But it was. It really was. Wherever I stood, he was watching. I moved deliberately, from one corner to another, then another, then the other, and each time, when I turned round, he was staring at me.

Those eyes. Blue, expressionless, revealing nothing. And yet, somehow, charged with erotic intent. I can't explain it. I just felt it.

Finally, he walked towards me, watching me all the time. Despite myself, I felt a blush around my cheek and neck, and I struggled to keep his gaze. My heart was hammering, throat dry, but just as I thought he was about to speak, he turned away and passed by. A frisson of disappointment went down my spine, but instantly I felt something smooth across my backside. A hand - slow and deliberate - fondling each buttock in turn.

Of all the nerve.

I turned, but he was gone, and I saw him stride down the hallway to the toilets. I sipped at my wine self-consciously, looking around to see if anyone had noticed, but the world was turning as normal, oblivious to my dilemma.

For dilemma it was: what was I going to do when he came back?

Partly, I was deeply turned on. It had always been a fantasy of mine, to meet a complete stranger, look into his eyes and decide I wanted to fuck him. And the longer he had stared at me, the more I had enjoyed reliving my fantasy. But that touch - that single stroke across my arse - took it out of fantasy and into reality.

Did I want that?

I was still debating when he returned - when once more his hand caressed my buttock, when he squeezed deliberately, slowly, as though assessing its worth. I turned in amazement, not sure whether to slap or kiss him.

"I'm going to fuck you tonight," he said. Loudly. Loud enough for people to hear. An embarrassed silence surrounded me, the guests - mostly only nodding acquaintances - looking into space and pretending they hadn't heard, while straining to hear more. And then he was gone again. My mind was spinning and I thought I was going to be sick. Common-sense was screaming at me to flee, but the mysterious promise of forbidden pleasures churned up my emotions.

Suddenly hot, I retreated to the toilets to gather my thoughts. I stared in the mirror, catching fear in my eyes. "Get out," I said. "Get out while you can. You don't need this."

But, as I spoke the words, I knew I couldn't. The re-application of lipstick gave the lie to my words. I was getting sucked in, and I couldn't resist it. I returned to the reception and searched out another glass of wine, liquid courage to settle my nerves. Scanning the room, I searched for him, but couldn't see him anywhere. Once more, relief and disappointment mingled in my mind, and I began to respond automatically to a polite enquiry from a vague acquaintance.

"No, not far, came up from London this morning." The acquaintance wasn't listening. She was looking over my shoulder. I turned, and he was there.

"I'm ready to fuck now. Room 1153. Don't be long." I didn't even see his face, just the back of his head as he walked through the throng. Then he was gone, and I was confronted by the faces of everyone nearby. All staring at me. Judging me. Wondering whether I would go or not. Their faces seemed to crowd round me, jangling, mingling, merging into one solid mass of humiliation. What the hell could I do? If I stayed, I would be pointed at and sniggered over for the rest of the evening. If I left, everyone would no where I was going.

And why.

My polite acquaintance stared at me, clearly expecting the answer to some question. I smiled absently. I knew that everyone was thinking about me, thinking about sex, thinking about me having sex. A few of them might even have had hard-ons - and if I walked out the door right then, most of them definitely would.

And me?

Yes, I was excited. I was turned on. My stomach was churning, a sickly fluttering assailing my womb. I knew I was wet. But why?

He was a stranger. Someone I'd never met. Never spoken to. And yet, he'd come up to me, told me he wanted to fuck me and gave me his room number. And expected me to make a public exit in search of his bed, his cock, his fuck. The insolence of it, the arrogance, the sheer bloody selfishness of deliberately putting me into such a humiliating position.

He was testing me. Testing my nerve, seeing how far I would go. And while part of me wanted to tell him to fuck off, I'd always loved a challenge. I'd always hated to lose.

I turned to my acquaintance, and to the throng in general. "Excuse me," I said. "I have to go. I have a rendezvous, it seems."

I walked out, feeling more daring than I had ever known, my head thrumming with erotic tension, with fear, with a self-consciousness which was excruciating. My legs were heavy and uncoordinated and I felt as though I were drunk.

I wish I was. It would explain my stupidity.

I stood in front of Room 1153 and knocked. Waited for a stranger to open it. To invite me in. To fuck me. I tried to compose myself as the door opened.

He was naked. He was erect. He ushered me in. I entered, leaving my senses behind.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"You don't want to know, really."

"I might."

"No. It would spoil it. I'm a stranger. You know nothing about me. Except that I'm going to fuck you."

Walk away, walk away, my brain screamed. But, crazily, his words made sense. I nodded. "Okay."

"Now, strip."

