Night on the 9th

I love hotels. Not for their comfort or cuisine but their ability to lower people's inhibitions. There's something about a hotel room that's intensely magical; step inside and you become just one of hundreds of strangers in the building, thrown together by circumstance. Families or couples on holiday, business people on stopovers, honeymooners and busloads of tourists make up small-knit groups of strangers that mill about in the lobby and gradually disperse to their personal, rented spaces for the night. And there's plenty of opportunity to enjoy the relative anonymity that affords. Moreso, it seems, in the French capital.

Paris in the summer is gorgeous: beautiful people, delicious food, stunning architecture, amazing weather, and the unwritten promise of sex when the sun goes down. Maybe it's something in the air. The city somehow exudes sexiness in spite of the commuters and hustle of metropolitan life. It has an electrically charged atmosphere that's simply missing from any other place in the world.

It was within this potent mix of elements I found myself for a few days this summer. The conference itself was on the dull side but, in its defence, web content symposiums aren't engineered to be hotbeds of excitement. For my sins -- or perhaps as a reflection of the economic climate -- the company had put me in accommodation on the outskirts of the city. A nondescript, high rise chain hotel devoid of any flair, with a breakfast to match. But that didn't bother me one iota. Cheap hotels are the same as expensive hotels when it comes to construction: the designers always skimp on the material between bedroom walls, which suits me perfectly. Because I like to listen.

I'd washed the grime of the day from my body -- a combination of the jostling Metro commuters, the barrage of information from over- confident businessmen and the clamminess of being stuck in a suit in 30-degree heat. My choice of white cotton blouse, a close- fitting mid-thigh skirt, heels and no stockings had offered little respite from the closeness of the day and I was glad to peel everything off, letting the air conditioning tickle my damp skin before heading for the shower. I allowed the air con to dry me afterwards too, as I admired my body in the full-length mirror by the desk.

Turning this way and that I concluded there were worse bodies out there. Perhaps I was a few pounds the wrong side of a supermodel, but I liked the way I curved from calves to shoulders where my wet hair pooled. The occasional rivulet of water trickled down my back, hugging my smooth contours until either the air conditioning evaporated it or it splashed to the floor. I smiled at myself. The anorexic, angular frames of the catwalk minority were only suitable as expensive, wiry clothes racks: I gave garments context and shape.

The curtains were open on purpose. I was on the 9th floor facing the edge of another grey, concrete block hotel the other side of the Périphérique and if anyone cared to look across, all they'd see would be a voluptuous, naked stranger in a hotel room with a glass of rosé in her hand watching the lights of the city beginning to flicker on. I let my mind wander to what might occur later in the rooms opposite me. Men and women locked in carnal lust, hot bodies sliding against one another, hands gliding over smooth skin, pulses racing, minds acting out fantasies that wouldn't feel quite the same at home. I shivered and brushed my fingers over my hips and belly, lost in thought.

As night drew closer and the air conditioning began to raise goose bumps on my skin I slid into a pair of tight cotton boy-shorts and closed the curtains. Peeling back the crisp bed sheets I climbed in, poured myself another glass of wine and settled into the plump pillow with the TV remote.

French TV was as crap as I recalled; a curious mix of incomprehensible game shows, dubbed cop dramas and intensely acted national films, invariably starring Gérard Depardieu. I set the volume low and chose an episode of CSI; more to be entertained by the dubbing than the action itself; after all, the TV was only a distraction until what I hoped was some uninhibited lovemaking from my hotel neighbours.

Doors banged periodically in the corridor, the muted ping of the elevator distributed patrons throughout the building, and the odd drunkenly loud conversation passed my door.

The clock on the TV informed me it was approaching what I termed the "sweet spot": 10pm. For some reason, ten o'clock usually marked the start of nocturnal activity in hotels. I'm guilty myself of being its slave on occasion; lazing in a white king size bed with my boyfriend, running my hands up his thighs and over his toned torso, and as ten pm rolls around like some kind of wanton trigger I'll first take him in my mouth to stiffen him fully, then slide my body up his, place a wet kiss on his lips and ride him noisily until we come together.

