By The Hour

Dante Colle rents the room by the hour. The walls are thin, the bed sags, and the smell of cheap cleanser clings to every surface. He opens his laptop, but the words stall. Across the front desk sits Nicole Vaunt, the brunette who runs the place. She watches him through the glass. Her bush peeks from under the short skirt when she crosses her legs. Dante calls her in. She walks straight to the chair, drops to her knees, and takes him in her mouth. He types while she works. She pushes deeper, throat gripping, saliva spilling down her chin. Each slow bob matches the tap of his keys. When he stops writing, she takes him all the way to the root, holds, and waits for him to finish the sentence. The moment he hits save, her tongue curls and she swallows his load. They stay that way, her mouth still full, his cursor blinking on the screen.