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A chime resounded through the air. My futa-dick pulsed and throbbed. I put on a hungry smile, eager to seduce the concierge into giving up Rosemary’s room. I just had to dangle my futa-cock before the concierge and she would—A man walked out of the back room, a smile crossing his dusky features. “Can I help you, miss?” he asked, his accent cultured and British, the refined tones of someone from the Indian Subcontinent who had an education. “Is there something wrong?”“No, no,” I groaned. “You wouldn’t be able to tell me which room Rosemary Ramsey is staying in.”“Ah, no,” he said. “She asked for her privacy. You must be ... Becky.”I swallowed. “Guilty.” I leaned in. “Bet you never thought to meet a celebrity, eh? I can give you an autograph if you help me out.”“You’re hardly the first celebrity to stay at the Red Lion Hotel,” he said. “This is where dignitaries stay when they visit Seattle. I can help you with something else, but not this.”The finality in his tone sent such relief. I was dressed for seduction although now seduction was far from my mind. The black hold ups and matching lacy lingerie underneath were now seemingly a superfluous frivolity. I busied myself with deleting text messages from my mobile phone, occasionally re-reading a few saucy jokes sent from various friends although inwardly I was still fuming at Jeremy.Squinting at the screen in the semi-darkness I was taken aback when I suddenly heard a voice with a strong London accent above me.“Aw’right. Can I get you a drink?”I looked up and saw a broad powerfully built man in his early 30’s grinning down at me. I took in his appearance; not quite six foot, with blond hair gelled back to reveal sparkling blue eyes which went well with his sky blue Ralph Lauren shirt tucked in black jeans. With alcohol-induced bravado, coupled with the annoyance of being left to sit alone in a hotel bar, I looked him up and down and said, “Do you know...I think I will, thank you. A glass of white wine, please.”His.
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