Bungalow #14, Part 1 [MF]

“Fuu–!” was all I could muster before his mouth was on mine, his tongue teasing my own inside my mouth. The weight of those broad shoulders pressed me deeper than I think I’ve ever been in any mattress, and the strength of those hot, penetrating fingers and their come-hither motion across my most delicious parts already had me at the precipice of a climax that had really been building since the moment he told me his mother took a champagne cork to the back of the skull.

Even through the cacophony of primal sexual gratification that overtook me at that moment, there was enough of a rational mind left to wonder, just how the fuck did all this happen?

My name is Jen. I’m a white American female; 36 and unattached at the time of this story, which occurred about three years ago (that makes me 39 now, math champs). Never married, no kids. My occupation both then and now involves traveling to major cities throughout the Midwestern US acting as a kind of liaison/negotiator between my employer and the various city governments in that region. My day-to-day is a lot of traveling and working lunches/hotel lobby drinks/just *talkingtalkingtalking* with various city government officials and trying to think of new and clever ways to tell them, “ha, yeah, no.” I take care of myself and I like to think that I look young for my age. If you need a celebrity-I-most-resemble for the film inside your head, I used to get Hope Davis a lot, but then Hope Davis played Hillary Clinton–OLD Hillary Clinton–so then I started insisting that they probably just meant to say Laura Linney instead.

Considering the usual interactions that are required for my job and the fact that alcohol is often involved, I expect that the line of inappropriateness is, occasionally, going to be crossed. Yes, it happens. A LOT. And while, sometimes, I’ll admit, I would’ve been more than okay with certain individuals occasionally crossing that line, I can’t let it happen with *anyone* I’m involved with professionally. It just cannot ever happen.

On this particular occasion, I was in Austin, Texas. I’d been there for a week, and the ongoing talks being held with the city people were not going well. It was a Saturday night and I’d just left a work-related dinner which really just cemented how stubborn and ridiculous the city was being with their position on the matter. I was fucking stressed, I was frustrated, I had a 6am flight scheduled that I knew I wasn’t going to make. Watching a fun Saturday night in Austin pass outside the window of my Uber ride suddenly made me feel incredibly sad and lonely. Still, all I really wanted was to get a bottle of wine and go back to the hotel room and drink myself to sleep.

Looking for things to do on my phone so I didn’t have to make small talk with the driver, I started swiping on Tinder. I’ve occasionally used it on work trips to meet local men but only two made it as far as my hotel room, and both of those ended up being pretty milquetoast. Certainly not worth retelling in this kind of context.

A dozen left-swipes later, J’s profile showed up. His pictures were creative and adorable, and his description made me laugh for the first time in what was almost certainly the entire week. “Your summary is fucking hilarious,” my thumbs typed as the Uber pulled up to my hotel. Whether he wrote back or not was irrelevant; I really just wanted to thank him and to let him know that he’d brightened my day, even if only for a moment.

I was in the tub when he wrote back. “Thanks, my mom wrote it,” his message said.

“Tell your mom she made my day,” I wrote back.

“She’s dead. She took a champagne cork to the back of the head during my brother’s Bar Mitzvah.”

I stared at that message for at least four minutes. I know because the entirety of Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn” played on Spotify while I stared. Was he kidding? Was he serious? Holy shit, what if he’s serious? What does someone even do with that information?

This was J.

“What vintage was it?” was what I came up with after two minutes of debate over what would be the most inoffensive response.

“Uhh… Chateau?”

I was halfway through typing “you are so full of shit” when his next response arrived:

“I’m not even Jewish. My mom lives in Vermont.”

Then he asked me which STAR WARS character I would be roommates with and why.

My messages must’ve appeared absolutely juvenile because every other one was LOL. But even as Tinder banter quickly became text banter, I still had zero intention of doing anything that night but killing a bottle of wine and falling asleep.

“What are you doing right now?” he finally asked two hours into the exchange.

“I’m about to walk across the street to get a bottle of wine from the liquor store.”

