Winding Down at Watergate

Jordan Monroe

A year ago, Alicia spent a pleasurable weekend with Daniel. Since then, the confidence she had in her appearance has waned, and Alicia has devoted herself to the new high-powered job she holds. When the two meet up again by chance at a scandalized hotel, will Alicia be able to overcome her body-image issues and pick up where they left off?

“Ugh, really?” I muttered.

I was getting frustrated with my driver. I had specifically requested that he take the Arlington Memorial Bridge, yet he had elected to take the Arland D. Williams, Jr. Memorial Bridge. Traffic was heinous, as usual. Oh DC, some things never change.

“How bad is Ohio Drive?” I asked him.

“I’m not sure, ma’am. With this rain, it could be smooth, could be rough.” He kept his eyes glued to the road ahead. I leaned my forehead against the cold glass and sighed.

Twenty minutes had passed. We were now slowly passing the Lincoln Memorial, its columns towering over the street. Drivers in this area had no idea how to drive in the rain. There was a single runner bounding up the steps, her taut, Under-Armored legs betraying her dedication to the pursuit of fitness no matter the weather. I looked down at my legs and frowned. I had thought that turning twenty-eight would banish my self-consciousness about my thighs, yet I found myself regretting ordering that croissant on the plane. No amount of running, squatting, stretching, contorting, or pressing would make their thickness subside.

More Rubenesque than waifish, a former lover had once remarked. He hadn’t lasted long.

“Ma’am, we have arrived.” I started at the driver breaking the silence in the Mercedes C-Class. After serving for a year as head of Ops, I still wasn’t used to the luxurious perks that came with the position: first class flights, town cars instead of buses, staying in hotels of note rather than chains, and expensive cuisine. It had initially thrown me completely off balance, but I had been able to get much of the discomfort under control, and had even started to get annoyed when high standards of service were not being met.

This trip, however, wasn’t for business. It was mostly for pleasure.

As I got out of the car, the driver handed me my plain black suitcase, thanked me for using his service, and quickly got back into the sedan. I watched him drive away, then turned to look at the exterior of possibly the most famous hotel in the US.

The Watergate Hotel is an architecturally perplexing building. It curves deeply inward, forming a tight semi-circle, in stark contrast to its neighbor, the Kennedy Center. Its exterior is very much like several federal office buildings in this city, despite its curvature: gray stone, black windows, completely lacking in ornate decoration. There is an aura of secrecy about it; I liked it.

After checking in with the well-dressed concierge, I entered my well-appointed deluxe room. I took a deep breath: my nose was filled with the scent of fresh linen. It was late in the evening, and I had no intention of battling the Friday night bar crowds, full of lobbyists and Georgetown undergrads. I slowly unbuttoned my coat, taking care to not get any dirt from my shoes on the cashmere. I took great care in taking off my stilettos, spreading my toes as far as they could be extended. I could feel the blood begin to fill their veins, relieving me of the pain. I wore these high heels for one reason: to disguise my gigantic feet. On a whim, I’d once put on my brother’s combat boots. They’d been a perfect fit. I’d cried at the nail salon the very next day, wishing desperately to be a petite woman.

You have long, monkey feet, the former lover had also remarked. He’d certainly had a lot to say about my body.

I needed to banish these thoughts. With rapid efficiency, I emptied my suitcase: dresses and coats in the closet, toiletries on the bathroom counter, silk robe around my bare body. I wanted to be stripped of the day. Staring at my face in the huge bathroom mirror, I was grateful that my makeup hadn’t run down my face. I put my hair up in a messy bun, and then began wiping the makeup away with a towelette: black mascara, black eyeliner, ivory foundation, scarlet lipstick, and brown eyebrow filler all collided on the wipe. The woman that stared back at me was not the severely contoured, cold woman in the town car. This woman had freckles and acne scars, dark circles under her eyes, and the faintest forehead wrinkle, the result of raising her eyebrows too many times in meetings. This woman had history.

I turned around to look at the bathtub. It was a marble masterpiece: spotless, white, and spacious. After plugging the drain, I turned the brass knobs up to let the tub fill with scorching hot water. Steam started to rise, much to my delight. I dug around in my toiletries for the necessary items and arranged them on the counter. I found the small plastic bag that held my bath bomb. A colleague had bought it on a whim for me, thinking I needed it to wind down. I grinned at the name: Sex Bomb. If only she knew. I tossed it into the tub, letting the lavender scent fill the bathroom.

