What I Think About in Las Vegas

[ExploreHer]

Teaser: I land at the Las Vegas airport. I am here on business, attending a conference for my company. I am away from my wife and kids. I don’t gamble. I barely drink or smoke. I don’t enjoy singers and dancers and magicians. So what do I do?
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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.

The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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Index:

n/a
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Title: What I Think About in Las Vegas
Author: ExploreHer
Content Warnings: This story offers intentionally-vague descriptions of nonconsensual sex inside a hotel.
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Chapter 1 (of 1)

I land at the Las Vegas airport. I am here on business, attending a conference for my company. I am away from my wife and kids. I don’t gamble. I barely drink or smoke. I don’t enjoy singers and dancers and magicians.

I step onto the tram to the next terminal. A man who has clearly been awake for more than 36 hours explains how he is about to miss another flight.

I take an Uber to my hotel – the Costmopolitan. I’d heard of it, I think I ate there once before. But all of these Vegas hotels are the same scientifically-engineered capitalism building on steroids. But they do have different paint colors.

I wait in line to check in behind an older Asian couple, two young Black women, a full family with their luggage, and a few others.
Eventually it’s my turn and I approach the desk. The woman is nice, and offers me a small water bottle. She asks if I am okay with two queen beds. I say I don’t care, it was just what the company booked for me. She asks if I would prefer a king bed instead. I say sure. She gets on the phone, and after a few minutes, says I have been upgraded to a room with king bed, a terrace and view of the Strip. I agree, rolling my eyes. How much nicer could a room with a view in a soulless city built to take your money really be?

I smile politely and step into the elevator. I press the button for my floor. I realize I have to use my key card. I try again, and this time it works.

So here I sit, alone in Las Vegas. On my balcony. In my pajamas. In a robe and slippers provided by the hotel. They are both pure white - a sign of purity from housekeeping and hotel management. As if to say “this place is pristine. This place is clean. This place is safe.”

How many women have been raped in this hotel? In which rooms? Surely they did not feel pristine waking up in a stranger’s bed. Surely they did not feel clean wondering what they did last night, and with whom. Surely they did not feel safe, unsure of his name, how she got here, or if she was violated. Surely she felt violated, with such pain between her legs.

The Bellagio’s famous fountain begins to burst, outshining every billboard and hotel on the Strip. The columns of water dance. It is beautiful. But it is also just another way for hotel management to say “everything here is beautiful. We will make you feel beautiful.”

How many women have been raped in that hotel? It is a big one, I think the second-biggest on the strip, but I don’t bother to look it up. Surely those women did not feel beautiful, looking at themselves in the mirror. Does she even recognize herself? Maybe it is the running black mascara, or her dress, one spaghetti strap below her shoulder, an a bruise on her collarbone, and around her neck.

The Eiffel Tower shimmers as it changes color - stripes, solids, red, blue, white – each transition spotted by glittering white lights. More dazzling spectacles to distract your eye and your mind. “Every moment here will be a camera flash! A memorable photo with your friends, a drink, a toast!”

How many women have been raped in that hotel? How many have blacked out and taken a not-so-memorable photo? Or maybe there is a photo memorable for someone else, but not for her - she was unconscious. Her skin reflecting the camera flash in the dim room. Was she with friends? Or maybe it was someone she thought was a friend. Maybe it all started with a drink, a toast? Did she drink too much? Or did he slip her a roofie during the toast? Cheers to that.

The Flamingo’s bright pink sign letters. Nonstop flashing, reminiscent of a Vegas from many years ago. Do many animals capture our full attention more than Flamingos? That is exactly what hotel management wants – to capture your attention, so you look away from the problems.

How many women have been raped in that hotel? You look away from the college girl, finally 21, too drunk to stand, and the man draping her over his shoulder. You look away from the prostitute, already desperate, forced to work longer hours for less money. And more twisted clients with twisted requests. Surely some did not feel like requests.

