Motorway Motel Madness

Car broke down at midnight, middle of nowhere. The motel was the only option—one of those places that time forgot, with a flickering sign and a night manager who looked like she'd forgotten too.

Patricia was fifty-something, thick in that comfortable way, with reading glasses and a cardigan that was losing its battle with her chest.

"Just the one night?"

"Depends on the mechanic."

"Brian comes at nine. You'll be here at least until then." She handed me a key. "Room 7. Vending machine's broken, but I've got snacks behind the counter."

I came back for crisps. Stayed for something else entirely.

She was reading a paperback when I returned—something with a shirtless man on the cover. She looked up, caught my eye on the book.

"Don't judge. It's the only entertainment around here."

"I wasn't judging."

"You were smiling."

"Because I get it. Nothing else to do out here."

She closed the book, looked at me properly. "Forty years married. He died two years ago. Left me this place and a lot of time to fill." She sighed. "Sorry. Don't know why I'm telling you this."

"Because I asked. Or near enough."

"You're kind." She took off her glasses. "Don't get many kind ones. Mostly truckers and affairs." She paused. "Which are you?"

"Neither. Just stranded."

"Stranded." She smiled. "That's rare. Fancy keeping me company? I've got whiskey."

Two glasses later, we were on the sofa in her tiny living area behind reception. She'd told me about her husband, her life, her loneliness. I'd listened.

"You're a good listener," she said.

"You're worth listening to."

She kissed me without warning—soft, tentative, then harder when I responded. She tasted like whiskey and something floral.

"God, it's been so long," she breathed. "I'm probably rubbish."

"Let me be the judge of that."

Her cardigan came off, then her blouse. Her bra was functional, white, but what was inside was magnificent. Heavy, natural, nipples hard when I touched them.

"Like them?"

"They're beautiful. You're beautiful."

She pushed me back on the sofa, straddled me with surprising confidence. Her skirt hiked up, tights torn, knickers pushed aside.

"Need this—please—"

I slid into her and she moaned—deep, satisfied, like she'd been waiting years.

"Harder—I won't break—"

I gave her everything, and she took it all. She came three times before I did, each one louder than the last.

"Inside me—please—"

I came deep, holding her against me.

We stayed there, tangled, catching breath.

"Stay another night?" she asked. "On the house."

I stayed three. Brian the mechanic understood.

Best breakdown I ever had.