Hen parties and hotels (or bachelorette parties and motels if you’re across the pond and/or aren’t a fan of alliteration) tend to be something of a dangerous combination. Home-spun hen parties can obviously still be wild and lurid affairs, but the locality and fact there’s always the prospect of ending up back in your own bed at the end of the evening does tend to gravitate proceedings toward the marginally less raucous outing. As a great philosopher once said ‘One does not shit in one’s own back yard’, after all.
When a hen party is combined with a night or indeed, god forbid, an entire weekend away however, the world becomes your oyster. Distance represents not only both literal and metaphorical freedom, but also distance from *consequences.*
Aka. What happens on a hen party, stays on a hen party.
All of which is why, when my dear friend Kaytee (Yes, that really is how it’s spelt. Yes, it’s utterly ridiculous as I tell her every time I’ve ever found myself writing it down. Yes, I even messaged her as I was writing this to comment on its ludicrousness. And yes, I’ve had *stern* words with her parents on multiple occasions) decided to tie the knot, myself and six other friends immediately made the decision to spend far more money than was sensible to indulge in just about the most cliched hen party you can imagine.
We all booked tickets for a four day weekend in Las Vegas.
Now the tales of what occurred over those four days are enough to fill multiple posts and, over time – and once certain permissions have been obtained – will definitely be told. But for the sake of clarity I’ll focus on just one specific evening for this particular retelling.
It was the second night of our brief stay and, perhaps unsurprisingly, we had all somewhat over-indulged on our first night in Sin City. Both food and alcohol are in plentiful abundance – I could talk for hours on end about the joys of spending three hours recovering from a hangover at an all you can eat world buffet, but it might be the single most un-erotic thing ever posted in this sub, so I’ll resist the urge – and having realised that our day one night out was only coming to a close at 10am the following morning, we’d decided on a somewhat more subdued second night to compensate.
Translation: We slept all day, and decided we’d not venture too far afield in the evening.
For those unaware; Las Vegas Strip is essentially an amusement park for adults. It’s insane. It screws with your head. And it’s incredibly good fun. The ground floor of every strip hotel is one massive casino, covered with thousands of individual neon lit slot machines, and hundreds of gambling tables. To attempt to describe the scale is to look upon madness. Just know that you could spend an entire week exploring a single hotel, and still probably not see everything. And there are never any windows, so it’s incredibly easy to lose track of the time.
Tl;dr version; We decided to spend our second night having some fun in the casino of our own hotel. (The Linq, for anyone interested)
We dressed as is obligatory for a hen party; in ostentatiously glamorous dresses. Five of which (myself included) also fell into the other obligatory category; short and eye catching. If my standard ‘going out attire’ is usually referred to as my HIAATAMT dresses (Hi I’m Alice and these are my tits), then this was a ‘HIAATAMTALHFSTTI’ (Hi I’m Alice and these are my tits also look how fucking short this thing is). Suffice to say, not my most subtle of attires.
We drank and we gambled and had, it has to be said, an incredibly lovely time. As a group of loud and relatively scantily clad British young women, we weren’t exactly short of attention. Initially we’d commandeered an entire blackjack table – much the delight/horror of the dealer, but quickly realised it was far more fun to play with others so switched out with only two of us playing at any one time, while the rest looked on, cheered far too loudly over the pitiful sums won – and lost! – and took the opportunity to chat to any poor unfortunate who wandered our way.
During my time in the hotseat one of the other players was an incredibly attractive man whose name has sadly been lost to the mists of time. Which is to say it had been resoundingly forgotten by the following morning. I’ll call him Ian as short for ‘Incredibly Attractive maN’.
Ian was incredibly tall, had great teeth and was loving every second of the attention he was receiving from a group of English girls on a hen party. Which was a good job as his Blackjack skills were even shitter than my own and I’m fairly sure he lost several hundred dollars during his time at the table. Money well spent though as my competitive edge had kicked in, and I was keeping personal score of my own successes and failures versus his. Within the space of a single drink i’d built it up from a friendly competitive streak to seeing him as my arch rival and card nemesis. Suddenly I was declaring this to be a sexy version of the climactic poker game of Casino Royale which, given this was as low stakes game as it’s possible to play, was as ludicrous as the way the bride to be spells her name.
But it was huge amounts of fun and, unsurprisingly, the rivalry soon turned flirty. So much so that the person sat beside me offered to switch seats with Ian so as not to be caught in the crossfire.
We played one more hand. For the duration of which he had *his* hand resting extremely high up my thigh.
We cashed out. It speaks volumes as to the quality of my friends that I neither had to ask nor make an excuse to withdraw from the table and from their company.
It’s difficult to explain how a simple, low steaks game of blackjack had become so sexually charged. Alcohol probably played a part. And perhaps the pure oxygen they say is pumped into the casinos is an aphrodisiac. Regardless, whatever it was, it felt like we’d already spent the last half hour indulging in foreplay, and we were both ravenous for the main course.
He was staying in a different hotel further down the strip so, to save time, we decided to just head straight to the elevator to head up to my room. As we crossed the casino floor his hand didn’t for a moment leave contact with my arse.
By the time we reached the elevator our tongues were busy exploring each others mouths. I was having to stand on my tip toes as he really was stupidly tall. His hand has also moved from simply resting against my bottom to having now slid under the dress, his long fingers tentatively reaching towards a wetness I’d been vigorously trying to ignore for the last half hour.
Sharing the elevator with us were a handful of others, all of which were doing their best to not cast glances in our direction. To the casual observer it can only have looked like we were trying to swallow each other whole. The awkward silence was only broken by my exhale of breath when his finger found its target.