But tonight I was alone with my thoughts. I traced the contours of my midriff up to my breasts and back again, feeling the energy coursing beneath my skin. My hand brushed the smooth material of my underwear, then travelled down my shapely thigh and back across to my centre. I waited, hand poised just an inch above my mons and could feel the heat radiating from within. I stopped myself going further, returning my hand to the bed. Plenty of time for that later.

The usual noise that alerts me to activity the other side of the wall is a door slamming nearby, muffled voices that often turn to giggling and eventually lead to the unmistakable, rhythmical groan of bed springs. I'll then assume a position near the wall and listen as the action heats up. Depending on the nature of the neighbours and the degree of inhibition the hotel environment swallows will determine if I'm treated to soft moans of passion or a full orchestra of human emotion. I'd witnessed both ends of that spectrum and a lot besides, during my time as an audio voyeur.

Although my preference is couples, they are by no means the only entertainment. Single women can be surprisingly horny when left to their own devices and, though rare, I've been party to a pair of racy lesbians enjoying each other's delights. In general, I find solo men and gays tedious to listen to; with them it tends to be all about the end product not the journey.

Lost in my thoughts of past experiences I was caught off guard -- though almost on cue at a little after ten -- by the squeak of the internal door in the next room and the compressing and uncompressing of tired bed springs as someone clambered into bed. I quickly shut off the TV and listened.

Nothing.

Maybe I'd imagined it. Maybe it was from the room above and the acoustics in the sparsely decorated room were playing tricks on me. Then some more creaks of a bed. There was definitely activity next door. I stole from under the covers, dragged the desk chair to the wall and sat. Leaning into the wall I pressed my ear to its surface and adjusted the angle to hear more clearly. It's not the most comfortable position in the world but it works.

I waited for more sounds but there were none that I could discern. Usually voices would give the game away or the sound of a bath running, the sound of pee trickling into the toilet, or a flush. So far nothing. I decided it must be a commuter or someone too tired to play and, disappointed, was about to give up when I heard what I thought was a sigh. It was barely perceptible, but it certainly sounded like one. Sometimes quiet sounds can be reflections of my own breathing as I strain to hear what's on the other side. I had to be sure.

I grabbed the remaining tumbler from the desk -- luckily the hotel wasn't so cheap it used plastic cups -- and inverted it so the mouth was against the wall. It made a crude but very effective amplifier as I pressed my ear to its base and wiggled my head a little to achieve the best sound transfer.

And there it was again; louder this time. A definite female exhalation followed by some shifting of the bed springs. Jackpot! A possible solo woman with some sexual energy to burn. I began to feel the tingle of excitement surge through my body as I pictured her lying on the bed, hand rubbing her warm pussy, arching her back every few strokes to match the lewd thoughts in her head. I had no idea if she was fifteen or fifty, her ethnicity or whether she was wearing any clothing. But it didn't matter; that simply added to the thrill.

One problem with using the upturned glass trick is that it amplifies not only the desired sounds but also those of the surrounding environment. The background hum of the traffic around the Périphérique was interwoven with the odd shriek of laughter from a room in another part of the building. Some TV chatter, probably from the room above or below mine, was also mixed into the signal. It took a little repositioning of the glass and my ear to achieve the optimum sound, especially given that the woman was being rather discreet.

As I listened, one thing became clear about the woman: she liked to take her sweet time. Long bouts of silence -- minutes at a time -- were punctuated with bursts of activity as her breathing deepened, the bed springs moaned five or six times in succession as she tensed and untensed, then she'd sigh a little and go quiet. I was straining to hear any signs of movement during the gaps, trying to complete the picture in my head of her whereabouts in the room, her orientation and what she might be thinking. I thought I caught the odd muttered word but was unable to tell what she said.

A car roared past the hotel nine storeys below; my glass dutifully relayed the sound to my ear, momentarily drowning out the far quieter actions of my neighbour. As the car disappeared into the distance, the bed springs creaked again once, twice, three times, and a sigh caught in the mystery woman's throat. The rustle of bed sheets met my ear; perhaps she was turning over. The next few gentle moans were definitely muffled. I pictured her on her knees, naked backside upturned, face buried in the deep pillow, a sheer nightie pooling at her mid-back snagged beneath her ample bosoms.

