CHERRY BLOSSOMS // Revisited // Montréal // 3.11

They’d only walked half the convention this afternoon and evening, just a few hours, but her feet were dying in her heels. She stood now at the tall narrow window in her hotel room, deeply set into the old grey stone, and she clenched her toes on the cool maple floor. She rolled her heels against it, flattened her arches out, felt her damp bare soles stick on its varnish.

The hotel looked out over Rue St. Laurent and she absently watched the hazy grey-blue city wind down. It was that quieter moment when the shifts change, day time activities retire for the night and the fun-loving Friday night crowd is just drying their hair. She rolled her ankles, heard them click, pressed the top of a foot now painfully against the floor, forced her toes to curl up.

Rocco had bought her dinner at a restaurant in La Ville Souterraine, the Underground City. An Italian place that served too much bread. The pasta was good, but she barely touched it. She had a few glasses of wine and Rocco did, too. Rocco kept her topped up, and she liked him trying to get her drunk. That’s what she wanted from him. She didn’t eat—didn’t want to feel full at all if what she wanted to have happen, happened tonight. They walked back to the hotel in silence.

Rocco was in his room, and she was in hers. She had her skirt on and her black top. Her lingerie was still in the suitcase.

Something was happening out in the city, out beyond the equally old block of buildings across the street. Past them were the tips of angled sheets of colorful acrylic, like some sort of futuristic sailboats. Light pulsed gently through them. Beyond, a wavering digital swath—a video projected across the façade of a hundred-year-old building. A woman’s face, turning, knowing, beautiful . . .

She ran her hands through her hair, shaped them like claws, and pulled life into her mane. She crossed the room to the dresser that was opposite the foot of the bed, knocked four stacked plastic cups off its walnut surface and into a wastebasket. There was a wood-framed mirror there, and she checked her makeup, bared her teeth. She opened the minibar and found a small bottle of red wine. She went to the partition door, and she turned the handle, opened her side, then paused, hand on his. It opened when she turned it. It wasn’t locked.

Rocco wasn’t startled, but he was glad to see her. He smiled wide and confident, holding his iPhone and checking messages. He was sitting between two of the tall, deep windows in a chair that he dwarfed. A steam-bent maple plank chair with a leather cushion. Rocco’s room was the same as hers, in reverse, a stone wall down one side where the bed was, the other, the wall between the two rooms, was painted a glossy blood red.

“I need a glass of wine,” she said, holding the bottle in one hand and wagging it, tempting him. “Join me? I couldn’t find any glasses in my room.” She was at the dresser, taking the clear acrylic stemmed glasses out of their plastic wrap.

“Yeah, sure,” he grunted, deep and low. She poured two for them, brought his and handed it to him, turned back to bring her glass and the rest of the bottle so they could finish it. She stopped short of the dresser and leaned out, lifted one leg up lightly, her legs coming apart, her skirt sliding up ever so slightly. Knew he’d see her inner thigh, see her legs flex as she balanced on her toes to reach the bottle. She went to him, put the bottle down between them, and pulled a matching chair to face him.

“What a day,” she sighed, and she sat down, put her bare feet up so the toes curled over the lip of his chair, one of her ankles touching his massive high. She watched his eyes go down, look at that bare part of her. She had his attention. “My poor feet,” she complained. He drained his wine.

He was looking very good in just a black T-shirt, plain. This one had sleeves, but they clung to his thick arms and peeled back at the hem. He had track pants, dark grey, no socks. His thick fingers played with his tiny plastic glass and he watched her over the top of his hands, his eyes narrowed. His forearms flexed, the black line dragons rippling with his muscles.

He leaned over and reached down, his eyes still on her, and picked up the wine bottle between two fingers. He brought it up to his lips and took a swig, put the bottle back on the table next to him, nestling it in the overflowing bouquet of fresh flowers set in a vase there.

“You have to do it all over again tomorrow,” he grumbled, smirking. He took both her ankles up in one hand and he set them down on the top of his thigh. She felt a tightness come across her middle, a heat flashed across the back of her neck. She finished her wine in one pull.

Then those rough hands were on her, kneading her sensitive soles. Her eyelids sank with pleasure, but she tilted her head back, watched how small her feet were in his enormous hands. She moaned softly for him, let him hear her gentle woman sounds. “Mm, that feels so good,” she sighed.

“You have perfect fuckin’ feet,” he said.

“I know,” she said. She leaned towards him, watched his eyes, reached out and snagged the bottle of wine. She took a drink from it, gripped the neck and sank into her chair with the bottle clutched to her chest.

