Peter Stephens had anticipated the hotel lobby would be crazy, but not
this
crazy. What the airline had described as a "scheduling software glitch" escalated into dozens of grounded flights, with hundreds of stranded passengers. There were probably 50 or 60 people trying to push their way to the desk clerk, hoping to get one of the few rooms left.
His own flight had sat on the tarmac for nearly five hours, waiting to take off. It wasn't an entirely awful time -- one of the few benefits of his frequent flyer status was the First Class upgrade, which meant a nearly nonstop supply of vodka tonics during the delay.
He usually avoided even making eye contact with his seatmate. His travelling companion tonight, though, was ravishing -- a buxom redhead, very well preserved, and enjoying her merlots. She laughed at all the right places, patting his arm on every punchline. Of course, when he got home, he'd have to tell Margot that he was stuck next to some fat guy reading
Golf Digest
, but that was a good problem to have.
Once the flight's cancellation was inevitable, Peter sifted through his hotel loyalty cards, hoping his elevated status at one of them might guarantee a room within easy shuttle distance from the airport. The redhead -- he never did catch her name -- said if he had trouble finding a room, he could crash at her place. "Since, after all, we will both have the same makeup flight to catch in the morning," she said. Her words were rushed -- she was either surprised at her boldness, or drunker than he thought.
Peter considered that for just a second, and then thought of Margot. In all his years on the road, he'd never fooled around, and wasn't going to throw away his marriage for this woman. After all, it's just pussy, right?
He politely declined, though it dawned on him it might have been an innocent invitation. He was good looking, but not
that
good looking. Who was he kidding? Yeah, he would have been on her couch, for sure.
They parted at the curb; she laughed when he told her to "stay in touch." He watched her as she rolled her bag to the garage; he was never much of an ass man, but hers was hypnotizing.
Like the blue spot that lingers after a flash photograph, her tight bouncing ass burned into his mind's eye. He couldn't stop thinking about it -- what it would feel like, what it would taste like -- during the shuttle ride to his hotel. The vodka sodas fueling his imagination, in the darkness of the van he could feel his pants stiffen. For the remainder of the short drive, he closed his eyes and thought of all the different places he could have cum on the redhead before it was time to drive back to the airport.
So now here he was, fairly drunk, standing in a hotel lobby trying to cover his raging hard-on with his briefcase and a
USA Today
Sports section. He needed to eat, take a shower, and toss off before getting some sleep -- probably not in that order.
Once again that night, he blessed his Road Warrior status, and walked right past the mob and straight to the concierge desk. He dropped his briefcase and roller bag and approached the concierge. Peter didn't think the bulge in his pants was still visible, but he stood extra-close to the desk just in case.
Dustin, the concierge, noticed and was impressed. This close to the airport, he was used to guests looking harried and broken by the airlines. He was surprised at how well put together this guest looked, at this time of night -- a little sweaty, sure, and he could smell the vodka from across the desk. But his shirt was tucked in, his tie relatively straight, and his clothes still looked pressed. (Particularly around his fly, Dustin giggled to himself.)
Dustin buttoned his jacket and made his most polite pouty face. "Sir, our check-in is to the right. Unfortunately, we are oversold this eve-"
Peter cut him off. "I have Ivy status with your hotel; you can check me in so I can avoid that line. And also, that guarantees me a room." He handed over his membership card with his American Express.
Dustin stood tall and pressed his lips together. "Of course sir, it will be my pleasure to serve you," he read the name off the card, "Mr. Stephens." He began retrieving the reservation from his computer.
After a few moments, Peter said, "Look, I'm sorry. That came out jerkier than I intended. It's just been a really long-"
"I understand, sir. The airlines have ruined a lot of people's nights. This is your first time staying with us, isn't it?"
Peter was trying to adjust his pants, inconspicuously, when Dustin looked up at him. "If that's what your computer says, then, yeah. You know all these places start to look alike. Impossible to tell one from the other."
"Well, I like to think ours provides a memorable experience," he smiled. "We try to go out of our way to satisfy our guests."
Peter started to roll his eyes, but instead they locked onto Dustin's. Maybe it was just the overhead lights, but the concierge's eyes were a striking emerald -- almost identical to the redhead's. Peter stared, his mind wandering back to what could have been...
"Mr. Stephens? Is everything all right?" Dustin broke the spell, and Peter could have sworn he was smiling.
"I... uh, yeah. Sorry. Just a little too much to drink before getting here. I just need to get upstairs and get in the shower. Wash this day off."
"Yes sir, I understand. I was just saying, if you had been here before, I'm sure I would have remembered you." The concierge smiled again and went back to his computer. "We have a room with two twin beds, and one with a king -- do you have a preference?"
"No, I could care less. It's just me."
"That's a shame." They made eye contact. Dustin smiled; after a moment, Peter grinned, as well.
"Yeah, well, missed opportunities, believe me!"
"Oh, I believe you, Mr. Stephens."
"Are you making fun of me?"
"Oh, no, Mr. Stephens. I know how it works for traveling businessmen." Again, Dustin held his eyes.
"Yeah, well it's not the norm, that's for sure. I don't care what room you give me -- the larger bed will just be wasted space."
"Don't think of it as 'wasted space' -- think of it as 'potential room to move'."
Holy shit
, Peter thought,
this guy is flirting with me.
Twice in one night!
He laughed to himself. Only, he figured, there's no way this dude was flirting with him. He looked and acted completely straight. Again, Peter's mind had gone straight to the gutter.
He realized he was staring again -- Dustin had turned away and was running Peter's credit card. And he was staring at the concierge's ass! The way his cheeks pressed against his gray flannel made him flash back to the redhead walking into the garage. But this one looked firmer... He started to wonder what it felt like...
Stop it!
He told himself.
"Is there something wrong, Mr. Stephens?"
"No, um. No, I was looking at your uniform..."
Dustin turned away and coyly looked over his shoulder. "Oh? Did I sit in something?" He ran his hand over his ass.
"No. It's just..."
Think quickly, Stephens!