“Classy,” he said. “You should meet me for a drink instead.”

I had the rejection half-typed when I remembered the bar in the hotel next door. Quiet, convenient. Considering the day I’d had, the fact that I hesitated at all convinced me that I had enough energy to meet him for one drink. “Do you know [HOTEL NAME REDACTED]?”

“I’m four blocks over and four blocks down from you right now,” he said. ”We should go to X, it’s right next door.”

“STOP READING MY FUCKING MIND ALREADY!” I remember shouting at the phone.

He told me he could be there in ten minutes. For some reason, I looked at the clock radio next to the bed, even though the time was staring me in the face on my phone. 10:32pm. There was no way in hell I was getting up in less than six hours to get on a plane.

“Meet me in front of the hotel at 11,” the most thoroughly irresponsible part of my brain typed into my phone as I said “fuck” out loud and began searching for my makeup bag.

I figured the absolute best case scenario would be: we’d meet, maybe hit it off, and end up making out in his car. “Then why am I searching for my sexiest panties?” I said out loud.

Twenty minutes later it was jeans; a red, ribbed turtleneck (which, to my horror, I later discovered had a hole in the back; FML); and wedge sandals (which he totally kept teasing me about, but I’ll get to that in a moment). Somehow, after that miserable goddamn week, I think I looked pretty damn good.

“Here,” his text read, five minutes before eleven.

“Too early!” I typed, hoping that his voice matched the one I’d made up for him inside my head. “Down in a sec.”

The odd layout of the hotel (it was more of an outdoor compound with bungalows around a courtyard) turned that “sec” into at least four minutes of searching for the exit. I saw him standing on the sidewalk, his back turned to me, on the opposite side of a locked metal gate.

“Hi, are you J?” I asked.

He turned around and smiled. “Jesus. Promise you’re not an organ harvester?”

The voice didn’t match at all. It was *better*.

“Technically, I don’t even touch the organs. The surgeon and the anest… anestith…”

This is me, trying to say the word ‘anesthetist’. Meanwhile, it’s not like I can pronounce it correctly in my head, either, while being able to read it right fucking there.

“The dude who makes you sleep,” he said in his dreamy FM baritone. Fuck, he had a really great voice.

“Exactly,” I said. “They’re the ones who do the harvesting.”

He pointed at my feet, “Are they hiding in your shoes?”

I looked down at my wedge sandals. “They’d have to be very small,” I said.

“Are you saying that little people can’t be surgeons? Or anest…tathists?”

“You can’t fucking say it, either!”

“I have a brain tumor.”

“Shut the hell up, no you don’t.”

We talked through the gate for way longer than we should have, but the giant lock and the darkness of the courtyard completely befuddled us. I left him for a moment and wandered through the shadows until I eventually found the reception area, followed shortly after by the exit to the street.

He greeted me with a hug and I left my feet. “I’m pretty sure my dog weighs more than you.”

My favorite movie as a kid was always GOONIES. When he picked me up, I felt like I was being picked up by Sloth Fratelli. There was an impossible strength in those arms that instantly made me feel safe. Lost against the warmth of his chest, his shoulders seemed miles away. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t suppress a giggle. “Oh my God, you are so warm,” I whispered into his ear, kissing his hairy cheek.

If you need a celebrity-he-most-resembles for the film in your head: imagine if David Harbour roughly fucked Seth Rogen and they had a baby. J would’ve been the bearded bastard leftover from that abrupt coupling. His profile put his age at 32, but he could’ve easily passed for younger. His brown hair looked like it was two months overdue for a cut. I could’ve sworn that his eyes kept changing color; I think they were hazel. I didn’t normally have a thing for facial hair, but his dark auburn beard fascinated me. Combine all of that with his sort of end-of-the-winter fleshiness and it made him very lumberjacky, which is a type I absolutely adore. Plus, I love a man in black, and he bathed in it, head to toe: black boots, black jeans, and a black fleece over a black tee. And he totally had me at the hug. When I left my feet and got a whiff of what I later confirmed was John Varvados on his neck, I actually said, in my head, “there is zero chance this man’s erect cock is not in your mouth before the night is over.”