The tub needed time to be filled, so I went back into the hotel room, grabbed a plastic champagne flute from the dresser, and looked in the mini fridge. Thank God they remembered. There was a single split of Moet and Chandon Imperial Brut. I picked it up, carefully opened the bottle, and poured the pale yellow bubbling liquid in the flute. Setting it down on the desk, I removed my silk robe. I looked out onto the Potomac, watching the lights from the homes across the river flicker. Not caring if anyone saw me, I walked over to the floor length window and pressed my naked body against the frigid glass. I gasped as my nipples puckered with the chill. I closed my eyes, dragging the memories up to the front of my mind: the heat of his breath on my neck, the brush of his beard on my bare shoulder, his hands exploring my body with care, his long fingers plunging into me, a sharp slap on my ass. I felt hot moisture drip down my right leg. I pushed myself away from the glass, grabbed my champagne, and went back into the bathroom.

The tub was nearly full to my liking, the water bubbly and rosy. I looked at the items on the counter: lube, a waterproof dual-use vibrator, and a small butt plug. After coating the plug with the clear liquid, I leaned on the counter and reached under my legs. I tilted my pelvis forward and began to feel the pressure. When I felt the base settle, I stood up straight, savoring the foreign presence inside me. I felt complete. After placing my champagne flute and vibrator on the edge of the tub, I turned the faucet off and lowered myself in the water.

Leaning back against the ceramic, I allowed my thoughts to drift. The hot water and the alcohol began to have a heady effect on my body. My limbs became heavy with relaxation. I took one final gulp of champagne. The acidic flavor and carbonation danced across my tongue, filling my mouth and throat with its intoxicating taste. I closed my eyes, recalling that delicious weekend last year.

We’d met through mutual friends. His smile was warm and inviting. He asked me for dinner, but with a twist: he’d cook at his place, I’d bring the wine. He’d cooked balsamic glazed salmon fillets with wild rice and asparagus. I’d brought over a bottle of pinot gris that we quickly finished. We’d started watching Pulp Fiction, but ignored it after the opening scene. He’d kissed me, tentatively at first, then with more urgency. I’d gotten on top of him, shocked at my own boldness. I’d tugged his shirt off of him, revealing a pleasant growth of chest hair across broad pectorals.

I opened my eyes and reached for my vibrator. Now was as good a time as any to begin. I gasped as I inserted the thick appendage into my sex, then pressed the button. I felt it begin to rotate. I gripped the edge of the tub and shut my eyes again.

He’d wrapped his huge arms around me, pinning me to him. Our tongues had dueled in each other’s mouths, my fingers had entwined in his thick brown hair, he’d taken off my black camisole and black lace bra. Oh, how I’d wanted this. He’d smelled of cedar. He’d carried me to his dark bedroom, making me feel light, more feminine than I’d ever felt before. He’d set me down, anointing my body with kisses and licks. He knelt as his lips traveled from my face to my neck to my breasts, stopping at my belly. He’d looked at me as he’d unbuttoned my jeans and pulled both them and my thong down. I’d stepped out of them on instinct, for once not shy about being naked in front of a man. He’d lowered his eyes and pressed his face into my vulva, inhaling deeply.

I pressed the button again, making the vibrator rotate faster inside me. I positioned the smaller appendage directly over my clit. Gripping the tub tighter, I pressed its button. I threw my head back, rejoicing at the low pulsating rumbles.