The sound of wetness reached me; probably her finger sliding back and forth past her slick labia, reaching for her insides and then gliding out again, shiny with her juices. Someone chose that moment to flush a toilet a few rooms away. Luckily for me it had a short flush cycle and I was soon back with my woman next door. The wet sounds continued for a short while longer as her finger slid in and out of her hot pussy. Occasionally I would hear a muted gasp as her pillow absorbed the majority of her excitement.

I became aware of my hand caressing my own breast; I hadn't realised I'd begun rhythmically squeezing the flesh in time with the woman's finger movements. One hand held the glass firmly in place against the wall while the other alternated between massaging my boobs and tweaking my nipples, perched at the end of my proud 36Cs. The tips were hard nubs, engorged red in the dim light from the bedside lamp. I caught myself breathing hard once or twice and wondered if she could hear me. Would it turn her on knowing I was becoming excited listening to her masturbating? I hoped so.

The internal door to her bathroom squeaking brought me back from my reverie. She must have climbed off the bed. Had I missed her orgasm? I cursed myself for becoming too caught up in my own pleasure to have missed her moment of rapture. Echoing through the wall space I heard the lid of her toilet seat come to rest against the porcelain. Then silence for thirty seconds or so. My breathing was a little laboured and I could hear the blood rushing between the glass and my ear as I strained to hear any sounds from her bathroom. The tinkle of two tiny bursts of pee hitting the bowl made me smile. She must have needed to go mid session -- I guessed she hadn't finished after all.

I rearranged my position slightly to relieve the cramp in my hand clutching the glass. The springs complained as she climbed back onto the queen size bed. Her room would be an exact mirror image of mine because hotels were like that; arranged in pairs all the way down the corridor. Her bed would thus be directly facing the upturned end of my glass; perfect for capturing any further playtime.

Elsewhere in the building the party in the room was ramping up. Boisterous yells and laughter bubbled to my ear from the depths of the hotel. I filtered them out as best I could, listening intently for telltale noises from my adjoining roommate. The distant Parisian two-tone wail of a police car invaded my cup, but it soon passed to be replaced with comparative silence.

Then she breathed out sexily and I allowed myself another smile: she certainly wasn't finished. Tiny movements became discernible amid the odd gentle yet deep inhalation. I guessed she was now on her back, legs apart facing me. I pictured her hand cupping her wet pussy, fingers rubbing in circles over her sensitive clitoris. Perhaps one hand was massaging her breasts and twisting her own nipples just like I was doing to mine.

What was she thinking? Did she think of a boyfriend, husband or lover filling her aching loins? Or was she fantasizing about someone else; maybe imagining herself the centre of attention in a three-way? Perhaps something dirty like anal sex, or being tied up and dominated? Or did she crave the touch of another woman? I felt a pang of jealousy as I imagined another woman sampling her delights, running a tongue up and down the slick wet folds of _my_ stranger's pussy; at that moment I desperately wanted to be the other woman! I even considered knocking on her door in the hope she might welcome me into her room and share her body heat and pussy with me. But I dismissed the idea as the product of an overactive imagination and continued to simply listen instead.

She must have given her pussy a little spank with the tip of a few fingers because the light splat of wet on wet greeted my eager ears. She sighed appreciatively at her ministrations. I wondered if she was shaved like me. It certainly sounded like there wasn't much hair to impede her slaps, though she could have been holding her pussy lips open with her other hand. She repeated the slaps again and again, each time letting out a cute sigh. The last one turned into a subtle yet unmistakable moan and the bed springs creaked a few times as she arched her back and dug her fingers inside herself.

I was building a profile in my head and guessed from the tone of her voice that she was in her late twenties or early thirties. Maybe late thirties at a push. Certainly experienced enough to know how to use her body as an instrument of pleasure and to prolong the excitement of her orgasms; she'd been going almost an hour and hadn't showed any obvious audible signs of coming yet. Unless she was the silent type, channelling her orgasms internally to the places it mattered most. I knew the feeling of restraint and how powerful it could make my orgasms when my boyfriend and I bucked and rolled passionately at my parent's house, trying not to wake them in the midnight hour. But I had to admit that under normal circumstances I tended to be more of a screamer. If I'd been playing myself for this length of time tonight, the neighbours three doors away would know about it.

