The hotel bar fantasy come true, part 1 - [F38 / M39] [chance encounter] [hotel bar] [affair] [cheating] [heels] [slow burn to filth]

The first thing he noticed about her was her red hair, illuminated by the bar’s warm light. A man sat opposite her, leaning in, obscuring half her face and most of her body. From here, he couldn’t tell if she knew him, whether they were happily engaged in conversation, or part-way through awkward exchange. He studied them for a moment, but it became no clearer.

He let his eyes wander down. His line of sight unobscured, he glanced down at the high-heeled shoe dangling delicately from her toes, held aloft as if by magic. He wasn't sure how long she'd been sat there, or the man; he wasn’t even sure when he'd last looked up.

He'd been sat at this table, his head in a book, leaning forward, he now realised uncomfortably, on a green leather-backed banquette, for a good while - an hour or more quite easily. The spring sun had set during that hour lost between the pages, disappearing beyond its own margins, behind a skyscraper to the west. He studied it: all glass and steel, almost emptied out save for those now illuminated by the glow of screens and the business-smart lemmings descending in a inside-out elevator, all visible from the hotel bar's wide-screen windows.

The lights had been dimmed or perhaps were never that bright; either way, he now strained his eyes trying to focus on the words. He took a sip of his drink, now more water than booze, ice cubes long since melted, and look back towards the woman at the bar. The man got up stiffly, seemed to gesture awkwardly towards her and drifted out of sight. His eyes darted back down to the heel, still defying gravity, and let his gaze rise: her slender legs, clad in tights, thin enough to suggest they were for the warmth of the hotel. She sat confidently on a bar stool, legs crossed delicately, a dark dress - maybe forest green or a dark blue - ridden up to mid thigh. Was that a stocking top or the pattern of her tights?

He grinned to himself, wryly, realising he was projecting his own fantasies onto this mystery woman. Her dress’s neck was high, the sleeves short. Behind her was a grey cardigan hung on the stool. Her lips were red. Eyes? He couldn’t tell from her. He watched her, utterly transfixed. She smiled, he thought somewhat cheekily, clearly thinking of something, stirred her drink and took a big gulp. There was something about her that he found utterly beguiling, something deeply and dizzyingly attractive. She put her empty glass down gently. Oh. Was she leaving?

He stood up quickly, gulped down the remnants of his drink and took a few steps towards the bar. He paused, turned, and picked up his book, then continued on his journey. As he glanced at her, she seemed to look away. Was she looking at him or had be been caught staring? He approached the bar, next to where she was sat. ‘Please,’ he said to the barman, who had made an almost imperceptible gesture that meant, unmistakably, ‘same again?’

She couldn’t quite place his accent, definitely British, she thought, but she didn’t quite know where. It was thick, and she so assumed the north. ‘Big fan of modernism or is that just a prop to impress women?’ she said gesturing at the book he’d set down on the bar. He turned to face her. Both green, he thought: eyes and dress. ‘It’s a prop,’ he said with a cheeky grin, ‘but it never works.’

She smiled, glanced towards the elevator, slightly anxiously he thought, then seemed to settle. ‘This is my favourite of his,’ he said. ‘Then you need to read his later work,’ she said, watching his face closely, biting her lip cheekily. ‘Drink?’ he said. ‘Gin and tonic,’ she said with a thank you.

She waited for him to turn to bar then trailed her eyes from his head to the floor. He was a good dresser, she thought. He was smart, but it was a relaxed, confident look: a light blue oxford collar shirt, cotton blue suit, bearded, thin on top, but handsome. An academic maybe. I bet all the students want to fuck him. She looked a bit longer. I bet he fucks them.

She looked then at his hand. Married, of course. She thought of her own wedding ring: in her jewellery box in front the mirror in the her hotel room. She felt a pang of guilt at her intentions, but who long was she supposed to go on untouched? She suddenly felt uncomfortable, conscious, it will do that to you, and adjusted her dress, pulling it down to further cover her legs. She remembered the thigh high stockings hidden under the dress and blushed.

He glanced at her, noticing the flushness in her cheeks. They exchanged names. She was right about England, wrong about the north. A proud East Midlander, he said. Boston, she told him. Irish heritage, of course. What brings you to Copenhagen? Business, business. Tech. Publishing. She ordered two more drinks, not giving him a choice. He followed up with the same. She could feel the alcohol by now, her cheeks red, and so could he.

They drifted closer, seemingly with each sip, as if by a magnetic field, their coming together now seemingly inevitable. He leant in, pressing himself against her knees. He heard the heels one after the other fall to the floor.

They were flirting now. ‘I like the way you smell,’ she told him. ‘I like the way you dress,’ he said glancing into her lap. Her legs slightly parted, her stocking tops almost visible. He felt his heart race at the possibility that they were what he thought they were. ‘I only dress this way when I’m…’ he voice trailed off. ‘Not that it works on my husband’. ‘Oh I didn’t realise…’ he began to say. ‘Was that him before…?’

She flushed red still. No, she said. I met him here, at the bar. ‘I was going to fuck him; he gave me his room number’, she said. She scribbled it on the back of her hand. ‘But then you arrived: and I decided that I’m going to fuck you instead…’