by Jacqueline Applebee
(12/05/07)
I wipe white trickles of come from my cheek with the back of my hand. The sticky streaks are replaced by sweat -- salt tracks that make my brown skin burn. Two men I barely know hold me down on a tarpaulin that is spread on the floor of the hotel's large utility room. I can't wait to see the bruises tomorrow.
Somewhere in the room, a clock is ticking, and I try not to think of my train that will depart in just over an hour's time. I spent three days in Glasgow at a conference, and I had spent three nights alone. I had been frustrated and horny for three days, and these two were right under my nose all along. What a bloody waste! The irony is not lost on me -- I just wish we had more time. One slaps my bare ass, bringing me back to the present, and the sting makes me breathe out into a messy spit dribbled kiss. I think the man who slapped me is called Max, and the one I'm kissing is Callum. It could be the other way around -- we've only known each other for fifteen minutes and I'm too far gone to check names now.
I had lost my way, wandered to the basement, searching for the Hutton Room and the final closing session, when I had stumbled in here by mistake. When I had first peeked through the gap of the slightly open door, two workmen, decorators or plumbers I guess, had been feeding each other dollops of gooey chocolate pudding -- leftovers from the lunch buffet. The view of them slowly licking each other's fingers clean had entranced me for long minutes. They had caught sight of me just before they pulled each other to the ground in a sticky kiss, and they hadn't bothered to stop their fun on my account. One man had leant on his elbow and raised an eyebrow at me -- an invitation or a dare, I wasn't sure, but the result was the same. By the time I walked in and shut the door behind me with a loud click, I was already wet.
They whispered their names, as four hands reached inside my clothing -- that's why I can't remember who's who now. My headscarf, skirt, bra, knickers, all slid away from me in four different directions, as they unwrapped me in twenty seconds flat. Four hands kneaded, pressed, and squeezed me down to the ground.
Now when a fist grips my short hair, I don't know whom it belongs to. When a hard solid dick breaches me, making me grunt and shuffle backwards, then moan and surge forwards, I don't care. Names are overrated.
They are hard-working men, each with wide calloused hands. One is tall and solid, with dark hairy shoulders and a ring through his pierced nipple. The other is shorter and smooth, with a tattoo of a snake wrapped around a bulging bicep. Both the men have bodies made for strenuous manual labour, and as a sedentary librarian, I feel so very soft between them. They stretch over me and gently kiss each other above my head. Well-practiced mouths open and twist, slurping kisses sound out, and time slows down to a sleepy drawl; seconds that seem stuck in the sluggish tick-tocking of the clock. This is something I've never seen before -- men being tender with each other, and I am unmoving beneath them, frozen in time. They break their kiss with a noisy gasp and time speeds up once more.
We rut like animals on the thin cloth, ferocious and desperate, as if time has run out -- it's as if I've heard the warning siren, that a comet is going to crash into the Earth any second now, and there's no time to run, nowhere to hide -- there's just the hotel utility room, the workmen inside me, and I don't fear the end of the world -- I fuck it instead.
They take me one at a time, rough, uncivilised, and urgent, whilst the other watches with lidded eyes, still tugging on his pink swollen cock. And then they enter me together, folding me between them, sharing me like they shared their dessert earlier. My chocolate skin is squashed between their paleness, and I imagine that we look like a sweet confection, but I can't taste much over the tang of rubber and lube -- astringent in my mouth, with a dozen little foil packets scattered over the floor. They do not waste a second on me -- every curled finger, gnawing bite, and dick in my ass is used to make me come repeatedly. They don't spare a breath -- they just steal oxygen straight from my panting mouth. Even when I scream, clenching around two bodies that slam against mine, they silence me with fingers pushed against my lips, salty with my own cloudy juices. I taste myself at last, and another wave crashes through me.
The men play a pulsing rhythm in my ass and in my cunt. I feel the shunt of the train that will take me back to London in twenty-five minutes, echoed in the harsh final thrusts my lovers make, as they explode deep inside me for one last time. We all topple sideways, exhausted, giggling, and we listen to each other's slowing breaths. I feel three thumping heartbeats, and I mark the time and smile.
They let me go after a few minutes -- I'm too tired to count how many. They dress me with care, though they are lost with my long red headscarf. They ask me about my job, my origins, why I cover my head with cloth if I'm not a Muslim. Then they show me the way to the Hutton Room, walk on either side of me slowly. I don't feel the need to hurry them along -- I've more than made up for lost time. When we arrive, the room is empty and everyone has gone home. They offer to take me to the station, and ask me when my train is leaving. When I tell them how long I have, they turn to each other and grin. Then they close the door behind me with a loud click. They say I have plenty of time.