After what felt like hours but could only have been minutes, we finally arrived on our floor. I was such a hot mess by the time the doors pinged open that I almost removed my dress immediately, somehow having gotten so far ahead of myself that believing simply arriving on our level was sufficiently acceptable to finally get started.
Instead I practically jumped him. In the elevator lobby I leapt onto him wrapping my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist, my tongue still deep in his mouth apparently searching for his tonsils.
We might have fucked right there were it not for a pair arriving awaiting the next elevator. Ian disengaged his lips for long enough to ask which room I was in, and I took the moment after answering to awkwardly wish the other couple a good night, vaguely aware that I was hanging from a man with my dress now having ridden sufficiently that the majority of my arse was likely on show.
To his credit, Ian carried me the majority of the way through the maze of corridors towards my room. How he managed to navigate with me attached to his lips and one of my hands clumsily attempting to reach down through his jeans I genuinely don’t know. How he achieved it whilst maintaining a finger inside me is nothing short of a miracle.
But I can be an impatient soul and as I became aware my position was proving a hinderance to proceedings I relented, dismounted, and practically broke into a sprint in sheer blind haste.
My excitement upon reaching the door of the room immediately rendered the burst of speed unnecessary as, in my delight, I found myself jumping on him again. He, in my defence, was equally thrilled, as he received me and pushed me against the wall with his body, kissing and almost biting at my neck while his hands made a grab for anything within comfortable reach.
What had caused this spontaneous and rapid lust I have no idea. But I can honestly say that in that single moment I’ve never needed someone inside me more.
After minutes spent pinned against the wall he pulled back and I reached for my bag. It was, by any definition, a tiny bag. Large enough to hold some money, a credit card, a door keycard and a phone. It was basically the size of an average pocket. There was simply no space inside in which to lose anything.
I turned for the door and reached into my bag. He, stood behind me, clearly as eager to get going as myself, chose that moment to reach under my dress and fully remove my underwear.
As I started to rummage through my bag, he filled the time by putting his finger back inside me while he kissed the back of my neck.
Inside my tiny pocket of a bag was my phone. Some money. A credit card. My passport. My phone.
But WHERE WAS THE FUCKING KEY?!
I was close to going out of my mind. I had one simple task to accomplish. Find a keycard. And ideally I needed to do this before his fingers – currently inside me – made me cum. Something that felt as though it might be remarkably imminent.
But the key wasn’t there.
It would take ten minutes or more to head back to reception to ask for a replacement, during which time the insane sexual build up and intensity would be long extinguished.
So I did the only thing that made sense.
I looked back at him and told him to fuck me.
He looked for a moment as though he was going to make a sarcastic comment. ‘That’s the plan…’ or something equally inane. Had I been in his position, i’d likely have done the same. But I didn’t give him the opportunity.
I pulled my short dress up and over my hips so it gathered around my waist. He’d already removed my underwear.
I stood in a hotel corridor in front of my own hotel room door, naked from the waist down, and told him again.
“Fuck me.”
I’d imagined he might take some persuading. I was wrong.
Without the slightest hesitation he unbuttoned his jeans and got his cock out. He slid both his jeans and underwear down to his ankles – rarely a good move and *never* a good look for a guy, but I was long past caring. His cock was hard and ready to go, the tip already glistening with precum.
I jumped back onto him, arms around his neck, legs wrapped around his waist as he guided his cock into me.
I’ve never felt so close to cumming from just one movement.
He pushed me back against my hotel room door and, with my body pinned in place by his, he started to fuck me.
Less than a minute in, someone walked past us. I didn’t care. I told him not to stop. And don’t think he had any intention to anyway. The person passed by us as quickly as possible, desperately avoiding eye contact.
Within two minutes I’d cum. An amazing, full body shaking orgasm. I wasn’t quiet about it. I didn’t care.
He paused his thrusting as I came, but held me against the door. Once I’d finished shaking I noticed how insufferably pleased with himself he was.
So I told him to do it again.
We turned us around and we repeated the exercise but against the opposite wall. It still felt incredibly, but I was already in the mood for a different sensation, so I pushed back against him, dismounted and felt my feet back against the floor. He was about to ask if he’d done something wrong but I bent over, taking hold of the door handle to my room.
He got the message, took ahold of my hips, and slid into me from behind. The thrusting was far more vigorous from this position and the unmistakable sound of skin on skin echoed down the hotel corridor.
I’m almost embarrassed to admit how quickly I came again – almost completely losing my legs from beneath me. For the second time he looked unbearably pleased with himself, although this time with just a tiny hint of concern. I realised as I gathered my thoughts that this was because I’d had my moment just as he’d been building to his, and my near collapse had put him off his rhythm.
Fearing my legs weren’t sufficiently stable to immediately mount a round three, and aware of the semi-urgency of not wanting to waste his build up, I got on my knees in front of him and took his cock in my mouth.
I’m not going lie and pretend I’m the world’s best deepthroater by any stretch (pun intended), but let me assure you his cock hit the back of my throat with head bob after head bob.
I took his hands and placed them on the back of my head. As I bobbed, he thrusted and pushed.
He exploded within seconds. Shot after shot.
I barely even tasted it. I swallowed everything he had.
After thoroughly bathing his cock with my tongue – and oh how I relished watching him be twitchy and sensitive for the first time – I finally felt like I’d be able to stand.
We were both sweaty panting messes of post orgasm rapture.
After a few minutes of collecting our breath and our thoughts, I finally broke the silence.
“I suppose I should probably get the key now…”
(Before anyone asks; yes I have posted this before. But it was several million years ago by internet standards, and it fit this month’s Flair theme too well not to post again. I’ve added a few details to hopefully make it worthwhile for those experiencing deja-vu)
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/oyilwi/a_corridor_fuck_when_you_cant_find_the_key_mf_29f