Get me out of here [FM][Romantic][Vanilla]

I need some help, and stat, I’m not sure I can do this much longer. This whole place is getting on my nerves, and the people in it. The white tablecloth everywhere, the congress hall, the swirling storm of noises, those pompous chandeliers, all the suits and dresses and the staff walking around with their fake politeness. The water bottles on the table, each of them expensive enough to buy a gallon worth of tap water.

And sure, I picked this life, I am as much to blame as everyone else in this room. Most day, I can handle it, I am right on top of all that fakery and charade, and straighten my back as I walk into the rooms. I walk this line and I walk it well, on most days. I bring the worst out in people, and then they realize that I am even worse, and better at what they are good at. I bite and I chew, and I spit out guys who make the mistake of crossing me.

But today, none of that seems to work, or even start. I feel like I do not belong here, like I should be very far away, on a farm in Iowa, driving a tractor and not being driven around in a fancy limousine from the airport to the hotel, and for the love of god I should be carrying my luggage instead of having it carried for me. I should be on a backwoods party having horny guys pay my drinks, instead of tipping the horny guy acting all professional.

And worst of all, I actually do not belong here today, I have nothing to add, nothing that other people can’t do without me. There is nothing to achieve out here today, this is just talk and banter, and an endless string of guest speakers who feel like they have life figured out. We have heard about body language from a guy who worked with the FBI once, and a guy who was so full of himself that he held a talk about holding talks, and everyone fake-laughed at his jokes.

There is nothing to be won here, only loss, and suffering. My patience has long since dwindled, and my sanity account is about to go into overdraft, and the overdraft fees will bankrupt me.

But so far, nobody has noticed the state I’m in, and that only comfirms my belief that everyone in this room is fucking blind on both ears, and tonedeaf on top. Everyone but you, that is, because you look into my eyes and see exactly the brooding silence, the grim frozen smile on my lips.

And somehow, you decide that this is a job for you, a problem that you have the skills to fix, and the time. I see you gravitating towards me, and I get ready to snap at you, to leave me alone and take care of your own problems. You would expect nothing less from me, and you would handle me just fine, and navigate my bubbling spite and anger until you find your way into my comfort zone. I hate that, I hate knowing that you circumnavigate my defenses so well, so nonchalantly even.

I look at you and realize that I have not enough fight left in me after a day like this to put up with you, not enough strength to appear strong when your eyes see my weakness anyway. I see that well maintained beard in a sea of clean shaven boys, with the first few patches of grey that you don’t even bother hiding. They fit you, much like the glasses, and the hair on your arms and hands, and the pilot’s watch that would look off on any other wrist. The other guys in here all look as if their suits are wearing them, but you look at ease with yourself and comfortable in your skin and clothes. And I fucking hate that.

I hate how my nose remembers how you smell even before you come near enough, and I hate that I know how your voice sounds even though we haven’t talked in weeks. I am better than all of this, better than seeing more in you than just another guy, just another fish in this lake of salmons. You aren’t even a shark, nor a bird of prey, you are more like a swan, the giraffe of the lake, overlooking all around you with knowing eyes and an undeniable elegance.

I try to be angry at you for being so offensively inoffensive, alas it isn’t working. I see you closing the last few feet of distance, see you lean against the counter with that ease and peace of mind, and admit that I need to be rescued. I would never say it out loud of course, but you are the kind of guy who can read between the lines, unlike literally everyone else in here. You can achieve more with your calm words than all those self-centered loudmouths around here, and your presence awards you the respect that they all demand for no good reason.

Your looks, I can’t handle them. Knowing, caring, yet all hidden underneath a layer of professionalism. You don’t bother with the pleasantries, going right to being pleasant. You don’t ask me how I’m doing, you ask me what’s my plan to escape this hell hole, and look at me like we both don’t know the answer to that question. You don’t have to make the effort to offer me that escape, and I in turn don’t have to step down to begging you like the weak little thing I am right now. We can skip right past that phase of establishing that we’ll spend the day together, at least the evening and _quite likely the night_, and go right to making up plans.

_Drinks?_, you say, and I know that you mean drinks after we skip dinner here, and have our own, somewhere as far away from the hotel as we can get. _Drinks_, I nod, and you know that I mean a single drink at some kind of rooftop bar, and then a trip to the corner store, bottles of beer, and either of our rooms to talk like grown-ups, about grown-up stuff.

_Your car?_, I say, and you know that I mean that I don’t want to speak to or even see a taxi driver, not another person who’s job it is to work harder than I do, for a fraction of the pay. I just want someone to drive me through the night, and I want to smell that old leather, listen to the rumble of the engine, watch you finesse the clutch and the stick shift, while you talk to me and keep an eye on the traffic in front and behind.