He’d eased one long finger inside me; I’d been slick, hot, and eager. He’d swirled it around, forcing me to groan with pleasure. I’d leaned forward and gripped the footboard of his bed. He’d eased my legs further apart, then lowered himself further still. I cried out when he pulled his finger out and his tongue penetrated my sex, his beard tickling my inner thighs and the sensitive flesh around my ass. He plunged his tongue deeper into me. I’d whimpered, he’d hummed. I’d quivered, he’d held my legs apart, keeping me suspended above him. He’d licked my opening until he was satisfied, then started teasing my clit. My knees had buckled, but he’d held on to me, making sure I didn’t crumple. He’d fluttered his tongue over that spot, driving me to the brink. I’d known that I couldn’t handle it much longer and I’d -

I came, crying his name aloud in the hotel bathroom. Christ, I wanted him again, right there with me. His oral ministries had been as close to a sacrament as I’d ever experienced. I leaned back in the tub, the water going lukewarm, panting. I turned off the vibrator, enjoying the silence. Raising my hips, I slowly pulled out both toys, and set them both on the edge of the tub next to my empty glass. My fingertips had pruned. Sighing, I leaned over to the drain, pulled the plug, and stood up, wrapping a fluffy white towel around my body. I tossed the toys in the sink, ran hot water over them, and cleaned them as best I could. I’d put them away the next morning.

Without shutting the curtains, I collapsed into the king size bed. Every nerve in my being was exhausted. The view of the Potomac blurred as I closed my eyes, eager for rest.

“Oh Daniel, I’m sorry.” I whispered in the darkness, and passed out.

The wedding had been a lovely affair: short, sweet, and without any mishaps. My work cell had been quiet, so I was forced to interact with people whom I hadn’t seen in years. I was good at small talk: “You look great!” “How’s the baby?” “When are you finished with your PhD?” It came naturally to me, but I had never really enjoyed it. Truth be told, I was usually trying to avoid confrontation from clients, coworkers, past lovers -

I nearly dropped my glass of wine.

Daniel was here.

I excused myself from whatever conversation I’d been pretending to have and retreated to the ladies room, collapsing on the pink sofa. Luckily, it was empty. Being the Watergate, it was lavishly appointed with tissues, deodorant, hairspray, lotions, and other assorted accoutrement to keep the female body the image of perfection. I could feel my pulse racing. What was I going to say to him, if anything? God knows I was deeply attracted to him, but after my depravity that weekend, there was no way he would be interested in me. I needed to stay calm, cool, and collected. I applied some Dove deodorant, touched up my lips with Russian Red, and then exited the bathroom.

When I got back to the ballroom, I noticed that they’d already cut and distributed the wedding cake. I took my place back at my table and took a bite from the slice of vanilla cake with an appalling pink rosette.

“Well, wanna dance?”

I looked up from the barely eaten piece of wedding cake to see Daniel. Impossibly tall, roguishly handsome Daniel. The words sounded foreign in my brain, but they were the only words to describe him. He looked like so many men displayed on eight dollar paperbacks found in every airport convenience store: broad shoulders, tight stomach, thick legs, and sparkling eyes. It seemed like carrying a swooning woman would be in his skill set. And of course he’d only appeared to be more handsome in his tailored black suit, stark white shirt, and maroon tie.

Was he trying to be gallant and that’s why he had offered his hand out to me? I coughed, then giggled to try and cover it up. “Since when do you dance?”

“Since now. Come on,” and he reached down to grab my hand. I dropped my fork on the plate, making it clatter. I didn’t care: I was curious see what he could do on the dance floor.

We found a small space. It was crowded with other wedding guests eager to dance to a slow song. I turned towards him, smiled even though I was unsure of myself, and allowed him to take the lead. He pulled me close enough to him that I could feel the warmth of his chest without touching him there. I became very aware of his large hands, one on my lower back, and the other in my outstretched hand. The crooning of Nora Jones’s “Come Away With Me” stilled the party, calming everyone down.

Daniel, it turned out, was a pretty accomplished dancer, at least in comparison to most men in the 21st century. He eased us into a slow waltz step, gently rocking us back and forth. The rest of the party seemed to fall away, as if it were only the two us dancing. I didn’t want to look into his eyes, his large azure eyes, and chose to fix my gaze over his left shoulder. He leaned forward and spoke directly in my right ear: “What are you thinking about, Alicia?”

“I’m not thinking about anything, Daniel.”

He didn’t stop us. “We haven’t seen each other in a year, and we’re dancing together, and you’re not thinking about anything? Unlikely.”

I’m only thinking about the tenderness in your touch, Daniel. I’m only thinking about how every nerve ending in my body is standing at attention right now. I’m only thinking about how I wish I had been able to make time for you a year ago, but then I would have been balancing a new relationship on top of a significant job change, which would have been unfair of you; I throw myself into work. I’m only thinking about how I want to head back upstairs to my hotel room, get out of these heels, and get back in that bathtub. “Truly, nothing. A woman can’t enjoy the music and dancing with a lovely partner?”

