Portal 23

Chairs, La Mamounia Hotel, Marakesh, 1971, David Hockney

There didn’t seem to be anything especially special about the chairs. They looked comfortable enough. And after a bit of research, I assumed it was possible some famous people had sat upon them. Winston Churchill or Kirk Douglas, for examples. But the chairs in the David Hockney painting were unoccupied. I mulled the significance of that. The day looked bright; the hotel, noted as one of the best in the world, could have been unoccupied. So it was an ideal time for me to portal there. Though what I’d do other than seat myself on one of those chairs, I hadn’t a clue.

It turned out the hotel was not at all unoccupied. Guests and service personnel abounded. I was worried briefly that my nakedness could be offensive; the place had a Muslim history; but no one seemed bothered or concerned. One fellow took me for a wait person, muttered something about how it was nice to see a female body, and spouted a drink order. Three others in the group, including two well-dressed women, added their orders. After a time I was able to locate the bar, and the barperson somehow knew what was needed. With a wink and a raised eyebrow, he nodded to a tray upon which sat four drinks, matching, I supposed, those ordered. I was so tempted to take a sip of each, but good girl that I am, I refrained.

Back at my group I set the tray on a side table, letting the guests select. There were but two of them now; one of the men and one of the women had left. The remaining woman tilted her head toward me, and her eyes went to the side, but I didn’t know whether this was a rebuke or something else. Then the man, he’d placed the first drink order, patted his lap. “Sit here, would you?” he said. He was a good-looking man, maybe fifty years old, and I saw no way to refuse. From his lap I could feel his hardon. I made small motions with my hips, squeezing my cunt and bottom along the length of his fabric-covered cock. “Oh, that’s good,” he said. “That’s perfect.” The woman who had perhaps rebuked me observed the man and me with special interest. Her lips parted, and I think as things progressed, she was becoming as aroused as the man. I increased my hip-motion, and the man groaned and the woman shivered, gasped, and stiffened. “Oh, that was good,” the man said, a short time later. “Wasn’t it good Darlene?” The man and the woman, Darlene, each took a drink from the tray and then some small sips. From the man’s lap, I noticed I could see Hockney’s chairs in the next room. In some way they now made sense to me. I got up, and before leaving, I glanced down at the man’s lap. His trousers held a sizeable wet spot, some of it his and some of it, most likely, mine.