Do you still have that tape, you know the one we listened to last time? The unlabeled one, the one that should be labeled seductive, or maybe seduce-moi, because that is exactly what it does to my mind. Everything about that tape, from the slow and melodic songs on it to the fact that it’s an actual tape, because your car was made when nobody knew of CD players yet – it all just works. It draws me into a different world, makes me nostalgic for a time I never lived in, of drive-in cinemas and ghetto blasters, of pen pals and games of chess played via letters, or people writing any sort of letter to their friends at all.

Being with you reminds me of a time when life was still okay, when a terror attack was a horrific event instead of a recurring phenomenon, and when parents would yell at their daughters for wearing their skirts a little short. A drive with you is like watching a movie, and I feel like stopping by the barbershop and asking for a bob cut, and getting a cigarette holder, some arm-long gloves maybe.

But in reality, all we really do is going out for dinner, two busybodies like there are hundreds swarming the city, so nondescript that nobody takes note of us as we park and get out, and enter the restaurant.

I don’t know what it is about you, but I feel like handing you the menu and letting you decide for me, today at least you are clearly better at this whole life thing than I am. But I manage, something light because life is heavy enough as it is. But I’ll still let you decide the drinks, I never cared for the pretentiousness of everyone trying to be a wine connoisseur and knowing which wine goes with what. It makes me angry when other guys do that, as if they are on top of the world, and the way they look at you trying to gauge your level of added respect, of which I can muster none.

But with you, it’s just a short distraction when the waiter asks, barely a moment before our conversation picks up where it left off, and I couldn’t tell you where or what. It’s not that I’m not interested, I’m just too focused on the way your lips move to really remember what we’re saying. I’m sure it will all come back to me later, maybe tomorrow, when I wake up in your arms, and cuddle up to you as if either of us has any business being in the same room, same bed.

Because let’s face it, that’s where things are going, and if you have any decency flowing through your veins you won’t make me beg at least. Because I will, if this drags on for too long, if you keep holding on to your high road act, the classy guy who respects me more than I want or need to be respected. We’ll finish this bottle of wine, this meal, this dinner, but afterward I want you to let go of all the pretense, neither of us has anything to prove anymore. You are at the top of your game, so am I, we spend our days on floors so high that the air gets thinner, and so does the margin for error. But here and now, the rules are different, neither of us has a stake in this negotiation, nor reason to distrust. Our professional overlap isn’t one of competition, our social circles don’t even know the other exists.

With you, I have nothing to hide, or reason to. I can drop my guard, as untypical as that is for me in a world where the friendliest people are your worst enemies, and safety is a mere illusion that prevents the weak of mind from moving up.

You don’t need to play fancy with me, because we both know there is another side to you, behind that polite professionalism. There is a part of you that remembers growing up in a poor neighbourhood, in a broken family, a broken system. You moved on and out, but you won’t forget the person you were. You told me stories of your past, of the boy who stole food, and sold cigarettes instead of smoking them, to save money for an undetermined goal. You told me stories of how close you came to losing sight of that better future, and how much you struggle with the fact that you have long outpaced your own expectations and dreams. You told me all of this last time, and I still thought about it a week after.

You might just be the only person in that whole damn congress hall who understands my craving for normality, who looks at the extravagant and sees decadence. You understand why I need a break from it all today, and how to give it to me. You and I have both slept in rooms worse than what the waitresses, the bellboys, the chauffeurs are used to, and we have lived off less than what we tip those people now.

You are like me, in that we can both enjoy a good beer when it’s bought in a bottle, instead of being served on tap in a fancy establishment that has restricted entrance. You can take me by the arm and lead me out, back into the car, and turn the heater up to make me comfortable as I watch the lights go past and try to follow the rain drops as they traverse across the side windows.

And I don’t have to feel unsafe in here, neither due to your driving nor your manners. You could just lean over, place a hand around my shoulder, draw me near and touch me. You could shift into a higher gear, then reach over to touch my thigh, and I would not just let you, but reach out to hold your hand. But you don’t do that, nor do you ridicule me for being so easy, for dropping my charade and tough girl act the moment you are a little nice to me. You wouldn’t do this to other girls, this showing me around a city I thought I knew until you started showing me its secrets. I thought I knew the harbor and the pier, but I have never been to Lancester Road or the docks, and the weird little path between two industrial complexes that somehow leads right to the waterfront, with a parking spot so perfect and so secluded that I couldn’t resist kissing you even if I wanted to.

