'Good,' he said, and then he began to draw back. Mrs Ross felt as if her entire being and body were concentrated in the nerve endings along her back passage; just to make sure that this wasn't the case, she let her hand flit down between her legs to that other seat of sensation. Oh, it was ready for some stimulation, it seemed.
As Gregg continued to plough his new furrow with diligence, Mrs Ross batted her clitoris between finger and thumb, falling into a new world of sensation, enjoying every element of it, moaning into the duvet with ever-increasing volume as her bottom was comprehensively commandeered.
Mr Gregg felt luxuriously wicked, like a melodrama baronet with a twirly moustache, pounding his cornered lust object into ultimate submission; while Mrs Ross felt wickedly luxurious, like the favoured concubine of a powerful ruler, offering the final bastion of her virtue to her master.
The fantasy saw them fly into an enormous stew of an orgasm: Gregg pumping in a frenzy, Mrs Ross shredded by the combination of climax and filled arse, lifted for a few seconds beyond her body and into an otherworld of pure sensation.
'Take it,' growled Gregg. 'Just . . . take it.'
She took it, and gladly, and she would have taken much more, although it was starting to sting again back there, and besides, time was pressing.
'How was it?' asked Gregg, withdrawing in a way that made her face crumple and reaching for the tissues on the bedside table.
'God. Just. Thank you. It was . . . more than I even thought. You were great.'
'Yes, wasn't I?' he preened. 'So were you. I'm glad you enjoyed it.'
'I did.' Mrs Ross lay down flat, meekly allowing him to dab at her widespread arsehole with the tissue.
'You'll feel that for a while,' he advised. 'But it'll be fine in a day or so. Just don't go ramming any large foreign objects up there. Or if you do, give me a call and I'll come and watch you.'
Mrs Ross snorted. 'Pervert.'
'Yes.' There was a short pause while he zipped himself back up. 'You know, I'd be more than happy to do this again, Lynnie.'
'No,' she said, rolling over and scanning the room for her skirt. 'It can't happen again. It's a one-off; a glorious one-off. I'll never forget it.'
'I understand,' said Gregg with a rueful smile. 'And neither will I.'
Mrs Ross has still not managed to convince her husband of the benefits of backdoor love, but she has some excellent toys, and a very good memory. And a lot of spare time.
On Demand
A smart man with shiny shoes, a briefcase and a golf bag crosses the lobby. A businessman, you might think, staying for a few nights to negotiate a deal. And while he is here, he will relax with a few rounds of golf before breakfast, perhaps, or talk over some of the finer points of the contract while teeing off with his colleagues. Except I know for a fact that there are no golf clubs in that bag.
How do I know?
Dr Lassiter and his golf bag make an appearance here roughly every six weeks. He hires a room for the night, but never stays until morning; he usually checks in at two and leaves around dinnertime. Between two and two thirty, a shy-looking blonde woman comes to Reception and asks for Dr Lassiter; I always ring the room and tell him she is here; he always asks me to send her up.
At first glance, nothing more to it than that most common of scenarios here, an illicit tryst between otherwise attached lovers. But what's with the golf bag?
I found out on the occasion of their fourth liaison.
The hotel was very busy that week; three conferences and an international film festival in town. Dr Lassiter and his friend would have to make do with one of our lowlier rooms at the back of the building, a set of small double suites with (locked, of course) interconnecting doors. I sent the blonde up as usual and settled in to an afternoon of flirting with obscure European actors at the desk. A particularly mouthwatering Croatian chap was asking me about local restaurants and bars when I was interrupted by a peremptory ring of the bell.
'Ahem, excuse me, young lady,' said an elderly man in a safari suit. 'I wonder if you could help me with a delicate situation.'
I smiled regretfully at Mr TDH and turned to the customer.
'Delicate?'
'Yes. I think so. I'm in Room 209, trying to sleep in advance of a very important meeting this evening, but there is a terrible racket coming from the room next door.'
'Next door? To your left or your right?'
'Right.'
So that would be Dr Lassiter and his friend. Interesting.