I mistook the hotel bellboy for my husband

I'd been stuck in this stuffy conference hotel in Chicago for three goddamn days. Endless meetings about quarterly projections and supply chain bullshit. My husband, Mark, was supposed to fly in tonight to surprise me. We'd planned a quickie reunion before my flight home tomorrow. He texted he'd be here around 10, wearing that navy blazer I like, the one that hugs his shoulders just right.

The clock hit 10:15. I was beat, tipsy from the minibar gin, pacing my room in nothing but a silk robe that barely tied at the waist. Room service had left my ice bucket half-melted. I needed more. Or him. Whatever.

Knock knock.

Heart jumped. I yanked the door open, grinning like an idiot. There he was—tall, broad in the blazer, dark hair tousled. The hallway light was dim, but fuck it, that was Mark. "Finally," I breathed, grabbing his lapels and pulling him inside. Door slammed shut behind him.

"Babe," I murmured, hands already fumbling his belt. "Took you long enough. I've been wet thinking about this all day."

He froze for a second, but I didn't care. I was on him, lips crashing into his. He tasted like cheap coffee, not Mark's usual mint gum, but whatever—he'd been traveling. I dropped to my knees right there in the carpeted entryway, robe falling open. My tits spilled out, nipples hard from the AC blast.

"God, I need your cock," I said, unzipping him fast. His pants hitched down, boxers too. Out sprang this thick, veiny dick—uncut, which threw me for half a sec because Mark's clipped—but it was dark, and I was horny. It throbbed in my face, musky scent hitting me, that salty skin smell mixed with hotel soap.

I wrapped my lips around the head, swirling my tongue. He groaned low, hands tangling in my hair. "Mrs. uh—" he started, voice rough with an accent I didn't place. Polish? Whatever. I sucked harder, hollowing my cheeks, taking him deeper. Halfway down, he hit the back of my throat. I gagged a little, eyes watering, but pushed on. Saliva dripped down my chin, onto my chest.

"Fuck, yes," he rasped, thrusting shallow. Not like Mark, who lets me set the pace. This guy gripped tighter, fucking my mouth now. I loved it—cheating vibe without the guilt, or so my buzzed brain thought. My pussy clenched, aching empty. I reached under my robe, fingers slipping into slick folds, rubbing my clit while I bobbed.

He swelled bigger in my mouth, veins pulsing against my tongue. I hummed around him, vibrations making him buck. "Shit, you're good," he muttered. Accent thicker now. Not Mark's Midwest flatness. But nah, couldn't be. I deepthroated him, nose burying in his pubes—trimmed, wiry hairs tickling. Gagging wet sounds filled the room, slurp-slurp-gurk.

His hips stuttered. Hands yanked my hair, pulling me off. "Wait—" But I dove back, hungry. Spit strings connected my lips to his glistening shaft. I jacked the base with one hand, twisting, while sucking the tip like a vacuum. His balls drew up tight, heavy in my palm. I cupped them, rolling gentle.

Then he snapped. Fingers clamped my throat—not hard, just enough choke to make my head spin. Stars burst behind my eyes. Air cut short, but it revved me. I moaned muffled, pussy flooding my fingers. He held there, fucking my face ruthless. Gagging turned desperate, throat bulging around his girth.

"Cumming," he grunted. Hot jets blasted my tongue—thick, bitter ropes coating my mouth. I swallowed frantic, some leaking out corners, dripping tits. He kept pumping, choking grip loosening as he emptied. Finally, he pulled out, spent cock smacking my cheek, leaving a sticky trail.

I gasped, coughing, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Tits heaving, robe in a puddle at my waist. I looked up, grinning sloppy. "Mark, that was—"

Light flicked on brighter from the bedside. I blinked. Not Mark. This guy was younger, early 20s maybe, olive skin, buzzed black hair, hotel name tag crumpled on the floor: "Tomasz." Bellboy uniform pants around ankles. Big eyes wide, dick softening fast.

"Holy fuck," I yelped, scrambling back on ass. Robe snapped shut too late. "You're not my husband!"

He yanked pants up, face flushing beet red. "I knock for ice? You open, you pull me! I say no—" He gestured wild, accent heavy now. "I just bellboy! From Poland, two weeks here!"

Ice. The goddamn ice bucket. I'd ordered it earlier, forgot in my haze. Mistook his knock. Sucked off a stranger. My pussy still throbbed, guilty thrill mixing horror. Mark's flight—delayed, text said now.

Door rattled—keycard beep. Mark's voice: "Honey? Flight landed early."

Tomasz panicked, diving behind the drapes. I bolted up, wiping cum smears, tying robe crooked. Door swung open. Mark, navy blazer, grinning with roses.

"Babe, missed you." He stepped in, kissed me deep. Tasted the salt? Frowned a sec, but shrugged. "Rough day?"

I laughed, shaky. "You have no idea." Glanced at drapes bulging. Tomasz's shoe peeked out.

Mark set flowers down. "What's with the ice boy hiding? He join the party next?"

Tomasz stumbled out, pants zipped wrong, mumbling "No charge for ice!" and bolted.

Mark stared. I snorted. Then we both cracked up—me from nerves, him clueless. "Babe," he wheezed, "if that's your idea of business trip stress relief... book me on the next one."

But inside, I was already plotting how to tip the bellboy extra. Or order ice daily.