Hotel hands

At one a.m. she called reception and asked for the towels.
There were never any towels in the hotels these days. Hiding them in the cupboard, she heard the soft knock on the door. She opened it slightly, just enough for him to see her naked wet breasts and dripping hair, taking a towel from the stack he carried, wrapped it around herself and asked him to put the others in the bath-room.
Once they were inside it never failed. It only took moments and some silly encouraging before their hands were on her body, the soft and strong hands of young hotel clerks on their night-shift. She loved the hotel hands, the way they made her feel when they stroked her warm smooth skin, the way they brushed away the tiresome troubles of another day on the road.
She let them wander and feel her, explore her, excite her and make her oil flow, let their fingers work on her precious pearl and slip in and out of her until she came, her brain cleaned, her body soft and at ease. She sucked the fingers and slipped into the calm sleep of afterglow after giving them their tip and hearing the door lock behind them.
Her last conscious thoughts were always of her children and Jack at home, waiting for her. But first there were a few more business meetings. And a few more hotels.