“If you are wearing panties, remove them. Put them in your purse until I ask you for them. The small egg-shaped item is meant for your cunt. Please insert it, and wait for me at the bar. When you are there, you may open the second envelope.”

The winding roads were a challenging drive, even on a dry day–at least at top speed. The Radiohead was now blaring through the state roads, the top down, even in November, even if it meant gloves and scarves. The lakes rippled in the sunlight as Sylvie passed, reflecting bright flashes that blurred as the she zipped past. Numb from the cold, Sylvie could forget her frustration with Todd, her love for him, too. At last the bridge that led into the city became visible, closer and closer, until the convertible was crossing it, zooming down the long boulevard that led to Jean-Paul’s hotel.

The valet jumped from his stand as Sylvie approached, the top now locking back into place.

“You are here for #504?,” he asked. “There is a message for you at the front desk.”

Sylvie traded keys for receipt, tossed her gloves and scarf into the passenger’s seat as she grabbed her handbag, stood for a moment before walking past the door, before stepping into this other world once more.

“Yes, I am looking for a message from room #504?” Sylvie watched the desk clerk typing away at her computer. The young woman glanced  at her colleague.

“Yes, ma’am. The concierge has your message,” she directed, pointing quickly toward a small desk before looking down again. An older woman in a sweater suit sat at the desk, writing a note.

Jean-Paul had made no efforts to wrap the items he had left.  A note, scrawled on a card, in English. A small ball of sorts, another envelope. The concierge opened a drawer, and efficiently placed Jean-Paul’s offerings into a small plastic bag. “Enjoy your stay,” she smiled, more amused than surprised, it seemed, years of customer satisfaction no doubt having revealed the most exotic of urges among a wealthy and bored clientele.

Sylvie looked quickly at the note. She found the ladies room, and shut the door to a small stall. She nervously loosened the garters to her stockings, then peeled off the wisp of ivory silk beneath the garter belt. The panties were drenching, her labia swollen and warm. Sylvie gasped, and pulled the silk down to her ankles, bent to retrieve her clothing, then stood and reached back to refasten the garters.

Sylvie rolled the panties up, put them into the bag the concierge had given her. The egg. Sylvie held it for a moment, then sat to follow Jean-Paul’s request. The garters and stockings pulled, one hook snapping off–these items were not invented for women who spread their legs wide, much though the allure of lingerie seemed to encourage a fair amount of lust. Sylvie’s labia were slicker now as her fingers separated them, as she forced the egg deep into her cunt. Sylvie let her finger brush against her clit. Oh, fuck me now Jean-Paul, Fuck me. Sylvie’s pussy grabbed tight onto the egg, her nipples erect at the smallest touch, a small moan escaping as she squeezed one, her finger circling her clit now with more determination, her back arched, grinding need.

The outer door to the restroom opened; heels clicked on the tile. Sylvie awoke from her reverie, and stood, flushed the toilet to mask what she had been doing. She walked to the sink, the egg like a princess’s pea with every agonizing step. Sylvie’s hair had blown in the wind, her face was red from it–or from this, her lust, her embarrassment–her mascara smudged. She splashed her face, looked back into the mirror. There. More mascara, more red lipstick, fingers through hair, and she walked out toward the bar.

The bartender greeted Sylvie as she entered, and handed her a champagne flute.

“Someone has ordered for you,” he said. Sylvie surveyed the bar, saw a few men with laptops closer to the lobby, but the place was otherwise empty.

Sylvie regained her balance, lust contained though for the moment as she thanked the bartender, and tore open the envelope from Jean-Paul.

“I am in my room right now, dressing. Before you come upstairs today, you must tell the bartender why you came here. Tell him what we did yesterday, and tell him what you want to do now. Give him your panties. I will be down soon to watch. Pretend you do not know me.”

Sylvie’s hands were shaking. She suddenly thought of Todd, wondered if he was awake. She pulled out the phone–no messages. He probably was still asleep. And yet… and yet.

“How do you like the drink?” the bartender smiled. He was young, curly dark hair, graduate student, swimmer, she guessed, looking at his shoulders and the book open near the cash register.

“The drink?..” Sylvie started, then sat straighter, determined “is delicious. How do you make it?”

“Oh.. it’s only orange juice and champagne, nothing difficult,” he answered, “but extravagant for a Friday morning.”

“And who sent the drink?” Sylvie asked.

“To be honest, I don’t know,” the bartender smiled. “A secret admirer who is staying here, I guess. The concierge told me what you looked like, that I should make it for you.”

“Mmm. Aren’t you at all curious?” Sylvie watched the swimmer redden as he looked down.

“Frankly,” he began, “I’m curious about a lot of things that happen here. But I get paid not to notice.”

“So, there are a lot of curious adventures in hotel bars?” Sylvie felt herself become bolder. “Tell me what you see.”

“Ah.. I just told you I get paid not to notice.” The bartender looked at Sylvie’s rapidly emptying glass. “Another?”

“Oh.. yes.” Sylvie could feel her heart racing, her mind buzzing now as she had quickly drunk the champagne on an empty stomach. “I am having an adventure today,” she blurted, as the bartender poured a little more champagne into the glass.

“Oh?…” the bartender handed Sylvie her drink. She fidgeted in her purse for her wallet, saw the panties again.

“No.. your drinks are covered today,” he smiled.