“You brought wine,” I said.

“You kept mentioning how much you wanted a bottle of wine and I forgot to take this inside my parents’ house with me last Christmas so, it’s been aging in my car for four months.”

Between the burning intensity of the hug and the fact that the rapport from the text conversation translated almost immediately to real life, I was tingling so hard that I legitimately considered using the wine as an excuse and asking him right away to go back to my room with me. Fortunately, whatever subconscious checks and balances my brain had in place kicked in and I compromised with myself and said, “Do you want to just sit in the courtyard and split that bottle?”

So, that’s what we did. We lapped the courtyard and both nominated a small lounge with chairs and benches in the back as a worthy spot. J had the corkscrew he brought with him half-in the bottle when a security guard with an eight-ball neck tattoo appeared and informed us that the chairs and benches promptly closed at 11pm. My deepest apologies, good judgement, but you’ve just been overruled by a guy with an 8-ball neck tattoo.

“Follow me,” I said as I took a grown-ass man by the hand and led him back to bungalow #14.

​

“You got water?” he asked as I closed and locked the door behind us.

“Minibar,” I said, pointing towards the back of the room. “Help yourself.”

“Minibar? Are you fucking crazy? They’ll charge you fifteen dollars for that shit.”

“I don’t pay for it,” I said. “[COMPANY NAME REDACTED] does.”

His eyes lit up like he was a pinball machine when he saw that massive tray of baby booze bottles. “There are fucking bags of candy here! Wait–[COMPANY NAME REDACTED] pays for [HOTEL NAME REDACTED]? Really?”

“They do for me.”

“So you could run up a three-hundred dollar minibar tab and no one asks you to justify that shit? He picked up one of the bottles of water and spilled at least a third of it on himself when he opened it. “Holy shit, they have Haribo bears!”

I shrugged. “Entertainment.”

“Jesus, they have condoms here, too. You have like the greatest job ever.”

“It’s really not,” I said. “Windows open or closed?”

He took a sip of his water and looked around the room. “This is really a nice fucking place. I don’t know, what do you think?”

“Open?”

“Go for it.”

His broad shoulders made him look like an incognito superhero when he sat on the couch. We passed the wine bottle back and forth and asked the sort of questions that seem important when you’re getting to know someone.

I asked if he played football.

“Nope. Too small. I’m more hockey-sized.”

Dear God, I thought, please show me the planet where this creature is the runt.

He asked me if I was cheerleader. “I wish,” I said. “I danced. My mother would’ve sooner let me play with a loaded firearm than do cheer.”

“What did you dance?”

“Badly,” I said, and he laughed. Fuck, it made me hot when I made him laugh. “My mother was a modern dance choreographer. I was the willing daughter. We don’t speak anymore.”

“What happened?” he asked before taking a swig from the bottle.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, boiling it all down, I guess it was really nothing more than, at some point, I became more attractive than her. She looked at me and she saw a far better version of herself. And when I became old enough for boys and the attention shifted to me, she lost her shit.”

“Wow,” he laughed. “You’re fucked up.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Only a li’l bit,” I said, snatching the bottle back from him before finishing it off. “She provided me with the invaluable asset of knowing how to deal with difficult people. That’s probably why I like you.”

“So your mom’s cuntery is paying for these Haribo bears?”

“No, that’s [COMPANY NAME REDACTED],” I said. “She did pay for this.” I lifted my pant leg enough to show him the two narrow scars I had on either side of my right ankle.

“Impaled by a swordfish, right?” he said, leaning forward a bit. “Same thing happened to me last summer while I was spear fishing in the Sea of Cortez.”

“Oh my God, really?”

“No. What happened?”

