Back in my University years, I had a friend who went to graduate school in the US. One weekend my boyfriend and I picked up her boyfriend for a road trip down there. Being the cheap kids that we were, we of course all shared the same room. Off and on we had separated from each other all weekend. My boyfriend and I found ourselves alone in the room for a while.
What is it about hotels that make one automatically frisky? Is it the novelty? The fact that so many others had had sex in that same room? In that same bed? Countless other naked strangers had found the same allure in that cheap room. Seduced by the talentless artwork and barely tolerable linens.
How many other college girlfriends teasingly rubbed their boyfriends' cocks through their jeans there? How many sips of cheap wine had induced adolescent girls to strip off their tops and pinch their own nipples temptingly as their boyfriends grew hard in appreciation of the show?
The ghosts of a thousand sexual encounters encouraged us as we lay on the bed half-dressed, his fingers in my panties rubbing my clit while I nibbled on his earlobe and reached to unfasten his belt.
But he stopped me. The thought that the other couple could walk in at any moment didn't energize him with the same level of dangerous eroticism that it did me. The heightened excitement in the possibility of getting caught that heated my blood and quickened my breath only made him nervous.