The Conventioneer chapters should be read after reading the two-chapter short story: The Stranger.
Gwendolyn's tales reveal how a young woman's revelatory and startling sexual coming of age collides with the faithful wife and devoted mother she has become.
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It always takes forever to get situated in Vegas hotels and this time was no different. The check-in line was long and moved slowly, everyone seeming to have one request or another. I caught several men taking notice of my unencumbered breasts as we slowly wove our way back and forth toward the registration desk. Casually propping them atop the high counter afforded the young female clerk a view, and I felt my nipples stiffen when her gaze fell away from mine and onto my chest. I flashed a smile and my husband's gambling rewards card which netted a complimentary room upgrade. Signing the folio, I left my bags with the bell desk and headed to my room, which seemed to be a mile away.
The walk was worth it as the room was spectacular, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked over the strip. The double doors opened to a spacious living and dining room, complete with a butler's efficiency kitchen with gleaming stainless steel appliances. A small half-bathroom was tucked into a corner by the entry. Walking to the windows and kicking off my sandals, I took in the view.
Turning left, I strolled down a long hall that held classy black and white images of Las Vegas stars on the left and the right was nothing but glass. At the end, another set of double doors led to the bedroom. Everything was done in shades of cream and white with tiny pops of muted greens and blue. It was gorgeous.
No surprisingly, the bedroom was large and an enormous custom double-wide bed on the back wall faced the view. A separate sitting area was defined by a light-wood credenza bisecting the room into two smaller areas. There was no television but I found a remote on the desk. Pushing the power button, I tugged off my skirt and let it fall to the floor as a giant gleaming black flat screen silently rose from the credenza, effectively creating a wall between the bed and the sitting area. The TV also blocked the view from the bed so I turned it off. A long desk ran half the length of the walls and I spent a few minutes powering up my laptop, getting all the various cords and device chargers plugged in and linked up to the hotel's ultrafast internet.
Unbuttoning my blouse, I strolled into the dressing area, which ran along an alcove behind the wall the bed rested against. There were two closets and I dropped my shirt on a bench sitting next to yet another set of double doors, which contained a full-length mirror on each. I took a moment to admire my breasts in the reflection, plumping them and fiddling with my nipples until they stood at attention. Then I pushed through the doors to discover the massive marble-lined bathroom.
The entire space exuded excess in a way that only Las Vegas can. There was a double vanity with a lower section of the counter between the sinks for a woman to apply her makeup. The shower stall was oversized, with three rain heads and eight different adjustable body jets emerging like eyeballs from three of the walls, the fourth being clear glass that stretched from the floor to the ceiling and from one end to the other, the expanse broken only by the thick glass door hung on heavy chrome hinges. Two hand-held wands and a marble bench ran along one side. I also spied a steam spout tucked into a corner near the floor. The tub stood on four small feet and was organically shaped into a flowing marble piece that seemed made for nothing but relaxing (or fooling around) with another person. Aside from the filler spout, there was also a removable handle with a small jet nozzle and if there was ever a better designed clitoral stimulator, I hadn't seen one.
The toilet area, like the bedroom, had one wall that was nothing but glass and had I been on a lower floor, this would have made me self conscious. But here, 53 floors in the sky, the openness of it was intriguing. A few feet from the toilet, was a bidet, and the room could be closed off with a heavy solid door.
I finally dribbled off my panties, noting Claire stubbornly hung on to the satin meal in her mouth. Carefully peeling my thong from her lips, I saw the little mess she'd made in the tiny triangular panel. The poor thing had been left to her own devices all morning and I'd given her a lot to think about.
I peed for a long time, then moved over to the bidet and couldn't help but be impressed with its placement. While the toilet was situated so my back was to the glass, offering some semblance of privacy, the bidet was turned the other way and as I spread my thighs to sit over the bowl, a picturesque view of the world outside presented itself. Even though the windows were heavily tinted to fight back the heat of the desert sun, and I knew no one could see me, opening my legs toward the entirety of the strip was incredibly liberating and I smiled at the freedom I felt as I waited for the water to run warm from the spigot. Pivoting my hips, I presented Claire to the sparkling stream, using my fingers to gently wash her delicate petals. Scooting a little further onto the spout, the water filled my womb, flushing my husband's come from my body.