“Haha, fair enough. Though, I did always wonder –”

“What did you always wonder?”

I could feel his eyes on me; I closed mine, ashamed of myself for interrupting him while also savoring these moments in his arms. “We had, what I thought at least, a really good time that weekend. What happened?”

I squeezed his shoulder. “We did, Daniel.”

“So what happened?”

The song had ended. Why did it have to end? I knew I needed to explain myself, but this reception was not the place for it. “Look, can we talk about this in private? Perhaps my room?”

His eyes widened. “Absolutely.”

I hurried back to my table to pick up my clutch, then led him to the elevator. The tension was palpable. I felt my pulse quicken for the second time that evening. We were both merely acquaintances of the couple; they wouldn’t miss us. When we approached my room, I had difficulty putting the key card in the slot. After a few fumbled attempts, I finally opened the door, intentionally walking quickly to the window and dropping my clutch on the hotel dresser. The sun was setting over the Potomac, painting the sky with pinks and oranges. I was confident that he was staring at my silhouette, framed in a curve-hugging navy blue strapless evening gown.

“You’re just as lovely as ever, Ali.” I heard him loosen his tie.

“Thank you, Daniel. You’re not so bad yourself.”

“You gonna tell me what happened last year?”

I shut my eyes, feeling the wine in my stomach compel my brain to simply spill the words. “I’d started a new job and I didn’t think it would be fair of me to get involved with you while I threw myself into work, ok?”

The silence hung in the air. “Was that it, Ali?”

I smiled, welcoming his use of my childhood nickname. “Truth be told, I also didn’t think you’d want...”

“Want what?”

I sighed, throwing my head back for further emphasis of the eye roll. “Me, alright?”

I felt the cotton of his dress shirt on my back. He gripped my upper arms, holding me firmly in place. I leaned back into him, yearning to be closer. “To badly paraphrase a bodice ripper, I thrive for your lust, Alicia.”

I laughed. “I am a slave to my passions, Daniel.”

The brush of his beard on my neck, that terribly familiar sensation, sent shivers through my system. “I didn’t stop thinking of you. That weekend was one of the best for me. Your enthusiasm was intoxicating.”

I shied away from his touch. “Look, I’d never done anything like that before. When it was all said and done, I was more embarrassed by my actions than anything else. I really am sorry if I hurt you.”

“I don’t want you to be embarrassed by anything, Alicia.”

He sat in the plain office chair that all hotel rooms seem to have. If he really wanted me to be bold and enthusiastic, I’d better test his limits. I placed my right foot on the edge of the chair, careful not to get the bottom of the stiletto on the wool fabric of his suit pants. I bent to unbuckle it, but his hands got there first. The shock of his touch nearly knocked me down. “Let me, Alicia.”

Though his hands were large and his fingers thick, they were able to deftly unbuckle the delicate strap. He held my ankle in one hand and slipped off the shoe with the other, letting it drop to the floor. He moved his hand from my ankle up my calf, massaging the muscle. He leaned forward and gently kissed the inside of my knee. I heard my breath hitch as his thick beard danced across my sensitive skin. This was an entirely new sensation, and I found it thrilling.

“Is this OK, Alicia?” His gaze was piercing. I closed my eyes and nodded. Of all things, I didn’t want him to stop touching me.

He grinned, then let go of my leg. He quickly grasped my ass with both hands, then rose from the chair, clasping my body to his. I yelped in astonishment and instinctively wrapped my arms around his neck, my fingers weaving into the back of his thick, dark hair. I dug my ankles into the back of his thighs; I was doing everything in my power to stabilize myself.

As he laid me down on the bed, I briefly wondered how many times this mattress had been used for the implied purpose and not for sleeping. Before I could begin to be disgusted by it, Daniel began to make short work of removing my other shoe, forcing me to focus solely on the physical sensations. When he released my ankle, I slammed my legs together. I definitely wanted this, but I still wanted there to be some amount of dignity in my actions. He leaned back and started undressing: shrugging off his suit jacket, pulling off his tie, removing his shoes and socks (I caught a glimpse of them: men’s trouser socks with beer mugs all over them. Men get the best socks), and finally standing over me, taking his time to unbutton his shirt. My breathing became shallow: he wasn’t wearing an undershirt. That chest, oh that chest. My mouth was dry with desire.

