Carol’s Trinity 1

by Kirsten McCurran

  Carol’s Trinity

  A Hotwife Menage

  Kirsten McCurran

  Aphrodite Omnimedia

  Carol’s Trinity: A Hotwife Menage

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  © 2018 Aphrodite Omnimedia. All Rights Reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced for distribution by any means physical, mechanical or electronic without the explicit written permission of the copyright holder.

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  This is a work of fiction. All characters and locations are fictitious or used fictitiously.

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  Cover image licensed from iStockphoto. Individuals pictured are models and are used for illustrative purposes only.

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  First Smashwords edition published digitally February 2019

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Also by Kirsten McCurran

  About the Author

  One

  “Wow, this is really nice,” I say, sliding past the porter who held the door open to our suite. “Are you sure we can afford this?”

  “We’re celebrating something momentous. And you’re worth it, babe,” John tells me. But my husband knows I’m thrifty, so he adds, “I also got a great deal on it.

  We stand in a large living room area, with a bar to the right. The wall behind the bar is mirrored. To the left it’s all windows, looking out on the gorgeous Pocono mountains. The porter takes our luggage through double doors into the bedroom. John generously tips him, and he leaves, wishing us luck in the casino downstairs. John thanks him, but we’re not there to gamble. I enjoy throwing money away in the slots, but neither of us are big gamblers. We’re staying at one of those big hotel-resort casinos in the Poconos, but I know my surprise will not be a night at the craps table. My husband must have other plans.

  I feel bad for my husband sometimes. Every year he must find a way to hold a triple celebration. We were married on Valentine’s Day, and even though I always tell John I don’t expect him to do something for both our anniversary and the romantic holiday, he insists on doing so anyway. On top of that, my birthday is a week-and-a-half later. It’s all amplified this year. Not only is this our ten-year anniversary, but I’m also celebrating—if you want to call it that—my 40th birthday. John has promised me something I’ll never forget and despite my persistent snooping, he has not spoiled the surprise. I just hope he doesn’t set the bar too high. Next year John will be fifty and I’m going to have to try and match him.

  Once we’re alone in the suite, I press myself into John’s arms. Our kiss is slow and soulful and brings a sudden urge to drag him back to the bedroom. I pull him in that direction, but he resists. I’ll admit, it’s not the best thing for my ego. I’m already touchy about turning the big four-oh.

  “Come on, honey. It was a long drive. We could use some relaxation time,” I say, hoping he takes my hint.

  “I’ve got that covered, babe. You have an appointment in the spa in twenty minutes. They’re going to pamper you for the next couple hours.”

  “Really?”

  “This weekend is all about you, Carol.”

  “It’s your anniversary, too.”

  “Don’t you worry. I’ll get what I need.”

  I caress the front of his jeans. “I could take care of that right now. We have twenty minutes.”

  John kisses me. “Save it for later. It’ll be worth it.”

  I pout. I don’t like being put off. “If you don’t want to do it, maybe I’ll just have to take care of myself.”

  “Hey, if you’re lucky maybe you’ll get a hunky masseur.”

  I rub myself suggestively against my husband. “And you wouldn’t mind if he has his way with me?”

  John smiles. “Like I said, this weekend is all about you, babe.”

  “Hmm.”

  I go into the bedroom to unpack, feeling naughty and frustrated. Not that sex is on my mind, I really want it—even if a couple hours in the spa sounds absolutely decadent. It would serve John right if some hunky, well-hung masseur did have his way with me. I’ve heard of such things happening, so it’s not beyond the realm of possibility. I talked to a girlfriend about the possibility when that massage chain scandal broke last year. She was horrified by the idea. I very honestly told her it would depend on my mood and what the guy looked like. My friend was scandalized!

  John and I are hardly uptight when it comes to sex. We haven’t quite gone crazy yet in real life, but we share a rich fantasy life. We’ve never been shy about sharing our sexual fantasies—no matter how out there they are. That openness was one of the things that brought us together. After being married to an uptight, hardcore Catholic, I was ready for something new. I wanted a man who didn’t make me feel dirty for loving sex. Sometimes I wonder if John and I will take some of our fantasies past the roleplaying stage. I’ve always had massages from women, but we’ve discussed a handsome masseur having his way with me, and John was excited by it—to say the least. It makes me wonder how he would react if it happened in real life.

  After unpacking, John escorts me down to the hotel spa. The elevators open onto a quiet, soothing area with recessed lighting, a waterfall, and a small reception desk. I’m more relaxed already. This is where we part. I ask John what he’s going to do while I’m being pampered, and he uncharacteristically says he’ll play a few rounds of blackjack. I’m suspicious, but I let it go.

