Room 1402

By germancowboy

(A Short Love Story for Mature Audiences) The ice in my vodka soda melts faster than the conversation. I’ve been staring at the same crack in the marble bar for twenty minutes, watching the midnight crowd thin out into the desperate stragglers—the ones who’ve missed their flights or missed their wives or missed whatever they thought they were looking for in this city. “Another?” the bartender asks, not unkindly. He knows the drill. They all do at the Meridian. “Please,” I say, and I don’t bother with the smile. I stopped bothering three months ago when I realized the smile wasn’t earning me anything extra—just the same fifteen minutes of grunting in a king-size bed that smelled like someone else’s cologne, followed by the cold walk of shame to the elevator. I’ve got the routine down to science. Midnight arrival. Two drinks to look available but not drunk. The scan—wedding rings first, then desperation levels, then wallet bulge. By twelve-thirty, I’m usually following some salesman named Greg or Brett or Dave to the elevators, his hand already too familiar on my waist, his breath already sour with whiskey and loneliness. Tonight’s candidate is already circling. Forty-something, loosened tie, the pink flush of business-class alcoholism. He slides onto the stool beside me. “Waiting for someone?” he asks. “Just the night to end,” I tell him. He laughs like I’ve said something clever. His room key is already in his hand, card edge digging into his palm. “I’m in town till Thursday.” “Lucky you,” I say, and I finish my drink because that’s the signal. That’s always been the signal. The sex is always the same. Mechanical. He uses me like I’m a vending machine he’s paid for but doesn’t quite respect. Tonight’s Brett or Greg or whoever doesn’t look at my face when he finishes. He looks at the wall. Then he rolls over and checks his phone, and I know I have seventeen minutes before he mentions his early meeting. “You should probably head out,” he says, at minute twelve. “I’ve got a six AM call.” I dress in the dark. My tights have a run in them I didn’t notice before. The hallway is freezing at four in the morning, and the elevator mirrors show me a woman I barely recognize—cheekbones too sharp, eyes too hollow, that permanent furrow between her eyebrows that won’t smooth out anymore. “Rough night?” the driver asks. I give him forty bucks and don’t answer. The apartment is empty. It’s always empty. I shower until the water runs cold and I can’t smell the hotel soap on my skin anymore. Three nights later, I’m back at the Meridian. The cycle repeats. Different tie, same hunger, same emptiness afterward. I’m starting to feel like a ghost haunting my own life, drifting through these beige hallways and beige rooms with beige men who leave beige impressions on my memory. Then she sits down. She doesn’t ask if I’m waiting for someone. She orders two glasses of wine and slides one toward me. “You look like you’ve been here before,” she says. Her voice is lower than I expected, textured like honey over gravel. “Have you been watching me?” I ask, not defensive. Too tired to be defensive. “Only tonight,” she admits. “I noticed you don’t actually want to be here.” “I want to be here,” I lie. “No,” she says, and her eyes—green, flecked with gold—hold mine. “You want to stop being lonely. That’s different.” I should leave. This isn’t the script. There’s no key card in her hand, no drunken lean, no transactional rhythm I can follow. “What’s your name?” she asks. “Jill.” “I’m Catherine.” She touches her glass to mine. “I’m in room 1402. I’m not going to ask you to come up. But if you decide you want to, I’ll make you breakfast in the morning. Real breakfast. Not hotel continental.” She leaves the bar. I watch her go—straight spine, dark auburn hair catching the lobby lights, moving with a certainty I haven’t felt in years. I sit there for ten minutes. Then I follow. She’s already poured champagne when I knock. Real champagne, not the house stuff from the minibar. “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she says, stepping aside. “I wasn’t sure either.” The room is different from the others. Her clothes are folded on the chair—neat, organized. There’s a book on the nightstand. Flowers on the desk. It smells like her, something citrus and clean. “We don’t have to do anything,” Catherine says. “We can just talk. Or not talk. You can sleep.” “I don’t know how to do this,” I admit, and my voice cracks. “The... not transactional part.” She takes my hand. Her thumb traces the line of my palm. “Then let me show you.” It’s slow. Catherine asks permission for everything. “May I?” before she unzips my dress. “Is this alright?” before her mouth finds my neck. She touches me like I’m something precious, not something purchased, and when I start to cry—embarrassing, stupid tears—I can’t stop. “Hey,” she whispers, pulling back. “We can stop.” “No,” I choke out. “I just... no one’s looked at me. Not really. Not in so long.” She wipes my tears with her thumb. “I see you,” she says. “I see you, Jill.” The pleasure is different. It builds like a tide instead of a transaction. When I come, it’s with her name on my lips and her eyes locked on mine, and she holds me afterward like I’m something worth keeping. I fall asleep with her heartbeat against my back, her arm draped over my waist, and I don’t wake up at dawn to leave. “You stayed,” Catherine says, smiling over the rim of her coffee cup. “I stayed,” I confirm, and the word feels foreign and wonderful in my mouth. She’s ordered room service—croissants, berries, actual eggs Benedict. I can’t remember the last time I ate breakfast with someone. The sunlight hits her hair and turns it to copper, and I realize I’m staring. “What?” she asks, self-conscious in a way that makes my chest ache. “You’re beautiful,” I say, because I’ve stopped being afraid of saying true things. She sets down her coffee. “Come here.” We make love again on the balcony, slow and unhurried, with the city waking up below us and the morning air cool on our skin. She whispers my name like it’s a prayer. I whisper hers like it’s a promise. Afterward, she draws me back inside and pulls the covers over us both. “You could stay,” she says, casual but not casual. “Not just today. I live twenty minutes from here. I have a guest room. Or... not a guest room. Whichever you want.” “I don’t have much,” I say, thinking of my empty apartment, my empty life. “Just... I don’t have much.” “You have you,” she says simply. “That’s enough.” I go back once. Just to pack a bag. The taxi driver asks if I’m moving, and I say yes. The word tastes like freedom. When I return to the Meridian, Catherine is waiting in the lobby. She stands when she sees me, and her face lights up in a way no one’s face has ever lit up for me before. “Ready?” she asks. I squeeze her hand. “I’m ready.” And for the first time in years, when we step into the elevator together and the doors close, I’m not haunting the hallways. I’m finally going home. A Story by Germaine Corbeau - Click here for links to all Germaine Corbeau Stories!