“Turn over,” he said in a low voice. I obliged.

I felt the bed give as he sat next to me. His warm hands caressed my back, moving towards the zipper of my dress. I shut my eyes, preparing for more embarrassment. For a woman to look outstanding in evening wear, her underwear must be functional, not fun. I’d worn a beige strapless bra with four hooks and extreme control-top panties. Getting out of these would be an ordeal. I reached behind and grabbed his wrist. “I can take all this off, Daniel.”

I felt his other hand on the back of my neck. He wasn’t pinning me down; he started massaging it. “Let me, Alicia. I don’t mind all this hardware. Not that you need it, anyway.” He rained light kisses on the back of my neck. “You’re gorgeous.”

He didn’t fumble with unhooking my bra. When it was unhooked, he rubbed the center of my back, turning me into a puddle of relaxation. “Lift up a little, Alicia.”

I obliged, raising my torso and supporting myself with my elbows. His index fingers hooked my dress and bra, and he wriggled them down my body. When he approached the panties, he pulled at them as well. When he was done peeling off my garments, I heard him exhale sharply. I rolled over on my right side, facing the window. He’d placed everything on the chair. With darkened eyes, he took two strides back to the bed, lowered himself on top of me, and started kissing me with fervor.

I pulled him into me, pressing as much of my body next to his, desperate to be closer to him. In between kisses, I gasped, “Daniel, I want - “

He lifted his head and stared into me, his eyes dark. “Tell me what you want, Alicia. I want to hear you say it.”

I clasped my hands on the sides of his face. “I want to feel every inch of you.”

He smiled, and bent his head, nibbling my earlobe. I shuddered beneath him. “Oh, you will,” he whispered. With a quick kiss, he stood up. He didn’t break eye contact with me as he unbuckled his black leather belt, and pulled everything down, tossing them on the chair with the rest of the clothes. He stood before me, displaying his nakedness. His cock was engorged; I swallowed. I’d forgotten how large it was.

“Do you still want me, Alicia?”

“God, yes, and badly.” Eloquence be damned. He crawled back on the bed, pinning me beneath him.

I unfolded before him, my sex a rose with morning dew. I didn’t know if he wanted to take his time, but I knew I didn’t need foreplay. The past year had been foreplay: the lack of knowledge of his feelings about this, the hope of running into him again, replaying that weekend over and over on weekend mornings, and that dance. Oh, that dance. I was drawn to him because he seemed to know, instinctively, how to make me feel like a woman.

“You’re still on the pill, right?”

I appreciated his desire to still be safe. “Of course, Daniel.”

“Good.” He kissed me again, assaulting my mouth with his tongue. I felt him lower his hips and push into me. I dug my nails into his arms, taking him completely. God, it felt exquisite.

He leaned back, kneeling as if at prayer. I wrapped my legs around his waist, not wanting him to leave me. He began to pump, first slowly, then harder and faster. I held on to the headboard to brace myself. He reached towards my breasts, pinching both my nipples. I moaned, which encouraged him to continue. He twisted them, tugged on them, and rubbed them in circles with his fingertips. I was a ball of electricity, poised to lose control at any moment.

“Oh, please don’t stop,” I whispered. He started pumping even harder, slamming into me. This. This is what my body had been needing for a year. I knew I was approaching the cliff’s edge, and would soon be unable to not let go.

“Daniel, oh Daniel, can I come?”

He leaned forward, covering my body with his, not stopping his movements. “Yes, Alicia. Come for me.” I didn’t care if he watched: I fell apart beneath him, writhing and calling his name and wanting to extend this as long as possible. I felt him shudder and tense up on top of me, then collapse, crushing me. We were both sweaty and panting, exhausted from the throes of our ecstasy. He lifted his hips, rolled onto his side, and pulled my head to his chest. I felt his heart rate start to go down.

“I could do that all weekend, Ali.” I laughed and nuzzled his chest in response.

We definitely were not going to be going back to the wedding reception at the Watergate.