jl_bendictionThe following submission and any other submissions to “Dear Scarlett” are by independent contributors who have agreed to our terms of use.  We are so appreciative for their work and encourage them or any other interested parties to contact us for online publication.  Now, let’s get down and dirty…

A woman steps off an elevator in a hotel hallway. She can hear a floor buffer being operated somewhere nearby, and quickly turns right towards the room number on the card in her hand.

As she opens the door to the room, she forces herself to swallow the involuntary rise of acidic saliva. Meeting this man whom she has only ever spoken with on the telephone is a foolish proposition.  But she would bitterly regret not showing up after she’d agreed to so willingly before.

She softly lets the door click closed behind her, shutting out the noise of the machinery. She’s in a sitting room, with a dark television and a small seating arrangement. Walking over to an armchair, she places her bag down on the seat cushion.

As she does this, she glances to her right through a set of open French doors. He’s right there, seated in the middle of the bed, back against the tall headboard wearing a white dress shirt, unbuttoned and light grey socks. He has his cock in his hand, lazily moving it around, divining for sexual energy. She smiles at this.

Without a word, but with a sigh, she walks through the doors into the bedroom. He watches her, a little startled at how quickly she steps onto the bed with the high heels she’s wearing. He begins to move, but she’s already above him, and pushes him back down with one hand. Her other hand grips the top of the padded headboard for support.

Glancing upward, he can see under the short skirt of her black suit. When he sees that she’s not wearing panties, he moans and says, “God.” He begins to run his hands up her bare, pale legs, curving his palms over her calves. His hands are softer than she has anticipated, and at his first touch, she feels her center of gravity drop, a hot liquid stone from her stomach.

Reaching the backs of her knees, he stops, and gently taps his fingers on either side of her legs. Instinctively, she pulls her skirt up around her waist and widens her stance. He kneels halfway up and continues to slide both hands, palms flat, up the backs of her thighs and over the globes of her ass. Without pause, he pivots his stroke around her hips and down the front of her thighs.  His breath is heavier than she would like, feeling his excitement too soon, at this early stage. She has to maintain composure, however.

He wants to worship her. It’s the reason for this meeting. And being unaccustomed to accepting adoration at this level, she has to keep her wits about her for as long as she can manage. She has to allow him to take, but also put him through the steps of drawing her out as slowly as possible.

As she gazes down at his shaved head, he lifts one hand and cups her entire crotch. While soft, his hands are enormous. She can feel the moisture wanting to seep right through his fingers. Extending a thick middle finger, he splits her seam, from back to front in a smooth motion. Reaching her clit, he presses down hard. A small sound escapes her. He sinks two large fingers inside her, and even before she has time to respond, he is softly rocking back and forth below her.

Instead of using the isolated muscles of his arm, he is using the momentum of his whole body to finger her. And two things happen at that moment that take her away from the place she stands. The floor buffer has moved closer to the room, and she can hear it from the hallway, with repetitive low mechanical whines, and he moans under her, in the same rhythm.

He is moaning while fucking her with his hands and slapping her clit with precise beats, in perfect time. She is holding her breath and peering around his body to find his cock. And there it is, jutting out across the white sheets nearly purple and throbbing to his thrusts.

She reels seeing this. White knuckled on the headboard, her hands begin to tremble. Her gasp comes as breath reenters her body with a moan.

He quickens his pace and moans while saying, “Goddess…Goddess…” But it’s barely discernible language.  His need to overwhelmingly adore her has overcome his better judgment.  She is not a Goddess, but in this place at this moment, he is bringing her into existence, as real as any God has ever been before. Praying to her with hands and words.

Her mind swims with the idea of coming, and yet, her fingers slide into her mouth to maintain her screams.  But it’s too late.  She comes, pressure exploding around his fingers, and the fluid that drew him to the altar of her cunt, a pilgrim devotee, flows into his palm. She can see it spilling down the cuff of his shirt, darkening it.

Withdrawing his hand, he offers her the fruits of his labor in tribute. She cups her hand under his, and tips her juices over his smooth head, giving him her baptism.  His closed eyes are trembling behind their lids, and the mutters from his lips continue as he tastes her gift.  And then, her eyes see that he too has left an offering of his own.

She steps back and off the bed, smiling again. After quickly wiping herself and collecting her bag, she takes a last look. He is still in a kneeling position, eyes open. She walks out into the deserted hallway.