Tags: wlw, love story, sapphic stories

Comments (25)

germancowboy

... and another test to add a little more "adultish" text into the story. The blog entry was set to "Family", so king was so kind to up it to "Mature", because I thought that might cause trouble otherwise. Again, just another try, so it is short, but I am starting to like the blog entry option for stories ... @winter_witch @Hephzibah @TTRPG_Player @faerierealm @SkarletFever @Troxley @DavidP @Belinda @justrob @base451121 @MrUnick @NielsCarlsen @suga2309 @chris70 @paulie @sonny001 - Don't wanna be tagged? Just let me know, thanks!

faerierealm

Hehe okay, unlike your Anneliese and Nagula story, this is definitely erotica! đŸ€­ And I enjoyed it. However, here's a similar comment to my previous one: Even though it's fantasy erotica, there's enough realism in your writing (particularly in your description of Jill’s loneliness) that you may want to consider a transition block to bridge their first night together to Catherine inviting Jill to live with her. (And yes, I’m well aware of the tired old joke, which you’ve surely heard as well: "What does a lesbian bring on a second date? A U-Haul.”) Gael’s at work, but here’s a suggested transition, replacing the paragraph that occurs after “Afterward, she draws me back inside and pulls the covers over us both.” “Will I find you here again tonight?” Jill asks. “You can find me any night you’d like,” I answer with a mixture of hope and fear. That night, I return to my usual spot at the bar, but this time when the random Brett or Dave approaches, I say something I haven’t said in a long time: “I’m waiting for someone.” And when Catherine appears, my fear finally evaporates and I smile with my eyes for the first time in years. Her conference lasts all week, and in between our love making, something real begins to form. We share our hopes, dreams, and fears, and our physical connection becomes an emotional one. She’s a protector by nature, and so it’s no surprise to me that on the morning of the final day of the conference that she turns to me in bed, takes my hand, and speaks earnestly. “I live only twenty minutes from here. I have a guest room. Or... not a guest room. Are you interested?” But again, this is erotica, so maybe not needed haha. Well done, either way!

