The Tampa Casino Hotel Penthouse Elevator (An Erotic Narrative)
The Tampa Casino Hotel
Penthouse Elevator
AJ & Carrie
(An Erotic Narrative)
Written By
Ara Fig
MMXXVI
Going Down/ Love In An Elevator · Aerosmith
℗ 1989 UMG Recordings, Inc.
* * *
The Tampa Casino Hotel
Penthouse Elevator
The penthouse elevator doors slid shut with a soft, expensive *thunk*. Stainless-steel walls reflected the two of them in soft distortion—Carrie Lupertazzi in that short white silk dress that barely covered the tops of her thighs, and AJ Soprano in his immaculate white suit, the jacket open just enough to show the dark hair on his chest.
Carrie didn’t press a button.
Instead she stepped in front of him, one hand still holding the white CLEO bag by its gold chain, the other rising to the control panel. Her finger hovered over the red emergency stop for a beat, then pressed it. The elevator shuddered to a halt between floors. The digital display froze on 55. A soft alarm chimed once, then went quiet.
AJ’s dark eyes narrowed.
“The fuck are you doing?”
Carrie smiled—slow, knowing, the same full mouth her mother had, the same heavy-lidded eyes that had already watched him earlier. She set the CLEO bag on the floor beside her bare feet (she’d slipped the white heels off the moment the doors closed) and stepped into his space until the silk of her dress brushed the front of his trousers.
“I saw you,” she said, voice low and husky. “Earlier. In the penthouse suite.”
AJ’s jaw flexed. He didn’t move, but his hands stayed in his pockets, fingers curling.
Carrie tilted her head, letting the heavy black waves of her hair spill over one shoulder. The dress was cut so low that when she breathed the inner curves of her breasts pressed together, the silk dampening slightly against her skin from the heat of the closed elevator.
Carrie smiled—slow, knowing, the same full mouth her mother had, the same heavy-lidded eyes that had already watched him earlier. She set the CLEO bag on the floor beside her bare feet (she’d slipped the white heels off the moment the doors closed) and stepped into his space until the silk of her dress brushed the front of his trousers.
“I saw you,” she said, voice low and husky. “Earlier. In the penthouse suite.”
AJ’s jaw flexed. He didn’t move, but his hands stayed in his pockets, fingers curling.
Carrie tilted her head, letting the heavy black waves of her hair spill over one shoulder. The dress was cut so low that when she breathed the inner curves of her breasts pressed together, the silk dampening slightly against her skin from the heat of the closed elevator.
“You were with my mother,” she continued. “Nicole. And Nonna Trafficante. Nesch. The three of you on that big white couch overlooking the bay. I came up to drop off the champagne they ordered. I didn’t knock. I never do.”
She reached up and traced one fingertip along the open collar of his white shirt, feeling the heat of his skin. “You had my mother’s legs over your shoulders. Nonna was on her knees between you both, licking wherever she could reach. You looked like you were in heaven, AJ. Like you’d finally found the family you always wanted.”
AJ’s breathing had gone shallow. “Carrie—”
“Shh.” She pressed the same finger to his lips. “I’m not jealous. I’m… curious. And generous. If you liked the older versions of the lineage so much…” She let the finger trail down his chin, his throat, over the open buttons of his shirt until it rested against the hard plane of his stomach. “…then you should try the younger one. Fresher. Tighter. Still learning how to use what she inherited.”
She sank slowly to her knees right there on the polished marble floor of the elevator, the white silk dress riding up until the bare cheeks of her ass were visible in the mirrored walls. Her hands went to his belt. The soft clink of the buckle was loud in the silent car.
AJ’s hand finally left his pocket and settled in her hair—not pushing, just resting, heavy and warm. “You’re fucking crazy,” he muttered, but his cock was already thickening against the front of his white trousers.
Carrie smiled up at him as she freed him. He was thick, heavy, already half-hard and growing under her fingers. She leaned in and breathed against the head, lips brushing the sensitive skin. “Maybe. But I’m also right.”
