She got out of bed, picked up the clothes and the Coach bag lying nearby. No way she’d let it get ruined by a sex-stained towel. She’d paid nearly two hundred dollars for it, another two for the jacket. It landed on her black leather mini-skirt. She bunched up the towel and lobbed it across the room. He lay so still she wondered if he had fallen asleep. Always leave them wanting, she’d learned. She massaged him for another minute, then stopped.
The feeling of power at that moment was incredible. When they shot into her, relinquishing everything. She loved the moment when they reached the edge of passion and couldn’t hold on any longer. He kept his eyes shut, but a smile tickled his lips, and he angled his pelvis up toward the towel. He claimed he liked to clean up right away, but she knew he just wanted some extra attention. She grabbed the small towel she’d left at the end of the bed and gently rubbed his cock. Late afternoon sun spilled through wooden window slats. The room was large and elegantly furnished. She didn’t recognize it, but she knew it was expensive. Just different.Īs she rolled off his body, his aftershave cut through the smell of sex. Sex gave off that slightly chemical, briny odor. It didn’t matter the state of his personal hygiene. It didn’t matter whether the man was white or black or Asian.
In nicer hotels, she might catch a lingering trace of disinfectant.īut the smell of sex-that was always the same. The faint residue of smoke in the rug and curtains.
There was also the dusty smell of the blankets. Then she stopped playing the game and took shallow breaths through her mouth. It was when they didn’t bother to clean up, when their greasy hair or body odor or foul breath made her gag, that it got hard. She could usually tag them by their aftershave.
Her eyes, she kept closed-she’d never been a watcher, and most of the time there wasn’t anything worth looking at. Long after she moved on, she would remember the smells.
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