The Hotel Stranger's Call
Paris, 1997. Marc, 22, dragged himself through the doors of the Hotel Pergolese past midnight. Day two of his five-day mission for a multinational giant had been a disaster. Meetings dragged. Clients argued. Nothing clicked. Exhausted, hungry, his stomach growled as he kicked off his shoes and socks, bare feet sinking into the carpet. He grabbed a Perrier from the minibar, the fizz sharp against his dry throat. Collapsing onto the bed, he flicked on the TV, desperate for distraction.
The screen flickered. French news droned about politics. A soccer match. An English travel show rambled about vineyards. Then, channel 41. A soft moan, bare skin, an adult-only flicker. Marc lingered, eyes heavy. Too late. Too tired. Even for this.
The phone rang, shrill and sudden. A colleague, surely. Marc snatched it up, voice playful. "Hellooo."
" Désolé de vous appeler..." A deep male voice, unfamiliar, smooth as velvet.
Marc flushed, embarrassment creeping in. "I apologize," he mumbled, thinking it might be the front desk.
"No need to apologize! I was looking at channel 41 too... and I saw you watching it from my window," the voice continued.
Marc’s mind reeled. Someone in the hotel. Watching me through the window. Nice. The hotel’s rectangular courtyard was a fishbowl, windows of the north and west wings staring at each other across a narrow gap. A stranger had caught him in the act.
Silence stretched. Endless seconds. Then the man spoke again. "Sorry to bother you. I just wanted to talk."
Marc exhaled, tension easing. "Rough day?"
"Endless," the man said. "Paris is beautiful, though. The lights, the Seine."
"Yeah, but this hotel TV? Garbage," Marc said, chuckling.
The man laughed, warm and low. "All French game shows and bad porn."
They traded complaints about the city’s chaos, the TV’s weak offerings. Laughter came easy. Then, the man’s tone shifted. "Care for a goodnight drink? My room."
Marc glanced out his window. A single light glowed across the courtyard. A shadow moved—a man, indistinct. Curiosity tugged. "Sure. Room number?"
"312."
Marc slipped on the hotel’s flip-flops, heart picking up pace. He crossed the courtyard, the night air cool. Room 312’s door opened. A man, mid-30s, stood there. Dark hair, sharp jaw, no name offered. "Welcome," he said, gesturing inside.
The room mirrored Marc’s: queen bed, bath door on the left, a chair, a desk. On the desk, a bottle of Armagnac and two glasses. "I’m from the north," the man said, pouring shots. "Here for work."
Marc sipped the Armagnac. Warm, bold, unfamiliar. It burned pleasantly. The TV hummed in the background, still on channel 41. A flash of skin caught his eye. His pulse quickened, a flicker of excitement he couldn’t ignore.
Marc’s face burned, his suit pants betraying his excitement. Not so tired after all. The man, lounging on the bed, back against the headboard, grinned. Maybe he noticed. “I’m hard as a rock, too,” he said, slipping his right hand into his pants.
Marc froze. His mind spun. Run back to his room? Jerk off in the shower? Safe. Easy. The man’s eyes flicked to the TV, channel 41 still glowing. “At the end, it’s not that bad, eh?” he said, grinning wider.
“Not at all,” Marc stammered. “Maybe I should get back to my room.”
“Do as you please. Thanks for the company. But if you want to jerk off together and have another Armagnac, you’re welcome.”
Marc’s head exploded. Jerking off with friends as a teen was one thing. But now? At 22? I’m in Paris. No one knows me. Why not? Temptation won. Marc took the lead. He dropped his pants and underwear, his 6.6-inch uncut cock, slightly curved, standing proud. He sat beside the man on the bed, stroking slowly.
The man’s eyes locked on Marc’s cock. Marc stared at the TV, avoiding his gaze, but caught a glimpse of the man’s hand moving. His cock was bigger. Much bigger. Straight. Intimidating.
“Can I jerk yours?” the man asked. “You can jerk mine if you want, but no pressure.”
Marc nodded, letting his hands fall. The man’s touch was different—firm, electric. Marc’s eyes darted from his own cock, massaged rhythmically, to the man’s larger one, then to the TV’s writhing bodies. A minute in, he couldn’t hold back. “I’m gonna cum,” he gasped.
“Okay, I’ll continue. Don’t worry,” the man said, unfazed.
Marc’s eyes shut. Pleasure surged. He came, moaning softly. “Wow, thanks,” he breathed. The man smiled. Marc’s gaze lingered on his face, then dropped to the man’s still-hard cock. I owe him.
Summoning courage, Marc shifted, sitting sideways on the bed. His right hand wrapped around the man’s thick cock. It felt good—warm, alive. Marc mimicked the man’s rhythm, watching his face twist with pleasure. The TV shifted to a deep blowjob scene. A porn actor’s massive cock filled the screen, a woman’s head pushed down hard. Why are they always so big? Marc thought.
Something stirred. Deep. Primal. Marc leaned in, kissing the tip of the man’s cock. A soft moan escaped the man, then a louder, hungrier one. Marc’s tongue flicked the tip, tasting pre-cum. His own cock hardened again, impossibly stiff. He licked down one side, up the other, savoring the flavor. He paused at the tip, circling his tongue. “It’s okay?” he asked, looking up.
The man met his gaze. “Yeah, sure. I didn’t expect this. You don’t have to.”
“Can I continue?” Marc’s face burned, his cock throbbing.
The man nodded. Marc mimicked the TV, taking the cock into his mouth. Clumsy at first, worried about his teeth. He slowed, found a rhythm—swirling his tongue at the tip, then deeper, faster. Sucking lightly, releasing. The man’s moans grew louder, his eyes fixed on Marc. Time vanished. Marc was lost in the act, the man’s pleasure fueling his own. The man’s cock hardened, pulsed. Marc froze, unsure. Cum erupted, sliding down as he opened his mouth, unwilling to swallow. He stroked himself, cumming again in seconds.
Marc collapsed on the bed, breathless. The man panted, recovering. Silence settled. Marc’s mind raced. I’m not gay. But I loved it. The taste. The smell. Shame crept in, but so did thrill. The bedside clock read past 2 a.m. Another grueling day loomed.
“I should go,” Marc said, voice shaky. “Need rest.”
The man smiled. “I’ll shower and crash too. Thanks… I’ll never forget it.”
Marc pulled up his pants, slipped on the flip-flops, and left without looking back. Back in his room, he collapsed, mind swirling, body spent, chasing a few hours of sleep before dawn.