She took him into her mouth slowly, tongue flat and wet along the underside, tasting the faint salt of him. AJ’s head tipped back against the steel wall with a soft thud. His fingers tightened in her hair.
Carrie worked him with the same deliberate, almost worshipful attention she’d watched her mother use earlier—deep, wet, unhurried strokes of her mouth, one hand stroking what she couldn’t fit, the other slipping under the short hem of her dress to touch herself. She was already slick. The silk of the dress clung to her thighs.
When she pulled off, a thin string of spit connected her lower lip to the head of his cock. She looked up at him through her lashes.
“They told me things about you,” she whispered. “How you like to take your time. How you like to watch a woman’s face when you first push inside. How you made Nonna come just from fucking her throat.” Her fingers tightened around the base of him. “I want that. I want you to look at me the same way you looked at them—like I’m something you’re claiming.”
AJ hauled her up by the hair—not roughly, but firm—and turned her so her back was against his chest. One arm locked around her waist. The other shoved the short white dress up over her hips. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. The cool air of the elevator kissed the wet heat between her legs for half a second before his fingers found her.
He groaned against her ear when he felt how soaked she already was. “Jesus Christ, Carrie…”
“I watched you make my mother come twice,” she panted, rolling her hips into his hand. “I touched myself in the hallway outside the door. I almost came just from the sounds. Then I decided I wanted the real thing.”
AJ’s fingers pushed inside her—two of them, thick and long—and she cried out softly, head falling back against his shoulder. He worked her open while his other hand yanked the top of her dress down, freeing her breasts. His palm closed over one, squeezing, thumb dragging across the tight nipple.
“You want to be next in line?” he growled against her neck. “You want me to treat you like the rest of the Trafficante women?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Fuck yes.”
He spun her around, lifted her easily, and pinned her back against the cold steel wall. Carrie’s legs wrapped around his waist. The head of his cock nudged against her entrance—hot, blunt, already leaking. She reached down between them, guided him, and then he was pushing in.
The stretch made her moan long and low. He was thicker than she’d expected, filling her in one slow, relentless thrust until he bottomed out and they both went still, breathing hard.
AJ’s forehead pressed to hers.
“Fuck… you’re tight.”
“Younger model,”
She whispered, smiling against his mouth.
“Told you.”
He started moving—deep, measured strokes that made the elevator car rock almost imperceptibly. Every thrust dragged against the front wall of her cunt. Carrie clung to his shoulders, nails digging into the expensive white fabric of his jacket. The silk dress was bunched around her waist. One of her breasts was still free, bouncing with every hard snap of his hips.
AJ fucked her like he was trying to erase the memory of the older women—harder, deeper, eyes locked on hers the entire time. When she started to clench around him he reached down and rubbed tight circles over her clit with his thumb.
Carrie came with a broken cry, thighs shaking around his waist, cunt pulsing wet and rhythmic around his cock. AJ followed a few strokes later, burying himself to the hilt and flooding her with thick, hot pulses while he groaned her name against her throat.
They stayed locked together for a long moment, breathing hard, the only sound the soft hum of the stopped elevator and the distant muffled music from the casino floors far below.
Carrie eventually lowered her legs. Come slid down the inside of one thigh, warm and messy. She didn’t bother fixing her dress yet. Instead she leaned up and kissed him—slow, filthy, tasting herself on his tongue.
“Next time,” she murmured against his lips, “I want Nonna and my mother to watch.”
AJ’s cock twitched weakly against her stomach at the words.
Carrie smiled, picked up the white CLEO bag, and calmly pressed the button to resume the elevator’s climb. The car jolted back into motion. She straightened the silk dress just enough to cover herself as the digital display began climbing again toward the penthouse.
When the doors opened onto the private foyer, she stepped out first, looking over her shoulder with that same knowing Trafficante smile.
“Coming, AJ?”
He adjusted his white suit, still half-hard, and followed her out into the penthouse like a man who already knew he was in deeper than he planned.
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2026
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