germancowboy

You are too kind! Thanks you again. I can hardly respond to one feedback and I received more feedback from you again; too cool. I feel honored, really. And YES, I gave it a try; I had to put something - at least borderline - erotic up here. Funny was of course, that I had to ask king for a "Mature" rating, as the system decided on a "Family" rating. And NO, I never heard that lesbian joke, love it though, apparently my characters know it. I still hope, I did not step over the line with this short one. It might already be too much for people. There is still a difference between showing suggestive images and writing actual "adultish" stories. I purposely tried to keep it short. And again, you are for sure right. I do not give my characters enough time to get to know each other. But hey, to say "I want them to be happy quick." might be a bad excuse. In regards to the realism, I do try to put myself into the position of certain characters, in this case it's Jill like it was Nagula in the other story. That way I can feel with them, I designed them that way, mostly sad. In this one, won't probably not published, I even established a prequel for Jill (and one for Catherine). Mark left Jill after 8 years of marriage; after trying out book clubs, yoga, learning Spanish, Jill's one-night stands started, first accidental then deliberate and later automated. Thanks again. Your feedback definitely keeps me going.

germancowboy

Thanks again. I am responding kind of to both of your recent replies. But I feel it comes out like rambling. Sorry. I think I am at the crossroads. Too many things to consider. As I mentioned before on NC, I am coming from a family of professional photographers, so the images I create are usually realistic, or trying to be. While the scenes are made up, they are at least realistically possible. The stories might have unrealistic twists and speed, but overall they are still plausible, or trying to be. What do I really want, what does really interest me or what priorities do I have? I came to NC and PB because of the images, now I see other opportunities, story writing/publishing among friends, etc. Is my priority still creating realistic images, photographs of characters that I created for that purpose, images that tell a story, or is storytelling a new priority and the images are only an add-on? It has to be fun, otherwise it becomes work, and I do not need that. I did experiments with LLM providing contents to the writing (in the Lilly and Mei Story in particular), but I am not overly fond of it, some passages are good, worth it, but others are not. At the same time I am not so impressed by some of my own writing either, once the erotic part starts, it sounds like pulp. That's not necessarily bad, but not good enough. If I want to put out my image creations, then the writing becomes less important, meaning you would use AI input more to pound out text based on my narrative; it'll be okay, but it would just be a vehicle to show of pictures. No matter which way I go, it will be read by someone, the images will be looked at too. Already now, you see comments like, I had no time to read it, but the images look great. So there are decisions to be made. But I will see, where this all will lead me. Either way it cannot become work.

faerierealm

Different people have different lines, so you'll inevitably step over someone's line. (Our own line: We do not like stories that feature violence against women or children, and would avoid anyone creating that kind of content.) As long as you don't step over any lines that are actually illegal, it's probably fair game. If you're worried about offending a large group of people, then as I mentioned in my other response, hopefully you'll soon have the ability to bump blog posts to Adult, effectively limiting the audience to only those who have the link and actively seek it out. BTW nice backstory on the two characters. If you have back stories and know where you're going, you can expand on your stories, but only if it interests you. Keep on writing!

base451121

Truly tender feelings, beautifully written and illustrated, I really enjoyed reading it! Thank you, my dear friend, for this lovely break.

DavidP

Thanks for tagging me. Thoroughly enjoyed this. You convey all the emotions so well throughout the piece. Well done.

germancowboy

Thank you for all your support. Ich glaube fast, dass fĂŒr einige hier ist zuviel Erotik in der Geschichte.

Hephzibah

Awesome đŸ€© I like that it ends happily ever after, sweet fairytale ending positive perfect ending đŸ„°đŸ€—đŸ˜

germancowboy

Do they all look the same? Even though we had the AVN convention just a few weeks back at the Virgin here in LV, where we often do staycations, we haven't even seen any of the major stars nor would be even recognize any. Hmmm.