Elevation
by J G Cain
She walked across the crowded motel lobby in a snug red sweater, a short frilly skirt, and no panties whatsoever. Those she brushed past on the way to the elevator could have no way of knowing she was panty-less, but he still enjoyed entertaining the notion that all the men and women in the lobby knew she was naked under her skirt: the pudgy middle-aged businessmen in travel-worn suits, the young couples weary from driving all day, the parents padding wetly from the pool dragging soaked towels and float toys and irritable children behind them.
He knew she wasn’t wearing any panties because she had handed them to him in the restaurant, casually, as if passing a napkin.
They didn’t stick around for dessert.
She put a little more action than usual into her ass as she crossed the lobby. He was not the only one who noticed. Several pairs of eyes followed her progress. He stood at the elevator, watching peripherally, pretending he didn’t know her. That was part of the game.
She reached the elevator doors and stood next to him. She gave him a polite, impersonal smile. They ignored each other as the charged distance between his skin and her skin filled with hunger and possibility. A few others from the lobby gathered behind them as they stood waiting.
Ding! When the elevator arrived they entered first and were pushed toward the back as the others entered behind them. She requested someone push the button for the ninth floor, the top floor of the hotel.
The doors closed. Everyone turned to face front, as people on elevators do. For a split second, they all felt the familiar fleeting wooziness as the elevator began to ascend and inertia was momentarily eclipsed by motion.
He slid his hand under her skirt. She gasped inaudibly. He slid his finger teasingly along the slender valley between her ass cheeks. She reddened. His cock, already tingling from watching her in the lobby, began to harden. She looked down to it, knowing the effect she had on him. Her glance made him harder.
Ding! Second floor. The elevator stopped. He did not remove his hand, but held it still, cupping her ass cheek. A man and a woman left the elevator.
When the elevator resumed motion, he slid his finger lower and along the frill of skin to the soaked edge of her pussy. He slid a finger just inside and felt her pussy contract tightly around it. A tremor rippled through her entire body.
He swore he could smell the scent of her wetness. Could anyone else smell her? His cock, fully erect now, throbbed with restless need.
Ding! Third floor. The elevator stopped, he again paused, leaving his finger poised inside her. A Mom and Dad and their two kids trudged sullenly out.
The doors closed. Only one person was left in the elevator with them, an older man checking his phone. He turned, gave them a cursory smile, looked to his phone, his smile immediately dissipating. Were they imagining the quick dart of the man’s eyes to her skirt before he looked to his phone? Did he know what they were doing?
Did they care?
The elevator skipped the fourth floor. At the fifth—ding!—it stopped. The older man left the car, eyes locked on his phone insistently enough to imply he probably knew what was going on. The doors whooshed shut. They were alone now. Four floors to go.
In a move of stunning dexterity that looked like a ballerina flexing her leg at the barre, she kicked her leg forward and hooked it onto the handrail of the elevator car, exposing her pussy, the scent of it now filling the elevator. She looked at him, ravenous, eyes lidded, lips parted. He immediately responded by sinking two fingers deep inside her; she groaned as if physically struck. His other hand closed around her throat as he kissed her roughly.
Ding! Sixth floor. Her hand snaked down inside his pants to stroke it. She spread the precum on the head of his cock with her thumb, then reached further down to grasp the shaft.
Ding! Seventh floor. He began to finger-fuck her, hard enough for her to recoil off the elevator wall and impale herself onto his fingers, again and again.
Ding! Eighth floor. His teeth were at her neck now, her head thrown back, eyes ecstatically closed as his fingers plunged deeper and deeper.
Ding!
The doors opened at the ninth floor. They didn’t stop what they were doing, didn’t even bother to check if anyone was standing at the elevator door waiting (no one was). She lowered her leg, he stuck his fingers in her mouth for her to lick clean.
When the doors began to close she spun—again with the deftness of a dancer—and held her arm out between the doors to cause them to reopen. They tumbled out into the hallway.
When they got to their hotel room door he pushed her against the door and re-inserted the same two fingers deep in her pussy, kissing and finger-fucking her as he tried to fish out the card key out of his pocket with his other hand. Everything fell out of his pocket in the attempt: car keys, penknife, cellphone, loose change, but rather than attempt to retrieve them he simply scooted the detritus into the room with his foot, pushed her in after, and kicked the door closed. In his hurry to get inside the room his legs became entangled with hers, and they both fell to the floor atop the mundane contents of his pockets, laughing effortlessly, their joy echoing like church bells down the hallway and into the anonymous rooms beyond.
Mr. Cain lives in Colorado, where he writes, reads, and spends entirely too much time staring at the night sky.