Feeling refreshed, I poked through the various drawers and found them outfitted with every high-end boutique toiletry I could think of, all of it individually wrapped in sealed cellophane. Grabbing a razor, I stepped into the shower. An hour later, I was reclining on the bench and enjoying the luxury of being truly alone; the warmth of the steam enveloping my body. There were no kids, no husband, no design firm or convention, no hookup site; just me. It felt decadent and I was lost in the pure luxury of it all. From far away I heard a chime, which brought me to my senses. The doorbell rang again. Shutting off the hissing nozzle, I heard knocking. "Bellman, ma'am. I have your luggage."
I hustled from the shower, "I'm coming, hold on a minute." Opening the closet door, I expected to find a long terry-cloth robe. The hotel went a different direction and offered a skimpy, lightweight silky thing that was nearly sheer.
"Miss?" It was said impatiently.
My clothes were spread all over the room and they were airplane gross. The bell chimed again. "Coming, coming!" I yelled loudly as I ran down the hallway. Pulling the robe closed and glancing at the mirrors hung on the back of the front doors, I realized the bellman would have something to look at. My nipples and areolas were clearly visible beneath the gauzy material made nearly transparent by my wet skin. And the damn thing was so short, it barely hung past my hips. To make matters worse, the silk belt wouldn't draw closed for long; it kept slipping, offering scant views of my special place as I wrestled with it. "Shit."
"Miss, would you like me to come back later?" His knock was insistent.
Sending him off while I cobbled together some kind of towel wrap meant it would be another hour before my bags returned, which was not ideal. And then I reasoned: You're a 35-year-old married mother of two, stop trying to flatter yourself. He's not going to care and neither should you. I tied the knot tightly and tugged the heavy door open. "Sorry, come in."
He was handsome like all young men who'd recently been boys are: tall and slender with bright, innocent brown eyes. His hair was chestnut and tussled beneath a little pillbox hat. His jawline was strong. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him and his shoulders were built from hefting bags all day. The silly looking uniform - trimmed with gold epaulets - fit well. He was a total professional and didn't break eye contact as he dragged the bags inside. I held the door while he wrestled with my suitcase (I'm not a light packer), finally dragging it into the dining area. Taking the plastic bags from the luggage cart, he set them in the foyer. I let go of the door and it closed with a confident electronic clank. "If you'll take my suitcase to the bedroom," I said, "I can take care of these bags."
"Are you sure? I don't mind," he said.
I didn't care about the booze, but I was certain I didn't want him handling the other purchases. I picked up the bags. "I'll follow you," I said.
"Yes ma'am."
Trailing behind, I admired his bottom, which was firm and tucked snuggly into the uniform pants. He rolled the suitcase around my shoes and I grabbed them up as we made our way down the hall. "I see you are in one of our corner, end suites," he said. There was admiration in his tone. "These are the nicest rooms in the hotel." He looked at the pictures hanging in the hallway. "All of these famous people have stayed in the hotel," he said. "I bet a few of them even stayed in this room."
"Really?" We had entered the bedroom and he dragged a folding luggage rack from the closet. I scooped up my blouse. "Heck, I'm just an interior designer from Laguna Beach. I'm not sure I even qualify to stay in this room."
Turning to face me, he shrugged and laughed lightly. "The room doesn't care who you are, ma'am." Now his eyes lingered over my body and there was obvious hunger in them.
I was flattered and still a little tipsy; I made no move to cross my arms over my breasts. I didn't say anything; just let him take me in. Twirling a finger in my hair, I giggled. "No, I guess it doesn't."
His voice dropped to a whisper, "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
He wants to fuck you, I thought. He will fuck you, Gwenny, just nod your head and say, "Yes, I have one more thing you can do," and then crawl onto the bed and open your legs. Claire would enjoy meeting him. It will be fun and Mike will never find out. Besides, he was okay with the stranger fucking the holy hell out of you. Surely he wouldn't mind if this good looking young man took you doggy style on this lovely bed.
I smiled. "Would you mind getting me some ice? I can't really be seen in the hallway dressed like this." At that moment, the belt slipped free and the robe opened. The material miraculously clung to my breasts, keeping my nipples covered. But their size forced the garment apart and it was now open down the middle, revealing my tummy and, lower, Claire in all her freshly shaved glory; blushed and rivened. I laughed and wrestled with it. "See what I mean? This stupid thing won't stay closed. I could really use your help getting the ice." My breasts slipped free and I tried fighting with it some more while the bellman stood there with his mouth gaping. I must have looked ridiculous and I finally said, "To Hell with it," and let the damn thing fall completely open. Swishing my hands at him like little brooms, I laughed and put a motherly tone to my voice, "Go on, now. Shoo, shoo, and stop staring!"