“Such an asshole,” I said. “Snowboarding trip to Mount Shasta on my sixteenth birthday. I hit my head pretty good so I have zero memory of what happened. Whatever it was, it totally gave PTSD to my best friend. I mean, imagine that the site of your rag-doll body ping-ponging off trees is so grotesque that it injures someone psychologically–”

“That is pretty awesome,” he said.

“I knoooow. Right? My therapist loves that story.”

“Did you fuck him?”

“My therapist? She’s an old Jewish woman named Ruthie Mae.”

“Okay. Then did you fuck *her*?”

“You really want to put that mental image in my head. Right *now*?”

“Why, does she look like Bea Arthur?”

I tried to shake the mental image of scissoring Ruthie Mae in a bowling alley ladies room and thought about, “hmm, the celebrity Ruthie Mae most resembles is… elderly Bette Midler.”

“I’m sorry,” he laughed. “Clearly, I just ruined everything.”

“Not yet,” I said, “but you’re certainly working on it.”

“What does that mean?”

“If you don’t make a move soon, I’m going to be left with no choice but to toss you out and go to bed.”

He laughed. “No you’re not.”

“Oh, really?”

“Why am I the one who automatically has to make the first move?” he said, reaching over and running his finger across the top of my forehead to tuck an errant lock of my hair behind my ear. “Has anyone ever remarked upon your uncanny resemblance to Hope Davis?”

“I think you mean Laura Linney.”

“No I don’t.”

“Okay, enough of this shit,” I said, reaching across him in such a way that my tits essentially smashed against his face while I put the empty bottle on the end table before straddling him on the couch. “You’re fucking impossible, you know that?” I started playing with his facial hair like I was an alien visitor who’d never seen a beard before.

“You like me,” he said in a sing-songey tone.

“I like your beard. Get it right.”

“Want to take a ride on it?”

“Duh,” I said, debating the next snarky thing to say when I suddenly felt his hands wrap around my ass and abruptly pull me towards him. I don’t know whether it was the surprise of it or the fact that my chest pressed so hard against his that it made me gasp. We were so close, I had to tilt my head to keep from banging into his.

His breath on my ear was as arousing as any toy on my clit. “You are stunning,” he said, his voice in such a low and primal growl that it took away my breath. “It is fucking crazy how much you turn me on.”

I proceeded to essentially tongue-fuck his ear for the next five minutes because, the more I did it, the harder I felt him get beneath me.

“Fuck,” he moaned, holding the vowel as long as he could. “I am gonna put my mouth on your fucking pussy and I am not going to take it away until you are begging to have my rock hard cock inside of you.”

It felt like I was sitting on an unopened can of Coke. “Mmm, if that cock is really as fat as it feels against my fucking pussy right now then I’m going to have a helluva time getting all of that inside my mouth.”

“Something tells me you’re going to try anyway.” That growl kept plucking something deeply primal inside of me. “And I want to see your eyes for every second of it.”

I must’ve looked like a zombie when I finally attacked his face with my own. My hands, trembling from my arousal, grabbed him by the back of the head and I pressed my open mouth into his. The grinding intensified as our tongues danced in frantic circles and I felt his big hands slide under my sweater. If there was an entry in the Guinness Book of World Records for the quickest removal of a woman’s top while making out, I wanted to break it at that moment. I stopped kissing him and crossed my arms to grab my sweater by the shoulders; it was while I was yanking it off that I noticed the hole.

“What the fuck!” I put my forefinger through the hole and went through all five stages of grief in a split second. “This was my favorite fucking sweater!”

“I can fix that,” he said.

I laughed. “No you can’t.”

“You’re right, I can’t,” he mumbled as I threw the sweater aside and went back to kissing him. We caught the wave of intensity again and I lost my bra in a flash.

“Your tits are amazing,” he said, taking my left nipple–which was rock fucking hard–into his mouth. His teeth bit down just hard enough that I’d remember he’d been there for at least the next day and a half.

The longer the grinding and kissing went on, the more intense the primal urge became to get at his cock. There were moments when I thought I might be able to pull myself away from it all long enough to climb down from the mountain that was him and get his pants off, but then he’d renew the deliciously overwhelming grasp he had on my ass.

