The keycard beeps green at the airport transit hotel desk. I drag my battered suitcase through the lobby, wheels rumbling on marble. Room 407 faces the runways—planes roar off into the dusk. Tomorrow’s redeye to anywhere. Tonight, total anonymity. No one knows me here. I dump my bag, freshen up, hit the lounge bar downstairs.
Crowd’s thin: business types nursing whiskies. Spot him—Jacques, mid-50s, sharp suit, gray eyes piercing. French accent, owns a local paper. We chat travel, desires. I’m bi, 20s, craving edge. ‘Suite upstairs,’ he says. ‘One night. You surrender everything.’ Heart races. Why not? Flight’s dawn. Elevator dings, his hand grazes my ass. Door clicks shut behind my suitcase.
The Stopover
Executive suite: king bed, desk, balcony overlooking city lights and distant tarmac hum. He pulls contracts. Official one: fake ‘secretary gig.’ Private: total obedience, punishments included. Sign. Hand over clothes, wallet, phone. Naked now. He buckles the leather dog collar around my neck—’Jean’ engraved on silver plate, ring for leash. Humiliation hits hard, cock twitching half-erect.
‘Your work,’ he says, pointing handwritten articles. Ancient typewriter on desk. Clack-clack, naked ass on cool chair, vulnerable. Door could open anytime. Garden view? Balcony jungle plants sway in AC breeze. No lunch break. Smoke three cigs outside, city buzz below. Clean suite, prep dinner. Corridors echo with cart rumbles, doors slamming.
He storms in at 8 PM, grumpy. Serve whisky, reheat room-service steak. While he eats, I douche deep, shower clean. Knows he’ll fuck my ass tonight. Back to desk—he sips marc, checks pages. Fifteen typos. ‘Fifteen martinet lashes,’ voice ironical, calm.
Bent over desk, chest flat, arms stretched, fingers gripping far edge. Legs spread wide. Ass cheeks pristine, offered. His family heirloom martinet: ten hardened leather thongs, blackened with age. First whistle—CRACK. I buck, yelp, nails dig wood. Bites deep, welts stripe red, purple spots bloom where tips kiss. Fifteen hells: searing, throbbing. Cock weighs heavy between thighs, shame-lust mix.
‘The Transit’
The Transit
Don’t move. He grabs hips. Mirror shows it: me pale-faced, mouth agape; him unzipping, thick cock springing free, glistening head. Presses against my burning hole. Sphincters clench—then yield. Burn familiar, spear-hot. Groans satisfaction, sinks balls-deep. Pauses, savors conquest. My ass pulses around his shaft.
Pulls back slow, slick glide. Slams home—CLAP of belly on welted cheeks. Rhythm builds: deep, powerful thrusts. Desk edge bruises my thighs. Planes rumble outside, corridor footsteps fade. I’m his hole, piston-pounded. Mind kaleidoscopes: piloting his cock into my own striped ass, corolla folds parting. Mirror centaur: him towering, reins on hips, swinging me like fuck-doll.
No tenderness tonight. Rage-fucks: fast, mechanical, emptying balls. Grunts build. Râle erupts—he crushes against me, floods guts with hot jets. Five-six ropes, powerful, churning deep. Claws grip, nails rake. Softens slow, spasms fading.
Pulls out. Cum dribbles down thighs, puddles floor. ‘Clean me.’ Kneel, suck his cock: musky, salty-glue, ass-tang. Tongue polishes every inch, swallow filth. Then mop floor with cloth.
The Departure
He crashes. I curl on floor, collar tight, ass lava, cum-leak sticky. Dawn: returns gear. ‘Good slave. Safe flight.’ Keycard beeps out at desk. Taxi to gate, sore cheeks on seat, runway views blur. One-night derailed perfection—collared pet, whipped boy, cum-dump. Anonymity’s gift. Next stop, who knows?