He turned away and I felt a flush of anger. Anger at his rudeness, and at my acquiesence, because immediately I began to unbutton my dress. He finally turned to watch and I blushed as I slid my dress over my shoulders and let it fall to the ground. He made no response, but his cock twitched in what I took to be appreciation, and I reached behind to unclasp my bra. Dropping my shoulders, I let it fall to the floor and hooked my thumbs in the waistband of my panties, pulling them over my thighs and knees and letting them, too, slide from me. I stood up, naked.

"Very nice," he said.

"Thank you."

"Doggy style. On the bed."

Again, I was overcome by shock and anger. My mouth opened, but no words escaped. I knew what I'd let myself in for the moment I knocked on his door, and no measure of false indignation now could mask my culpability. Or my desire. Silently, I walked to the bed and draped myself across it.

"Arse up. That's it. Higher."

I felt a slap as his hand fell across it. Yelping I looked round, but he was on me already, his cock nuzzling at my pussy and his hand on my neck.

"Forward," he said. "Look forward." By now, he was pressing hard against me. Clearly, foreplay didn't come into his plans. I reached back and parted my pussy lips, smoothing my moisture over his glans, and he pushed forward, his cock thrusting inside me. As soon as he was in, he began to fuck me, hard and fast, his balls banging against me and his cock sliding its full length in and out of my pussy. He continued to slap at my buttocks, as though encouraging a lazy horse.

And, indeed, that's what I felt like - a horse, being mounted and ridden, hard into the distance, while my rider, anonymously behind me, led the way. His hand snaked round my thigh and reached for my pussy, fumbling until it found my clit. Not breaking his rhythm, he began to squeeze and stroke it, scratching a fingernail across it. Normally, this would have been too much and I would have had to stop, but it seemed right, in the middle of this frantic fucking. I began to pant, to sigh, to scream, to cry, and I could do nothing to prevent it.

"Fuck me," I shouted. "Fuck me. Harder."

This was the antithesis of what I liked. I love build-up, foreplay, fondling, caressing. I want to hear sweet words, feel kisses, exchange passion. And here I was being battered from behind, my clitoris mauled, my arse smacked, my hair pulled. And all the time I was screaming for more. I felt like a different person. I felt like I was in a dream, or a film, perhaps, where my fantasies were coming violently to life.

I arched my back and thrust my bum upwards, inviting him to spear deeper inside me. My body was throbbing. My muscles were aching with the tension of holding this position, while my insides felt as though they were about to explode. I opened my eyes, but couldn't see anything except desire, whirling around my in a dizzy haze.

This was everything I'd ever dreamed of, and dreaded, and dared to hope for. I was soaked with desire and his hard cock pistoned in and out of me with unforgiving force. "Yes," I shouted with each stroke. "Yes, yes, yes. Now, now, now."

"Shut up," he said and slapped my arse hard. "Just fuck, slut."

Had anyone even suggested that someone might say that to me, I'd have hit them and flounced out of the room. And yet he did, and I shut up. More than that, I thrust harder against him, pushing myself back into his crotch, feeling the slap of his balls on my thigh, the grind of his cock in my cunt. I was furious, livid. This was the angriest fuck I'd ever had.

And - I knew, I honestly knew - the best.

I tossed my head back, knowing that he would grab my hair. He did. I yelled and he pulled hard, yanking my head back even further.

"Bastard," I screamed and ground against him.

"Shut up, bitch." He slapped me again, with stinging force, then again and again. I bunched my hands and bit my lip, letting the anger well inside me, letting it conjoin with the lust in my cunt, letting them mingle into some greater force - a huge, seething mass of emotion.

"Now!" I yelled, as the climax began to unravel in my womb. It whorled and whooshed into my stomach and chest, my thighs and legs, then exploded into my head. "Now, you bastard, now!" And he thrust harder, harder, ever harder, his cock rammed as deep as it could go, butting painfully against my vagina walls. All around, the room was a muddying wash of browns and oranges and deepest reds. My body was tingling, throbbing, overcome by heat, and it seemed that my senses - overloaded by the extremity of the moment - had switched themselves off. I was deafened by silence, my hands too shocked to feel.

His cock continued to pummel me, harder and harder, his strokes getting ever shorter. He gripped my waist, squeezing hard, yelling as his groin welded itself to my arse. A huge bellow echoed round the room as he came, and I felt his spunk, hot and coursing, explode inside me in three almighty spurts. Still he fucked on, still I pushed back against him, until every drop of come had been expelled from his cock.

I lay forward, panting, my arse still in the air, his cock still embedded in my cunt. I was coated with sweat. I was shaking.

"Now get dressed and go back down to the reception," he said. "Bring back some champagne." I turned and stared at him in amazement. He had to be joking. I couldn't go downstairs looking like this. I felt my cheek and knew how red I must look.

"Hurry up," he said. "I'm thirsty. "And if anyone asks, tell them you just had the fuck of your life. Okay?"

His jaw was thrust towards me arrogantly. He already knew the answer. So did I.

"Okay."

Quietly, I slipped on my dress and shoes and opened the door.