“I’m so beat,” she said. “Thanks again for dinner.” She arched her feet and spread her toes while he kept rubbing. It was so wrong and it was turning her on. This big rough man, touching that private part of her, alone with him in a hotel room, so far from home. He was her boss, and this was way too intimate.

He nodded, his face pinched, brow furrowed and low. She took another big sip of wine from the bottle, then leaned over and passed it to him.

He took it, swigged from where she’d just had her lips. She brought her feet down and smiled at him sleepily. Then she stood and stretched her arms up over her head, straight to the ceiling, hands in loose fists. She stretched a leg out behind her and he watched it, saw her grace, her muscle.

“I think I’m going to hit the hay,” she said. “Thanks for the wine.”

“That’s it?” he said. “We didn’t even talk.”

“I’m bushed, Rocco. We have a busy day tomorrow, don’t we?” She went to the passageway between their two rooms, paused and rested on the jamb, leaned against it, crossed her legs and scrunched her toes. “Why? What did you want to do?”

“Me?” he stood, tilted the wine bottle up and finished it. She could see a stiff pendulous movement behind the grey cotton pants. He set the bottle down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, said, “I’m getting in the shower. Hot shower.” He approached her.

She didn’t budge, said, “That sounds nice. Have fun.”

He passed her, eyes shifting to the right, a devilish smirk. Passed her and went into his bathroom and left the door open. She stayed and watched him. He reached into the tiled stall, one big hand supporting himself on its clear glass edge. He pulled the lever, put his hand under the hissing stream of hot water. “Big shower,” he said to himself, his deep voice a rumbling echo from the shower stall. His back was to her, and he pulled his shirt off, showed her that powerful muscle. So wide she wouldn’t be able to hug him. So big she would suffer under him.

She turned and went into her room, leaving the doors open, and sat on her bed. She couldn’t see the bathroom door, but she could hear him in there. Heard him get into the shower stall, heard the glass door thunk closed, the steaming splashing water change its sound as it splashed now differently around his massive masculine frame. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? She could walk in there and he’d smile through the stall door. He would be half hard, that big thing hanging and wagging. She’d smile too, let him watch her take her clothes off. She’d step in and they’d let their hands explore . . .

Instead, she stayed on the bed and listened and fantasized. She took her own top off, pulled the black shirt up over her head, and tossed it farther up the bed. Put her hands in her bra and scooped her bosom up, let her breasts plump forward and fill her cup. She tossed her hair and ran her hands through it. Licked her lips. Rocco’s shower was done. Rocco turned the lever again, and the splashing stopped. She put her long legs out on the floor in front of her and she crossed them over. She waited.

Then he was there. Six-five, muscled, tattooed, three-hundred-plus pounds. Naked.

It could happen right now. He could walk right through that threshold and she wouldn’t stop him. If he wanted, he could come and take her right now. He passed across his room, sideways across the open passage. He was naked, holding a towel in one hand—purposely letting her see the incredible thing the good Lord had blessed him with. Cursed him with. It swung between his legs as he walked, slapping heavily against one thigh, then the other. He’d probably got it plumped in the shower, but he wasn’t hard. Looked a lot like his brother’s big cock, same features—but just like the rest of Rocco, much bigger than his brother Dino.

She held her breath. He looked at her as he passed, saw her in her bra and her bare legs stretching out. He gave no reaction, just kept walking. Her scalp tingled, her heart pounded. She got up and crossed to the doorway. Her ears pounded with an overwhelming sucking and pulsing—the hammering of her heart.

* * *

It was done. He was sure it was done.

10 P.M. Dark now. Dark in Montreal. The two of them in adjoining rooms. She’d fucked him. He felt it. Another man had taken her, and she loved it.

He lay in his bed, still on his side of it, facing where his Nia would lay. Instead of watching her sleep he had his arms stretched out in front of him, his hands delicately holding his iPhone. Waiting for some sign from her. Something. A proof of life. Was she okay? Was she safe? Had she slept with Rocco?

She’d wanted to suck his cock. His wife had fantasized about sucking Rocco’s cock. His wife fantasized about servicing another man. Not just sleeping with him and being pleasured by him, but submitting to him. On her knees. Her pretty mouth working over what was most assuredly a large and quite ugly penis. His wife. His pretty Nia.

His hand clutched his phone too tightly again, and he had to ease his grip. He thumbed the black screen, wishing it would come to life with some sort of message from the woman he loved. This was torture. Beautiful torture. His ribs were tight, a full breath impossible. His temples pulsed with tension. Jaw clenching and teeth grinding together until, like his grip, he had to will them to relax.

