't care. Just hold me tight and take me rough and hard. Make me moan and scream and cry and beg for more. Nobody can hear. Nobody's going to call the police because they heard me sobbing and begging you. I know you like it when I beg, and I have no qualms about getting on my knees and pleading if it gets us both what we want.

I'm not saying I don't have sex at home. I'm saying I don't get fucked at home. There's a difference. My bedroom at home is for love and lightness and laughter, for cuddly afternoon sex while the rain pours outside the open window, for half-asleep morning sex in the pale light of dawn. Home is for shuddering breaths and staring into each other's eyes when we orgasm, for quiet passion and deep emotional bonds. Hotels are for nights when we fuck till we're raw. For spanking and clawing and biting and pulling my hair and making me hurt so good that I can't help but scream your name until I'm hoarse. For leaning over me while you're deep inside and biting my neck and throat and chin and cheeks until you leave red bruises all over me that I'll have to try and cover with makeup tomorrow, and probably fail. They're for coming inside me so many times that when and if we finally decide to get dressed and go pick up something to eat instead of getting it delivered, I'll be standing in line for takeout with my legs pressed together because I can feel your juices running down my thighs, and I have to wonder if everyone in the place can smell you on me, if they all know that you've marked me as yours, at least for tonight.

I'm always going to be an intense lover. That's just me, I can't be anything else. But whereas my own bed is a place where I weave a spell of love and affection and emotional attachment, hotel rooms are places where an entirely different type of intensity comes to light. Like rollercoasters or birthday cake, it's not something that I could deal with having every day - but any time I'm lucky enough to have a night in a hotel with a lover, the world simultaneously recedes into a dream-state and yet seems more bright and real than ever, and I find myself wondering how I can possibly go back to my sweet, soft, pastel existence when our rendezvous is over.