“We should move to the bed, yes?” I finally tried, as breathless as I’d have been if I’d just finished running six miles.

He didn’t say a word. He just picked me up like I was styrofoam, carried me six feet to the bed, and dropped me onto the mattress. “Take your pants off,” he said as he started to take off his pants, “leave your panties on, and lie on your back.”

His dominating tone tapped into the basest part of my arousal. If he told me to put my bare-naked ass in the air and squeal like a dolphin? Yeah, I would’ve fucking done it.

The grinding had me so aroused that it left a wet spot on the front of my jeans. I kicked my wedge sandals off and they landed on the other end of the room with such a loud thud that it made me giggle. I pulled my jeans off my legs and threw them aside, assuming the position I’d been instructed to take. I watched him undress with the tip of my left forefinger between my teeth while my other hand slid into the front of my soaked red panties and started making slow little circles around my clit.

“Jesus,” he said, now wearing only a pair of black boxer-briefs. “You are the sexiest fucking thing I have ever seen.”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck yes.”

I can only imagine what my heart rate was when he finally crawled onto that king-sized mattress. The fact that the Coke can could now be seen stretching out the front of his underwear only made me want to see it more, but he’d made it clear that he wanted to start on me first. And he did–standing on his knees in-between my outstretched legs, his thumb started softly massaging my wetness through my panties.

“Ohhfu…” was all I could muster through the wave of pleasure that shot upwards through my back when he touched me, even through the silk of my saturated panties. As I closed my eyes to concentrate on the waves of pleasure pouring over me, it made me smile to realize what an abrupt and magnificent distraction the night had become. Certainly, I thought, this has to be a fucking dream. There’s no way this guy is real. This has to be the part where I realize it’s all a dream and I fuck it all up by realizing as much before waking up in complete and total disappointment.

But, instead of waking up, my panties came off. Peeled off by fingers that slid inside of me only a moment later. This is about where we first came in.

“Fuu–!” was all I could muster before his mouth was on mine, that familiar tongue teasing my own inside my mouth. The weight of him pressed me deeper than I’ve ever been in any mattress, and the strength of those hot, penetrating fingers and their come-hither motion across my most delicious parts already had me at the precipice of a climax that had been building since the moment he told me his mother took a champagne cork to the back of the skull.

His lips went to my neck, then to each nipple. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he said as his face was directly in-between my breasts. “This is the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever done.”

“You’re gonna make me fucking cum if you keep doing that,” I said.

He looked at me and smiled. “That’s the point.” Then he went back to kissing my neck. “Cum for me,” he said, his hot breath on my neck being almost enough to send me over.

I closed my eyes and let the simmering climax slip into the red. “Please don’t stop!” was the only intelligible thing I could come up with as he continued to growl into my neck.

“Cum for me… cum for me…”

My eyes crossed and I obliged with a howl. My entire body flinched and I punched his hand away from my sex, as the sensitivity made every muscle in body spasm in uncontrollable waves of pleasure.

It was around this time that we heard the applause.

“Yeah!” a woman’s voice shouted somewhere in the distance. “That was fucking hot!”

Pleasure transformed into confusion, followed by humiliation.

My eyes opened and locked with J’s.

“The windows!” we said in unison.

He scrambled off the bed like a fire alarm had sounded and then went from window to window, slamming them shut before pulling the curtains closed.

“Oh my god,” I said, but with a laugh. “Oh my *god!*”

“Assholes.” But it made him laugh, too.

“I’m still fucking cumming. You cannot possibly be real.”

“I’m good for a guffaw every now and again,” he said, looking through one of the curtains to see if he could still see the audience we’d collected.

“Get over here and fuck me already,” I said, still trying to catch my breath. “Let’s give them something else to cheer about. I want to see this magnificent cock I’ve been grinding against all night.”

He smiled the devious smile of a man who knew something I didn’t.

End Part 1

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/bnukz8/bungalow_14_part_1_mf