A new hotel is being built farther down the Strip. The Hard Rock. The hotel will be shaped like a guitar, standing on its side, curves and all. I see the hotel taking shape. When it is complete, they will say listen to the music. The loud music. The party music.

So how many women will be raped in that hotel? You won’t listen to the thuds against the wall. You won't listen to her screams, whoever she is. You won’t listen to her groans, her cries, her pleas. In some rooms there might not even be any sound to not-listen to.

I go back into my hotel room and close the balcony door. I take a leak, and move over to the couch in the separate sitting area. Cheers again, check in lady. I toss a towel to the side. Pure white, like the robe and slippers.

How many times has housekeeping found blood on the towels? How many of those were from a woman cleaning herself up after he hit her? How many were women cleaning themselves in the shower, trying to wash him off, and out, of her. How many wiped these towels between their legs and found blood? How many cried for so long they never bothered to check?

Las Vegas has thousands and thousands, of hotel rooms. They design lights and smells to trick your mind into drinking more. They quite literally sell sex.

But no one seems to talk about how many women are raped here. How many are unconscious from drinking or drugs? How many are coerced by their boss at a conference? How many are fully aware of what is happening to them? How many are terrified? How many are resigned? How many are in too much pain to feel anything else? How many will admit it? How many will tell their friends what happened to them in Las Vegas? How many will feel shame from it? How many will tell everyone that will listen?

And what do they look like?

So here I sit, alone, on a couch, in my hotel room. I imagine all of the women I’d seen today. Mostly the skinny ones. The hot ones. Especially the one I saw in a very short, very red dress with sparkles. She could barely stand when I saw her thanks to those heels, and her night was only just beginning.

Maybe tonight I will jerk off. Not maybe, I will. And I will imagine some woman, in this same room, maybe even last night. Groaning as he climbs on top of her, mounting her dry. I will imagine her small frame pinned under him. I will imagine her being tossed over, onto her stomach. I will imagine him lying on top of her, and working his cock into her ass. I will imagine his hand covering her mouth. I will imagine her whimpers and screams as she is stretched. I will imagine her pleas for mercy, for it to end. I will imagine the power he felt with his cock parked inside her body. I will imagine the feeling of triumph, of conquering, of control, that he felt as he pulsed and throbbed inside her.

I will imagine all of it.

But I will never do it. I am just an ordinary man. I am here on business, attending a conference for my company. I am away from my wife and kids. I don’t gamble. I barely drink or smoke. I don’t enjoy singers and dancers and magicians. I am normal.

End of story
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My goal was to remind the reader that this could be anyone. The most calm, professional man they know has these thoughts and desires. I hope this story can elicit a sense of unease and general nerves in everyday life.

[Shocker]

A very interesting take on sin city. To be honest I was expecting the story to end on a note like “how many women were raped in this hotel, I don’t know but the number is going up by one”.

Your end still was quite perfect.

[Claire]

One small technical detail first: I changed the length-tag from flash to short. The story is about 1350 words long and the flash tag is only for stories with 1000 words or less.

About the story itself: I think it's a great short story. If it was actually flash fiction I'd say it'd be one of the best we have on the forum.

For me, it starts with the title. "What I think about in Las Vegas" is a great title, I love it. Las Vegas is of course associated with all kinds of debauchery and the "thinking" hangs over the story like a promise I didn't believe you'd keep. I expected that at some point the story would shift from thoughts into action but you never do. And the story is better for it.

I also like the restrained, weary tone of the narration. I captures nicely that this is just some guy who is clealy aroused by these fantasies while also not being fully comfortable with his thoughts.

I have a few minor suggestions that I think would polish this story just a tiny bit further, but I'll only share those if you're interested. The story is very good as is.

[ExploreHer]

One small technical detail first: I changed the length-tag from flash to short. The story is about 1350 words long and the flash tag is only for stories with 1000 words or less.

Thank you, still getting used to the technical aspects of it all.

I have a few minor suggestions that I think would polish this story just a tiny bit further, but I'll only share those if you're interested. The story is very good as is.

I'm open to suggestions, and thank you for the kind words!