Checked out like a library book

Her dark attire was broken by a shocking fluorescent pink at the sash and otherwise moderate neckline. She followed his gaze as it traversed her geography. "That must be your third strike," she deliberated. "You're 'caught lookin.'" His thin lips twisted into a smile. His uniform of ball-cap, jeans, and a tee shirt was color coordinated but otherwise unremarkable. She observed the Mascot and followed up with "You rootin' for the Twins?"

"Oh yeah," was his noncommittal reply. He was aware that sparks had flown, but he was unsure if the advantage was his, or if she was merely feeding castles in the air. He went for broke. "You'll hate yourself in the morning," he quoted the old movie line.

The grocery checker was old enough to tumble that flirting was afoot, but not sufficiently involved to follow. The dark one contemplated how she could in any way avoid predictable regret. She had been "being good," and she was prepared to make a naughty exception. He appeared to be an excellent specimen, so he probably knew whereof he spoke. He literally had ham and eggs in his basket. She rearranged her largesse while he paid. "Where are you staying?" she asked. D.C. had a thousand tourist attractions and he might not even be local.

He regarded her steadily, and responded, "Holiday Inn. Here's my cell. Dial your number, then (when it rings,) hit talk three times on your own phone. It calls mine back, and we've exchanged numbers." She could see that if he was this knacky that he might be more fun than she had credited him for. "Hope he's not a 'Holiday Inn expert,'" she thought. His next remark was apropos of his proposal. "Did you know that Apple Corporation once had to make a rule that members of the opposite sex had to take separate rooms? Either spouses got wind of a lot of illicit commingling, or sexual harassment got out of control!"

"Probably both. I'll call around six?" She handed him his ringing phone.

"O.K." and as quick as that they were "on" for a tryst.
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Room 242 was cool and dim when she entered. She satisfied a pedestrian curiosity. "I see ham, white bread, provolone and dijon. What were the six eggs for?"

"Call me Dusty," he demurred, handing her a Peach Bacardi. Then, in answer to her question, "Two are for a hangover cure, two are to wash my mane, and two are to egg my competitor's car if he plays false with me."

She grinned conspiratorially, and proceeded to disrobe without preamble. "Call me Fee," she smiled. "Shared showers teach teamwork," she invited. Curves bust enhancers joined a .380 from an ankle holster in a growing pile on the floor.

He contemplated this without comment, and soon asked "Do you have nail polish?"

She was sure she didn't have her favorite, but she DEFINITELY had _something_ in her purse. She silently produced the nail polish and a diaphragm together. He responded by running a bubble bath in the spa. Since this was unexpected, the sweet anticipation grew, a palpable sexual tension which they both enjoyed. She stroked his bare back, and played with his hair in her left hand. His left hand was making bubbles, but his right hand traveled up her calf and thigh in return. He did not make her wait for carnivorous attention. His wet left hand joined his right on her buttocks as he kissed her deeply. His lips delivered as advertised. "Have patience," he said when he spoke again.

The bubbles in the bath would keep it warm, and he swept her off her feet into the tub. Instead of joining her, he sudsed up a wash cloth and proceeded to wash her attentively. He didn't linger unnecessarily, but her breasts changed shape more than once under his thorough attentions. When he had done enough, he proceeded to wash her hair. Dry, it cascaded to her shoulders like an auburn waterfall, but wet it was a skill to merely keep it untangled. She assisted him as needed... teamwork was teamwork.

When he rinsed her hair, she stood up, (pink and glowing,) and he made the temperature correct before he started the shower for her. As she rinsed the soapy residue away he regarded her with frank appreciation. "Love that contrast with pale, pale skin," he intoned. "Your tan lines are cuter than God intended."

She blushed at this peculiar enticement. "Why do you bring Church up at a time like this?" she asked.

"Thankin' him for what he's done," was the scandalous reply. He then directed her to "do" her cuticles while he made himself equally desirable.

When he joined her in bed he painted her toe-nails, delicately, blowing them dry.

When her lengthwise pleats finally received him into their warm and wet folds, she was "falling of the bone," ready. He had good girth, and it was a "big mouthful." The hotel had good noise dampening, and she cheered the quarterback mercilessly and his thrusts were as desperate as her cries before she released him from his servitude.

In parting he explained, "It's the dust in a sunset that makes it so beautiful. When you see a beautiful sunset, think of me and whisper 'Dusty'" he instructed.

"I will," she promised. She departed with an unmistakably satisfied gait. Her friends were going to D-I-E!