Indian Summer

I was on holiday, in London.  A walk in Hyde Park had turned into a trudge through the kind of rain that bounces back up your trouser cuffs.  That part of town is ill equipped for the stranded pedestrian and I found myself sheltering in one of the subterranean passages that takes one under the coaches and limousines of Park Lane.  Down here there are several tramps, their cardboard beds drawn-up at the edges as the storm rivulets trickle towards them.

An Asian girl clatters down the steps behind me, her expensive patent shoes splashed in mud and wet sand.  She sighs and begins shaking the worst off her coat and delicately pushing strands of straight damp hair from her face.

'Here, take these,' I hand her a fresh pack of Kleenex I had in the breast pocket of my longcoat.

'Thanks. Thank you so much,' her accent quick and adenoidal.  She blows her pretty brown nose and, when her eyes open once more, I see, through long black lashes, the eyes of this young beautiful woman gazing back at me.  'This isn't going to stop any time soon.  Do you want to share a taxi somewhere?'

I agree to the plan and we walk together through the tunnel to the built-on side of the Lane.  Dashing up the stairs we endure two minutes of the pounding, soaking rainfall before we hail a black cab and tumble-in, laughing at our plight.

'Do you have anywhere to go?' She asks.  'I'm a tourist,' I confess.  'I'm staying with my cousin in Hemel Hempstead.'

'Come back to my hotel to dry off.  You can shower there.'  The alternative being a soggy and miserable afternoon I accede against my normal politely reserved demeanour and the taxi takes us into the Est End where we pull-up outside an impressive looking hotel on ______ Street.

A great-coated porter approaches and holds a massive umbrella over our door, guiding us back tot the safety of the entrance with a pleasant open, unquestioning expression.  I am about to remind my friend that we have forgotten to pay the fare when I see the porter has returned to the car and is passing a crisp twenty through the window.  I stop myself naively remarking on such luxury service as my princess leads me through reception an on towards the lifts. 

In the lift, she slips off her shoes and sighs once more as her toes feel the release from their rigid confines.  We rise quickly to the seventh floor and step out onto carpet so luxurious I would take mine off too if the laces allowed me without bending.  She half-turns and beckons me with a crooked index finger and despite her height - somewhere under five foot and slimly built - I am hooked like a fish, finding my pace quicken as we trot down the corridor, her arse straining against the fabric of her tight skirt with every step, feet landing toe-first one in front of the other like a catwalk model,  her toned thighs flexing through her dark stockings, her feet bare from the ankle, toes the colour of toffee, nails painted like blood.

She runs into her suite laughing, throwing her wool jacket at a coat rack where it tumbles to the floor and lies heavy, wet, in the past.

In the lounge I am met with a heavy cotton towel, thrown from the door to her bedroom.  'Come in here, take off your clothes, get in the shower.

'I'll make you a drink. Indian whisky?' I've had bad experiences in Mumbai with whisky but figure she'll have better quality stuff.  

Her room is amazing.  An emperor bed with enough pillows for an entire floor at Premier Inn.  Two large, long, multi-pane windows with modern secondary glazing cutting out the street noise.  The wallpaper glistens in places like it might be silk.  I push the door to and take off my sodden garments, placing them by the large cast-iron radiator.  Her en suite is large enough for a roll-top bath and a separate rainforest shower as well.  I turn-on the faucet and immediately a hot, engulfing deluge pulls me in. I lather my hair in shampoo and stand there, my eyes closed, feeling the water's magic.

'Impressive!' Suddenly she's there with me, her hands on my dick, one reaching under to cup my balls.  I shudder involuntarily like I've been electrocuted.  Of course I'd half-hoped she might be trying to seduce me but this is more sudden, more forward than I'd taken her for.  I tilt my head so the spray can wash the soap from my eyes.  Then I'm able to open them, now I can see.

Her skin is flawless, her body lithe.  She runs her palms up my front, pushing me back under the flow so she can get into the action. 'Oh-hhh-haw-hoh,' she moans in pleasure as the water covers her.  She turns away, 'wash me.'

I take some of the thick shower creme and massage it over her shoulders, work it into her back, under her shoulder blades, the small of her back, then round onto her belly, taught as the cover on a motorcycle.  Up, up, inching up till finally I gain her breasts.  Not large but not tiny either, their warmth filling my hands and the nipples stiffening against my palms.  She sighs and leans back against me making my erection fill the valley between her buttocks, its head poking up above and touching my abdomen.

My left hand stays on her breasts, my right heads back South to where just a strip of pubic hair indicates I am in the right place.  She's perfect.  A finger slips into the lubricated folds, tracing down and through then comes up to stroke around her clitoral hood.  My left hand joins-in down there and explores her toned thighs, pushing her legs into a wider, more accessible stance and then coming around the back to paw and grasp her bum.

She screams in orgasm, thrusting against my groin and bucking her cunt on my hand.  She turns, pulls my mouth to hers, kisses me deep and then begins tugging hard on my penis.  Once she has wanked me to my hardest, still penetrating my mouth with her ravenous tongue, she places both hands on the back of my neck and leaps up me.  Her thighs grip my waist and she lowers herself onto my prick.  She's so light I can easily bear her and so slickly in heat that my sword glides into her sheath with design perfection.  Her lower lips suck at my shaft as she continues to lick and suck at my mouth.  The water pounds around us as I grab her arse and pound into her.  Even as I shudder and come I continue pounding, I want to come in her forever and I last a while.  She buries her face to the right of my neck, biting and moaning.  We stay in this impaled ecstasy for minutes more, smelling each others' warmth and holding the other tight.

I find that she called room service to have our clothes laundered, so I'm her prisoner for the evening.  We eat lobster and drink Chablis whist watching a movie and snuggling against each other in thick cotton bathrobes in our den on the sofa.

I stay the night.  We fuck hard. We fuck a third time in the morning after breakfast.  The hotel laundry did a great job on my clothes. Prahniika.  At least I asked her name.