Please, Nia. Something. Anything.

He did not know how he was going to manage the next day. Big old Book Expo. Usually a nice little moneymaker. Pressing hands with fans and taking pics with kids. Sell some books, sell some prints. A happy day. Receiving compliments, seeing kid’s smile at his drawings.

But he ached. His heart ached and his cock ached. He was hard. He couldn’t concentrate. How would he be tomorrow if he still didn’t know?

Please, baby. Please, Nia. Something. Anything.

* * *

She’d closed the door, saying, “Good night, Rocco. See you in the morning.” Closed the door and let him hear her twist the lock. Did it firm, the clicking mechanism a last word on the evening.

She’d slumped against the wall next to the door, released from her own wicked desires. Seeing him like that. Knowing she wanted it, he wanted it—it raced a salacious needle pulling an electrified thread, from her pussy around her heart, three times around her heart, tightening and tightening, then a slippery tickle up the back of her brain. Her knees went weak, and she fell to the wall, smiling. Wow. She wanted this so bad. So, so bad. She wanted to be penetrated, filled; she wanted to be taken by him, completely consumed. She wanted it. Desperately wanted. But not like this. Not easy like this.

She knew what she wanted.

Now she was in bed, comforter up to her neck. The curtains were open, bright blue city-lit sky a blank midnight haze across the deep double windows. She had her hands between her legs.

She thought of the things she said to him at dinner. The insinuations, the eye batting, twisting a lock of hair while she talked. Showing him she wanted it, seeing he wanted it. Bringing out that masculine energy. Making him lean forward, seeing that frighteningly dominant look in his eye, the one that told her what she wanted. He’d leaned his bulk, smirked; he was unafraid; he was powerful and he was rich and he was hot and he was fucking hung. Her legs writhed under the sheets. The only sound in the room, soft skin sliding on stiff clean cotton. Her feet flexed, her knees bent, and her hips swiveled against her pressing fingers.

His enormous hands had dwarfed her feet. His thick thumbs, his huge knuckles, long blunt and strong fingers. Almost impossibly large. His touch on her sensitive skin had been amazing. His skin was hard and rough. She thought of the day she’d seen him turn the bolts on a pump. Fuck a wrench. I’m Rocco. He turned them with the strength of his fingers. She thought of what they might feel like grabbing at her, his harsh skin on her soft breasts, their calloused abrasive feel on her oh-so-sensitive nipples. Plunging two of those fingers inside her, one hand on her throat, his tongue in her mouth.

“Mmngh,” she grunted as a switch flipped inside her. She was going to fucking come. She thought how close he was and how easy it would be to open that door and climb into bed with him. What was he doing right now? His big rough hand grabbing that big rough cock. Stroking himself while he thought of Nia, the wet sticky sound of his foreskin peeling and rippling in his hand while he thought of fucking her. What if he was coming right now? The two of them thinking of each other, two able-bodied animals with nothing stopping them from fucking. But touching themselves, stroking themselves, thirty feet apart. She pictured him coming into his sheets. Gripping that cock tightly and grunting, spewing the underside of his comforter with his hot, thick milk. His face squinting, his balls rising and falling as they pumped his excitement of the end of that huge cock head. She shuddered at the thought—driving him crazy, making him go out of his mind with lust. She wanted him to be unstoppable.

“Angh,” she blurted as she came. A little rising wave in her heart that made her eyes wide, a quivering example of the bigger orgasm cresting right behind that one. “Ah, ah, ah.” Glottal gasps into her quiet room.

That cock of his bounced from leg to leg. Just like Dino’s. That night young teen Nia first fucked the boy who would dominate her thoughts for years she’d cried from pain. She’d gone to Ang’s the next day, and they watched XXX to see Vin Diesel, curled up in the family room with a bowl of microwave popcorn, Ang trying to cheer up her frightened friend. Angie held her and laughed, not taking her seriously. Nia didn’t think she could sleep with him again. She would. She grew to love him and love what he had. It was inhuman. Odd. Like an animal’s. Thick, uncircumcised, grotesque. But oh, could he fuck.

Her legs shot out straight as she came again, came hard this time. Her butt clenched tight til it cramped, and she pressed the flats of her fingertips against her swollen clit and pulled like she was trying to lift herself. She exhaled, short bursts, huffing, huffs turning to chortles as she thought how fucking crazy all of this was.