I shouldn’t have gone. I knew better. But something about his messages—so bold, so filthy, so confident—had me wet before I even left the house.
“Room 403. No panties. No talking. Just obedience.”
I could have said no. I could have blocked him. But I didn’t. Instead, I slipped into my tightest black dress, slid into heels that made me feel like sin itself, and went to meet the stranger in Room 403.
The hotel was sleek, anonymous—perfect for a secret. My heart pounded with every step down that hallway. I wasn’t just nervous. I was soaked. Bare beneath my dress, every sway of my hips reminded me how exposed I really was.
He opened the door before I could knock.
Tall.
Sharp jaw.
Thick arms.
Eyes like he already owned me.
“Don’t say a word,” he said.
I nodded, mute, breathless.
I dropped my coat at his command. His eyes traced every inch of me, slow and hungry. I felt like prey, already caught, already claimed.
“On the bed.”
I crawled onto the crisp white sheets, trembling as I laid back. My thighs twitched. I was dying for him to touch me, to take control. But he made me wait. Watching me. Pacing. Letting my need build like pressure behind a dam.
When he finally moved—grabbing my ankle, yanking me down the bed, spreading my legs with zero hesitation—I gasped.
His hand pressed between my thighs.
“You’re soaked. You wanted this. You wanted the stranger in Room 403 to wreck you.”
And he did.
That night, he didn’t make love to me. He used me— my mouth, hands, body, every inch. And I loved every filthy second.
He left before sunrise. No name. No goodbye. Just a mess of sheets and a pulsing ache between my legs.
Now, whenever my phone rings, I can’t help but wonder…
Is it him again? Or someone who wants to be the next stranger in Room 403?