“Oh! By you..” Sylvie felt herself warmer, fumbling. “I mean, that’s not necessary.”

“Oh, no. Your secret admirer is evidently paying for whatever you order.”

“Oh.. yes, well, that’s nice of him.”

“Nice,” the bartender grinned.  “Of him…”

“Well, yes.” Sylvie was resolved to fulfilling Jean-Paul’s request. “Yes, actually I think I know who sent the drink. He is staying here. I met him last week, and…”

“No need to explain,” the bartender turned. Another man had walked into the bar. Sylvie’s heart pounded, but it was not Jean-Paul. The man took his drink, and walked to another seat near the window.

All the time that Sylvie sat, her cunt throbbed. She feared moving, feared losing her concentration, feared the lust raging inside of her, feared what she might do to satisfy it if it became any stronger. The champagne was good, the warm bar inviting her to talk more, to say more.

“I came here today to fuck.”

The bartender looked up, his face briefly red. “A lot of people do, I imagine.” He grabbed another glass, pretended to dry it as he stood closer.

“I met a man here last week, and we talked. Then, yesterday, he met me at the elevator and took me to his room.” Sylvie was not going to stop now. “He took me upstairs and pushed me down onto his bed. He took off my panties and ate me for a long time. He had his fingers inside me, inside me everywhere, and he made me come .. I don’t know how many times.. before we tore off our clothes and fucked.”

The bartender seemed to stagger a little as he stepped back, looked around the quiet bar. “Why are you telling me this?”

Sylvie smiled. “Oh, it was a…”

Suddenly, Sylvie felt an ache deep in her belly. The egg seemed to grow, move. Her cunt grasped it, and the sensation grew as Sylvie gripped the side of the bar. “Oh GOD!..” she shouted.

“Are you all right?” the bartender grabbed her arm, as tears streamed down Sylvie’s face. She was sure there was a puddle now on the bar stool where she was sitting, and she grabbed the bartender’s arm. The feeling faded, then stopped.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” Sylvie nearly burst into tears in frustration. She was here, so horny it hurt, ready to fuck the bartender himself. He smiled at her, his forehead wrinkling, the face of pity.

“Shall I call a doctor?”

“Oh, no. It’s just.. ” Sylvie could feel the sweat on her forehead, the need deep within her. She felt overwhelmed by her desires, by her wish now to have not only Jean-Paul, but any man, anyone.

Sylvie saw a shadow on the floor behind her. She knew the cologne. Jean-Paul reached around her, his hand grazing her hip. “Yes, I’d just like a coffee,” he ordered, placing the small remote on the bar as he reached into his wallet to pay. Sylvie stared at him as he put his wallet back into his pocket, and dialed the vibrator back on. She could feel her cunt suddenly seize, felt herself immediately on the verge of climax. Jean-Paul looked at her, winked, walked away to sit at a table.

“I’m sorry,” the bartender smiled at Sylvie. “It’s just?…”

“Oh.. yes.” Sylvie struggled to remember what she was supposed to do. The panties. Yes, the panties. Oh, and what she wanted to do today.

“Yes. I have to give you something.” Sylvie reached into her purse and grabbed the plastic bag that held her panties.

“What is.. But why?” the bartender seemed shocked, maybe offended.

“I am about to meet the same person here today, and he said I have to give you the panties I wore over here.”

“Oh.. well,” the bartender pushed the bag back to Sylvie “maybe you should keep…”

“Yes, and I am supposed to tell you what I want to do today.” Sylvie had figured out a way to sit so that the egg was not pressing into her most sensitive spot, so that she could make sense as she spoke.

“All right. So, I think I know what you want to do today. Why don’t you just say it so you can go play your game?” The bartender was annoyed, she could see, the butt of a joke she imagined. And he was. It was all so, so disgraceful.

“Look,” Sylvie arched her back. The egg continued to buzz deep inside her. “I am sorry. I came here because I like this guy, because I am bored and lonely at home, because I wanted an adventure, and I like telling you this…”

The vibrations became stronger. Sylvie moved to get comfortable, but each moment was torture, burning.

“What is WRONG with you?!” The bartender came from behind the bar, as Sylvie doubled over, no longer able to sit on the stool, her juices running down her legs. His strong arms pulled her up as the vibrations stopped, and Sylvie felt his cock, stiff as he brushed against her.

“I am just a little overwhelmed by all of this.” Sylvie stood, now her lust venturing into downright anger. “I’ll be right back.”

In the ladies room, Sylvie sat to retrieve the egg of torture lodged deep in her aching, drenching pussy. She knew this time how wet she was, how ashamed. Todd, Todd.. she flipped open her phone. Still no message. She dried the egg and put it into her purse, dried herself, and walked back into the hotel lobby.

Jean-Paul was standing outside.

“Ah.. well done,” he approached Sylvie, ran his hand down her arm. “The bartender seems quite distracted.”

“You bastard.” Sylvie wanted Jean-Paul to undress her now. She felt her cunt clamp down as he pushed her hard against the wall and kissed her.

“Yes,” Jean-Paul whispered, “but you like it. You come here because you want me to challenge you.”

“Oh…” Sylvie opened her body as Jean-Paul pushed his hips into hers. He stood back, and reached then for her hand. She hesitated, then took it.

Sylvie and Jean-Paul stepped into the elevator. The doors closed.

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