But I don’t, I don’t want to resist anything you say, or do, and if it’s my body that you desire it is no match for how much I crave yours. It is so awkward to kiss inside a car, but it’s not like anyone can see us here, or hear us if one of us accidentally sounds the horn. And anything short of that is lost to the ambient noise anyway, we could be doing things our parents would disown us for, and nobody would be the wiser.

Tell me something, when’s the last time you had a chick in the backseat of this car? It seems like a fifty-fifty chance between _never_, and _last week_, and the way some excitement mixes into your cheeky smile I feel like this is a first for all three of us. And I don’t mind it, not the kisses on my lips, nor the ones you press on my neck as if that isn’t the most egregious overstepping of your boundaries you could do. Never mind where your fingers are, you are way too polite to fondle a lady’s breasts without her explicit request to do so. But then that is the daylight-you, much like daylight-me would never end up in this situation.

There is just not enough space for two people to lie in the back of a car, but we manage, and your kisses undress me more than your fingers do. You open up my blouse as if you do that everyday, which would be fine by me. You find your way past the button on my suit pants, and I kick of my shoes and my pants with less struggle than I expected. To be honest, nothing goes quite like I expected, least of which my ability to make sound choices for myself. I just want you to take over, take charge, and take every misstep you could possibly do with me.

I thought I wanted that polite-you, and I thought I wanted to be caressed and played with, teased and tickles, massaged and mesmerized. I didn’t realize how much I needed your impatience, just how much I needed to be half-dressed and fully naked by the time you unzip your pants. I didn’t know how much I wanted you to skip the pleasantries and slow seduction, and I thought all this time that I would end up in your hotel room, hotel bed, your average conquest. I thought I didn’t care much for what you did to me, that a little break from reality was all I really wanted. Only now is it that I realize my batteries are far more drained than I thought, that I need exactly what you’re giving me, to take me with that hunger and undivided attention.

Don’t mind me if I just lie here and close my eyes, there is nothing worth seeing out there anyway. All the day’s important events are happening inside of this car, and inside of me. There is a dick that would probably look average to a measuring tape, but by god it is perfect now. I am here on my side, all sorts of contorted in all sorts of ways, and I have no issues with the pain that’s causing, the discomfort of being so thoroughly comforted.

Polite you would have asked, about a hundred different things. But nighttime-you just takes, and waits for me to complain or say the slightest word of warning. You have that much politeness left in you, to listen to my body and mind, and give me that way out to say stop, or slow down, or anything like that. But I don’t want to, not sure I actually could, you are way too good at taking me into a different world, of making me forget the day and all the many days before that.

You boggle my mind, then jog my memory, stun my body into silence before the shivers press all air out of my lungs. Polite you would have stopped now, but nighttime-you waits just the briefest of moments before you continue, and your thrusts make me wince in pleasure more than pain. I keep my lips pressed close together, hoping that no words can escape them, and wait for you to get as carried away as you just carried me.

Some sense returns to my mind, but not enough to make me give commands to you, my body is still your decision. And by the way you’re working it, I doubt that I will be cleaning off your seed from my stomach tonight, it doesn’t feel like you plan on wasting any time on pulling out.

I try to say something with my fingers, and you reach out and grab my wrist, and together with your next two thrusts, I feel like three went in and two pulled out, and I get lost again, so lost. I barely even notice the twitches that come over you, barely notice you stagger and groan and steady your weight on the seat next to me. I don’t even have to open my eyes to see you smile, and I could be deaf and still hear that exhausted stifled laughter.

It is always so awkward to get dressed again after sex, and that is why I don’t, for a solid five minutes, even as you sit back up and pull your zipper up. I wasn’t even worth undressing for, I’m just that roadside hooker you picked up and brought out to the docks. Or I would be, if not for the way you stay back here with me, place my naked legs in your lap, caress my thighs.

It’s only when you put my pants on for me that I realize I must have fallen asleep, and for the first time tonight I am actually embarrassed, and seeing that makes you laugh. You don’t even have to tell me to stay back here, I just do, and you walk around the car to get back into the driver’s seat. I say a thank you to the old world before seatbelt sensors became a thing, because I can just lie here as you drive us home, and not a single beep distracts us.

For all I care, you may leave me in the underground parking garage, if you’re nice maybe reverse into the slot so that nobody can see me asleep in your backseat. But sure, if you insist, I’ll get up and out, and you better tell me where to go because if not I might just find my room and fall asleep there.

And we both know that this evening may have ended, but the night has not.

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/qo47kj/get_me_out_of_here_fmromanticvanilla