An Inconvenient Kink

By Sharazade (Guest Blogger)

Just to head off any initial understanding, I should say that I don’t mean an “inconvenient kink” the way Al Gore means an “inconvenient truth.” I do not have a kink, which I find to be inconvenient. Rather, I have a kink, which is for the inconvenient. A cramped hotel room, a rocky train, a canceled flight, a power outage… these are things that actually turn me on.

Of course, there is a difference between inconvenience and disaster, just as there is a difference between being spanked by a lover and being beaten up. It is the former—just to be clear—that I enjoy. I do not wish for my hotel to burn down, especially while I am in it. However, given a choice between a 5-star hotel and a no-star establishment, then the no-star wins every time. Khartoum before Paris. Economy class over first class, and it’s a shame we can’t fly steerage.

The Venus Hotel

My erotic stories reflect this. I have put lovers in a capsule hotel (naturally one that I’d tried myself), that rocky train car, the Cairo airport during the recent revolution, various public places with the risk of interruption, and countless foreign settings where local languages and customs provide an extra challenge.

I suppose part of my attraction for hardship is familiarity: I first started traveling on the cheap out of—or so I tell myself—necessity, because I simply didn’t have much money. And when you’re a youth, a youth hostel seems almost expected. It’s just that I never outgrew it. These days I’m sometimes put into expensive hotels when I travel, and while I can certainly appreciate the luxury on some level, I would never set an erotic story there. A run-down little place, tucked into a cramped side alley, without hot water? That’s where my lovers are going to meet. These days, it’s a question of preference, not of money.

Now, what is the appeal? What’s so fun about hardship? Well… it’s that hardship is interesting. People who struggle are more engaging than people who don’t. Even as a child, I enjoyed the beginnings of fairy tales more than the ends. The characters we care about are the poor little goose girl; the prince in pauper’s clothing; the youngest of three sons who goes off to seek his fortune through adventure; pre-ball Cinderella and Snow White when she’s running through a dark forest and then cleaning house in the woods (although admittedly I never romanticized the actual cleaning part). A handsome prince is, well, handsome and all, but he doesn’t do much. He kisses, he proposes, and then the story ends, because … nothing is happening. If he’s dressed in rags and outwitting ogres, then he’s worth watching. It’s the tension that fascinates. A handsome rich man and a beautiful wealthy woman in an opulent setting—well, where’s the story? I’d rather write a short man with a scar and a bit of a chip on his shoulder and a woman with ADD who’s lost all her luggage having a tryst in a cave (note: this is not a work-in-progress) (well… actually the cave part is).

Di Hamri Hotel (with goat)

There’s romance in inconvenience. A lover who will overcome difficulties for you—that’s a lover who cares. I like the desperation of passion that can’t wait for a wide comfortable bed and ambient lighting, but must be consummated now, in the back seat of a Mini Cooper, both lovers dressed in heavy winter clothing. Inconvenience slows you down—a situational delay and tease that only increases the wanting. A passionate lover makes time, overcomes distances, finds a way.

Is it a contradiction that I’m an avowed sucker for happy couples and happy endings? Well, not in my mind. The world I like to write about consists of united couples (or uniting couples—I seem to have an affinity for first meetings). There are sometimes internal struggles, or temporary misunderstandings, but the real conflict is with circumstances, and lovers meet and overcome those circumstances together. I sometimes get just a bit tired of hearing “write what you know” (even though I know I do a good bit of that). I prefer “write what you value.” And in a weird way, inconvenience has that for me—adventure, challenge, the unexpected, and the joy of overcoming obstacles, assisted by someone you care for who cares for you.

To make all this more concrete, there's an excerpt from the short story Schiphol, set in the Amsterdam airport.

A view of the capsule hotel described:

http://www.yotel.com/en/Hotels/Amsterdam%20Schiphol.aspx

* * *

It’s true, of course—there is a hotel at the other end, the Yotel, a sort of budget travelers’ place, and of course you’ve already checked in. We separate just a bit as we get to the door, so it’s not clear whether we’re two single people coming in at the same time, or if I’m really with you. I fumble in my purse for something—my key?—while you swipe your key card in the lock. When the door opens, I follow behind you. I can see the questioning look on the face of the woman at the desk. She doesn’t remember checking me in, and yet I could have done so before her shift started. You’ve paid for a single room, so surely you couldn’t have…but we have already vanished around the corner.

We turn another corner in the narrow hallway, then another. … Suddenly you push me back against the wall, take my face between your hands, and kiss me deeply. It’s the same demanding kiss that I love so well, but this time it expresses a new intensity, some emotion I don’t expect. I pull back just a little, and you let me go. You have an unerring instinct for when to pursue and when to back off and let me come to you. And the night has not even begun for us.

You take me by the hand to your (well, our) room. Although I couldn’t explain why in words, I’m somehow pleased that you knew to ask for the very smallest. We barely fit: two bodies, two carry-ons, one purse. I don’t think it’s possible for us to stand in any configuration where we are not touching, and I intend to take advantage of this. I kiss you again, and you respond lightly for a few seconds. You unzip my dress and ease it off. I reach for you, but you stop me and hold my arms to my side. “Let’s shower first, so we can go straight to bed and stay there.”

