Blackout

I’d never been to the Dearborn Inn before. It sits across the street from Greenfield Village, the local attraction that, with its kitschy collection of candlemakers and stables and glass blowers and ramshackle period houses, is the poor man’s version of Colonial Williamsburg. (Don’t argue with me, son. I lived in Williamsburg for four years. I know the difference.) It seemed to have been modeled after Colonial Williamsburg’s larger and fancier hotels, too—a huge complex built of pinkish-orange brick, its wood trim painted in muted and historically-approved colors. The landscaping around the winding pavements leading to the front door were surrounded by emerald green grass, trimmed low, and by neat beds of brightly-colored perennials.

The doorman nodded at me as I approached. “Good evening sir,” he said. With the push of a button, the twin front doors began to swing open.

My fuck had told me the elevators were on the left when I entered. I tried to look as if I knew where I’d been going as I passed through the formal lobby, with its knobby colonial furniture and important-looking historical displays of Dearborn’s allegedly rich history. A bellhop pushing a cart with shining brass columns forming a dome nodded at me. The staff at the front desk, all of whom were freshly-bathed, smiling, and groomed immaculately, called out greetings.

Since I’d wanted to remain inconspicuous, it wasn’t the most auspicious of starts to the evening.

My fuck had contacted me the week before and begged me to meet him Sunday night, after he flew into town for work. Can we make this totally anonymous? he wanted to know, when I agreed. I mean, I don’t see your face at all? Just you raping my hole on the bed in the dark?

Well, that’s one of my favorite scenes with the out-of-town guys, so hell yes, I was fine with that. I didn’t even unlock my photos for him on the website. Usually the guys who want the anonymous fucks tend to stay in the cheaper hotels, though—not the fancy-schmancy Dearborn Inn, with its plush carpeting, its gilded crown molding, and its carved wood grilles of pineapples and elaborate scrollwork.

And at the Red Roof Inn, I reflected to myself once I’d reached the third floor, I could usually park my car outside the room ten feet away from where my tricks were parking their asses on the bed. I certainly did not have to walk down a long corridor until I reached an area with a locked door, over which a sign in fancy script proclaimed it to be the ‘Concierge Area.’ I pulled out my phone. I’d already pre-typed a text message to the number the guy gave me. I’m outside the concierge door, it said. I hit the send button.

He’d not discovered that he’d been given a room in this closed-off, locked area of the hotel until after he’d arrived. Just message me and I’ll come open the door, he said. I’ll push it open. You just grab it and come in, give me a minute to get back to my room. You don’t even have to see me.

I heard the tread of footsteps on the carpet beyond the door. The flooring squeaked just beyond, then the door clicked open. The man on the other side pushed it only an inch forward, and waited until I grabbed the handle. Then I heard him scampering away.

He was wrong that I wouldn’t see him. I didn’t count on how long the hallway actually was when I finally stepped through. The man hadn’t made it to the end, yet, or turned the corner. I caught a glimpse of a short, athletic figure with salt-and-pepper hair trimmed with a level into a super-short businessman’s cut. His meaty ass bounced up and down as he jogged on bare feet to the hall’s end. I watched him turn the corner. I followed, slowly, pretending to check my mail on my phone so that he’d have time to strip down and get ready for me on his bed. It took me a full minute to reach the doorway of his room. It was cracked, waiting for me to enter. I paused for another thirty seconds, then stuck my phone into my pocket, pushed, and stepped into darkness.

And I do mean darkness—total and complete, once the door closed behind me. The Red Roof Inn never gets so dark. The hotel had blackout shades that worked so well that I couldn’t see a thing in front of me; I had the same giddy and uncertain sensation of someone walking into a blackened theater from the most dazzling of summer afternoons. Only the brief glimpse I’d gotten of the room’s layout when I’d stepped in kept me from running into the wall.

