Heathrow fog rolls in thick. My 11pm layover from Cannes hits hard—no connections till morning. Shuttle rattles to the bland transit hotel off Albany Street, steps from Regent’s Park. Anonymity buzzes like cheap gin. Nobody knows me here. Wheels of my roller suitcase clack on lobby tiles. Swipe the magnetic keycard—beep, green light. Elevator dings, smells of stale coffee and bleach. Fifth floor corridor echoes with distant footsteps, doors thudding shut. Room 512: king bed, mini-fridge hum, window framing sodium-lit London streets and park shadows. Unzip suitcase, slip into tight black dress, heels clicking. Craving that one-night rush before wheels up. Head to the dim lobby bar, ice clinking in glasses. Spot him solo: sharp suit, slick hair, manicured hands nursing whiskey. Dr. Jimmy Chew, dermatologist, fresh from Cannes fest red carpet. ‘Mister Chou,’ he jokes, flashing perfect white teeth. Eyes devour my blonde waves, deep cleavage. Festival tales flow—starlets, beaches, nostalgia. Flirt sparks fast. ‘I’m gone at dawn,’ I whisper. His grin widens. ‘Perfect.’ Elevator ride up: hands grip my ass, lips crash. Keycard beeps frantic. Stumble in, door slams. Dress hikes up, bra snaps free. His fingers trace my skin like a pro—smooth, probing. Pants drop. Holy shit—his cock’s a pinky nub, rigid but ridiculous. Burst out laughing. ‘What the fuck, Jimmy?’ Face flames red. But urgency hits. I shove him on the bed, straddle. Pussy’s soaked from the thrill. Grind down, his tiny prick barely nudges, but fingers dive deep, expert twists on my clit. Moans rip out—raw, animal. Flip him over, suck that micro-dick while he laps my folds. Tongue flicks wild, teeth graze nipples. Corridor noises fade; just our slaps, wet sucks. He chatters dirty—’Ride me, slut’—voice high-pitched. I do, bouncing hard, tits jiggling. His hands slap my ass, probing that ‘rough skin’ issue he mentions. Build fast: I cream first, thighs quake. He spurts weak, but the power trip’s electric. Second round langorous—69, his face buried, me teasing his balls. Sweat slicks sheets, AC hums. No names beyond first, no strings. Pure transit fire. Alarm blares 5am. Quick shower: steam fogs mirror, soapy hands roam one last time. Towel off, pack fast. Elevator down empty, keycard slides back at desk—beep, done. Shuttle whooshes out into dawn gray. Park joggers blur by. That foggy memory lingers: posh doc’s tiny rage, my mocking laughs, pussy pulsing. Best naughty pitstop ever. Jet away, grinning.