I hate to wait even ten minutes, but I know that you’re right. Taking out toothbrushes and removing shoes means we’re constantly rubbing against each other, and I’m getting more agitated. Finally, though, we manage to undress, put our clothes away and step into the shower. There’s almost more space in the shower than in our “room.” I lather my hands with soap and run them over your body to wash you. I kneel in the shower to wash your legs, moving slowly up. You’re hard, even in the hot water. I open my mouth to take you in. I run my tongue over the tip, then down the underside of your shaft, cup your balls with my hand, and move to take you into my mouth; but you stop me with your hand. “Be patient, now,” you say with a smile, though I can’t see why I should have to wait. I do what I’m told, however. I stand again, and it’s your turn to wash me, which you do with firm, knowing strokes. It feels heavenly. Any touch anywhere melts me, but even when washing my breasts and pussy you don’t linger. You don’t tease.

Your matter-of-fact touch is maddening. I almost say something, but think better of it.

You turn off the water, towel me off and then yourself, and we edge toward the single bed. Oh, finally! You switch the light to what Yotel calls their “mood” setting, an odd but not unpleasant green glow. You know I like you to look at my body as you take me.

I lie face down on the bed in the enclosed capsule-like alcove. My body is warm from the shower, still slightly damp, and needing you. You move over me—we can just manage to fit two bodies here, as long as you don’t lift your head abruptly. You shift my body a bit to a position that pleases you. I can feel you over me—your body heat, soft kisses that land on my shoulders and upper back. I can feel your cock, hard against my thighs and ass, and I open my legs to the extent that I’m able, trying to raise myself up to meet you. And … you’re still caressing me—a kiss here, a kiss there. Sometimes your stiff cock presses into one ass cheek or the other but doesn’t stay for long.

What the hell are you doing up there? Are you positioning yourself? I know there’s not much space, but I’m lying down, you’re lying over me. How difficult can it be? I’ve been waiting for this all day, I’ve been teased along for over two hours now. I am ready.

“Just fuck me already, Jesus,” I mutter in irritation into the pillow.

“Excuse me?” you say. “Were you talking to me?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I was,” I said. “Just fucking fuck me already.” My words still half go into the pillow, though I’m sure you heard. But you lift my head and turn it so my mouth is free, and ask me to repeat it again.

“Will you fucking fuck me already?!”

SMACK. Your hand lands on my ass, totally unexpected. I don’t know how you even had room to swing, but you hit me hard, harder than usual, and I jump.

“How about a little respect?”

I can’t believe it. I’m so frustrated. I need you so badly that I’m actually angry at you. Between clenched teeth, I hiss, “Fine.Will.you.fucking.fuck.me.already … SIR.”

You laugh out loud. “You’re pretty mouthy for a submissive woman, aren’t you?” You bend to kiss my neck tenderly, though with a bite at the end that makes me shiver. “But you know that I like that about you. And you know that I always take care of your needs, Shar, I always take care of you.”

And finally, finally you enter me. Slowly, so I can feel every blessed inch fill me. I hold absolutely still at first, not wanting to miss a single sensation. This is what the wait was for—this heightened sense of you, of me, of us together. Then you start moving, and I want to move with you. I try to push back against you, but I can’t. Somehow I’m lying too flat, and my knees and elbows can’t find purchase on the narrow mattress. You put an arm under my waist, raise my body, and slip a pillow under my hips. You pull my hands over my head, pressing them against the wall, and hold them down with yours.

Yes, this is the right angle! I push back to meet your thrusts. I know I’m making some kind of sound in my throat, and I wonder very briefly how soundproof these walls actually are, but I don’t care. I try to pull my arms out from under your grasp, which tightens. The more I struggle, the more firmly you hold me. I’m so turned on I’m panting now. When I stop fighting you, you release one hand, and I move it under my body, over my pussy, to finger my swollen clit. Your free hand finds my ass; you work your thumb into my asshole, which clenches around you, and you grip my cheek with your fingers. I can feel my body gathering up, pulling me together from neck to toes, all energy flowing to my groin. After the slow, drawn-out build-up, my orgasm is hard—hard and long. The irregular spasms of my pussy and ass over your cock and thumb pull your orgasm into mine, you starting as I finish, you finishing as I lie beneath you, not breathing, for I don’t need oxygen now, every cell is full.

After some period of time (minutes?—I wouldn’t know), you roll to the side, your back against the wall. You pull me to my side too, so that you’re spooning me; it’s the only way we’ll both fit in the bed. I switch off the mood light and we’re in total darkness. You have one arm up over my head and the other across my body, holding me close to you. I’ve already warned you that I don’t sleep much. Indeed, I hadn’t expected to sleep at all this night. I was too wound up with the excitement of seeing you again, not wanting to miss a moment. I thought we’d talk all night, about important things and trivial ones. But I feel so safe and natural, curled up against you. I find I have nothing to say, for you know it already. You kiss my hair, then my neck, and give my torso a squeeze with the arm around me. I sigh, and settle. And I sleep.

****

If you like this, you can read the whole story online at http://www.scribd.com/doc/31906471/Transported-Erotic-Travel-Tales-One-Story

Bio: Sharazade is professional writer, editor, and consultant with more than 20 books published under another name. She divides her time among Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and the U.S. Not surprisingly, her stories tend to feature some aspect of travel--modes of transportation or exotic locales. She enjoys stories that are realistic enough that they might have happened and fanciful enough that they might not have. She values communication, adventure, exploration, passion, and love. Find her on her blog at http://www.sharazade.fannypress.com.

You can buy Sharazade's collection of erotic short stories, Transported, at:

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