My knees nudged against the edge of a mattress. This was the bed, then. I automatically realized I wasn’t going to be taking off any clothing—I wouldn’t be able to find it after if I did. Good thing I hadn’t worn much, then. I reached out, trying to find my fuck on the bed. My hand connected with flesh. I let my palm travel over it, trying to seem as if I knew what I was doing, instead of feeling around like a blind man. I felt the curve and the bumps of a spine, of hips, the roundness of a beefy and well-formed butt. These were body parts I knew well. I could take it from there.

I removed my light jacket and draped it on the mattress’ corner where I could find it again, then positioned myself behind the guy. I could tell by touch he was lightly furry. When I knelt behind him, my mouth connected with his hairy hole. He gasped, not expecting me to rim him. But he tasted good, so I dug in with my tongue. My dick hardened instantly—rimming always does it for me.

I didn’t rim for long. With my jeans around my ankles, I hiked the front of my shirt up and over the back of my neck, so that it formed a yoke there around my shoulders. Then I spat on my fingers and jammed them in. His hole opened immediately. He was warm, wet, and ready.

More spit went on my dick. I nudged the head against his hole, and waited. He pushed back, trying to urge me in. When I entered, it was with one long, hard thrust. I heard him hiss, then try to pull off of me, but I kept hold of his hips and stood still, letting him accustom himself to being stretched out by my meat. It took a moment for the intensity of his feelings to subside; I could tell when he moaned slightly that it was time to begin. I let more spit dribble on his dick as I started to slide in and out. His hole grew wetter and slicker. The sound of cock traveling the length of his chute began to fill the room.

I spoke for the first time, leaning down to growl the words in his ear. “Is that what you wanted?” I asked.

“Yes,” he whimpered. The muffled syllable told me his face had to be buried in the mattress.

“Some stranger’s fucking cock buried in your pussy?”

“Yes,” he said. “Fuck yes.”

The second assent was much more clear. He must have turned his head. “That’s what you’ve got,” I told him. “Some unknown married fucker’s dick inside you.” I fucked him harder, throwing him the occasional thrust at an unexpected angle so that he didn’t get too used to the pleasurable strokes. “And soon you’re gonna get my fucking load, too.”

He didn’t say anything. Just let out a deep moan from his chest that lasted and lasted as I continued to bang him. I still kept hold of his hips, clutching so hard that I imagined him walking around all the next day with my handprints on the front of his pelvis. There wasn’t much I could do, position-wise, with my pants still on, but I managed to get my knees on the mattress between his, so that I could jackhammer his hole. My thrusts were short, now, and rapid. I hauled off and slapped his meaty cheeks as I fucked, causing him to yelp. He never knew when those peppery stings were coming, in the complete darkness.

“You ready?” I asked him at last. “‘Cause I’m gonna blow in you.”

Even if he hadn’t been ready, it was too late. By the time he croaked out, “Do it. Please, do it,” I’d already shot the first blast of seed in his hole. A second and a third quickly followed; I slid in to the nuts for what remained. He thrashed and quivered on the bed beneath me. Whether or not he shot, himself, I didn’t know.

And I didn’t much care, to tell the truth. Getting the anonymous guys off isn’t what they want, so I don’t make it my concern. “Good boy,” I whispered, once my dick had finished pulsing. Then, after a moment, I added, “You fucking stay there, face down. I’m gonna clean up in your bathroom before I go.”

“Yes sir,” he whispered.

I put on my jacket, did a quick wallet-phone-keys check, then slipped into the bathroom and closed the door behind me. I used a little soap and water on my dick, then dried it off with a washcloth. Then I was out of the room and into the obscene chandeliered brightness of the Dearborn Inn’s hallways again, making my way down to the lobby while trying to conceal the fact that my dick was still hard, snaking down the right leg of my jeans without underwear, and creating a tent.

Luckily, plunging my hands in my pants pockets concealed it until I reached my car.

Great ass was all I wrote to the guy, Monday morning.

Amazing dick was all he wrote back.

It was enough.