Shifting positions again and trying the other ear I noticed the wetness between my legs. My boy-shorts were damp, the soft material shiny with my secretions. I looked down and saw my pussy lips engorged in the hotel lamplight, smooth and inviting beneath the tightly stretched material. I drove my free hand beneath my pants and slid two fingers gently past the outer folds of my pussy. Bringing my hand up to my mouth I tasted them, tracing my tongue over their outline, imagining they were her. I tasted so sweet, yet tangy, and wondered if my neighbour liked the taste of herself when she was aroused. I imagined lying between her soft thighs, savouring every drop of juice I could sample of her slick patch. Flicking my tongue rhythmically over her clit, circling it, licking it, sucking it until she boiled over in wanton abandon, clutching my back with her fingertips as I rode her orgasm.

Just then I became aware of the unmistakable sound of sex somewhere deep in the building. A woman obviously in the throes of passion crying out " Oui, oui, oui..." over and over. In the absence of any sound from my neighbour I allowed my mind to wander to this other woman, probably sat atop her husband's stiff cock, riding him hard. Perhaps her back was arched with him clutching and massaging her breasts while she was holding onto his ankles as he drilled up inside her wet cunt. Or maybe she was on all fours with him slamming into her from behind. He may have been holding onto her rump or had slid his finger inside her bottom. Was the woman next door listening to the show too? It was difficult to tell.

The couple didn't last long and after a final loud scream, silence ensued. Immediately after he had come the little flutters of masturbation returned next door: she had been listening, the dirty minx! I was transfixed again listening to her tiny moans of pleasure as she tried to contain herself while tending to the raging inferno between her legs. I tightened the grip on my glass and dug my other hand firmly into my underwear, openly rubbing my protruding clit. The smooth lips of my pussy felt welcoming and oh so deliciously wet as I played with my button. I moaned, perhaps a little too loudly, but I didn't care any more. I needed release; needed to feel the surge of energy shoot through my body, touching every part of me at once as the nerve endings in my erogenous zones lit up.

Next thing I knew, the squeak of her internal door signalled her entry to the bathroom once more. Surely she couldn't need to pee again. This time I stood and followed her into my own bathroom. I climbed into the bath and pressed the glass to the wall just above the tiles, hearing the toilet seat clink against the cistern. She took a seat on the bowl, then I heard something crystal clear that I'll never forget. She carried on masturbating on the toilet, let out a little cry of pleasure and I heard the same pee sound from earlier: two strong short bursts. I couldn't believe it: she had been coming all along but was a squirter and didn't want to mess the bed up! She panted loudly into the space of the bathroom and I picked it up through my glass amplifier.

Instantly I flung my free hand inside my soaking shorts and diddled my clit furiously. I wanted to be there with her; to hold her, lick her, come with her, feel her horny juices squirt onto my face and down into my eagerly waiting mouth, finally resting on my chin and dripping to the floor. And when she was spent I'd trail butterfly kisses up over her tummy, around her breasts, into the recesses of her delicate neck, up over her jaw line to arrive at her soft mouth. Her lips would be parted and I'd kiss her. Long, deeply, passionately; swapping her come between us with tongues lancing inside mouths, grabbing her head through tangled damp hair as we became one, joined at the lips. Our breasts would crush together and she would grab my bottom, clinging to me.

I imagined her sinking to her knees in front of me and pushing me back against the bathroom door, yanking my shorts from my body and spreading the bare lips of my snatch apart for her dancing tongue. She'd look up at me with doe eyes, seeking permission to press on and I'd melt as she snaked her long tongue inside my hairless pussy and spread my juices over my distended clitoris. She'd circle it repeatedly, each time eliciting louder and louder moans from deep within me. Then she'd slide two fingers inside me and drive them back and forth, sitting back to watch my reaction to her sawing motions. My bucking against the wall, groaning loudly and telling her how much I loved thrusting down onto her dripping fingers would spurn her further to add a third digit to my aching box. She would use her thumb to massage my tender clit and press her fingers hard against the front wall of my sopping canal. She'd charge me up with dirty talk and then, inexorably, like fireworks exploding in my groin, I'd start to come. Exactly as I could feel myself doing under my own ministrations.