  “Okay, have fun. Don’t lose our life savings,” I tell him.

  A sweet young woman hands me a glass of cucumber water and directs me to a changing booth, where a fluffy white robe awaits me. I shed my sandals, leggings, tunic and underwear and place them in the provided tote with my little wallet. Next, I’m led to a massage room.

  The room is quite small, and the lighting even dimmer than the rest of the spa. The massage table in the middle of the room is made up with fresh, soft linens. New-agey music drifts from recessed speakers. The girl leaves me alone, and as instructed I strip off the robe, but before I slide under the sheet on the massage table, I check myself out in a full-length mirror.

  I look good for almost forty, I decide. But it’s hard work. Just that morning, I hit a yoga class before I took my son to the ex’s, and John and I dropped Isabella at his mother’s. Yoga, spin class, running. It takes a lot of time, but fortunately I enjoy working out and always have. It’s the serums and facial masks and dyes I hate bothering with, but they’re necessary. At least to me they are. I want to look as good as I can for as long as I can. I turn this way and that, touching my—mostly—flat stomach, cupping my still-perky boobs. I stopped wearing my belly piercing a few years ago, but I bet I could still get away with it. Even my ass is in good shape I decide, allowing that the dim lighting is flattering. I wouldn’t be ashamed to have some hunky, twentysomething masseur come in and see me like this. He might even like what he sees. I finally put my dark-framed glasses aside and slipped under the sheet on the table to await my pampering.

  “Hello, Carol?” It’s a soft, feminine voice. I detect the hint of a Slavic accent.

  So much for my hunky masseur. Come to think of it, I’ve never actually had a male masseur. Maybe I don’t want to tempt fate. But I didn’t hire her. John must have asked for a female masseuse. I guess he didn’t want to tempt fate either.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I answer, not moving. My honey blonde hair is swept to the side and my face is planted in that donut-ring at the head of the massage table.

  “I’m Natalia, I’ll be taking care of you.”

  “Great. I need it after the week I’ve had.”

  “Do you like
it hard or soft?”

  I have to suppress my first instinct—a snarky, sexual answer. I haven’t forgotten that my husband left me frustrated. “Medium firm,” I tell her.

  Natalia is good, and although it hurts in some spots—especially my shoulders—I don’t mind because I know I need it. While she works on me, I try to deduce what other surprises my loving hubby might have up his sleeve for tonight, but Natalia is very good, and soon my mind is clearing, and my world is reduced to the darkness, her hands and that background music. Natalia folds the sheet down past my ass but I hardly notice, and I don’t mind. It’s not my first massage and I’m comfortable being nude around her. Her oil-slick hands work my calves and my feet, and I sigh in relief. Her hands are heavenly.

  I’m so enthralled by Natalia that it takes a moment to realize something is slightly off. She’s been working her way back up my legs, her slender fingers working the insides of my thighs. That’s not so unusual, although she’s more caressing me now than massaging. But she’s travelling higher and higher inside my thighs, touching places that start to make me tingle. I will myself not to react. I’m sure it’s all me. John left me horny, and it’s not exactly tough to get me going if I’m in the right mood. I’ll be honest. I’m in that mood a lot! I lay still, regulating my breathing and waiting for her to move on.

  Natalia doesn’t move on. She begins massaging my butt, and it feels surprisingly good. She has me in a totally receptive place. As she’s kneading my cheeks, I realize she’s also opening my thighs wider, and her fingers start dipping between them again. Her fingertips brush my sex and I freeze. Her hand lingers on my inner thigh and I realize it’s a test. If I close my thighs, she moves on—if I don’t… I’m frozen. I don’t know what to do. That makes the decision for me.

  I sigh deeply as I tacitly permit the Slavic girl to work my inner thighs. I have a strange thought in that moment: I’m so glad I shaved smooth in preparation for our special night. It feels so licentious to lay here and let her touch me, but I can’t help myself. Natalia is excellent at the tease. Her fingers brush across my mound, almost like it’s an accident, but she returns there again and again, each time more firmly, pressing until she feels my moisture. I bite my lip to keep from moaning, but she can read my body language. My thighs drift wider apart and I’m squirming on the table. She finally presses fully between my lips and I gasp, unable to contain myself any longer.

  “Very good, Carol. Relax,” she says softly. They are the first words she’s said since she introduced herself.

  There is no longer any doubt that Natalia is massaging my labia intentionally, fingers pressing between my lips, and I’m rapidly becoming soaked. Her fingers curve beneath me and she finds the nub of my clit. Oh God! I want her to touch me there, but again she only teases. I wonder how many middle-aged married women Natalia has teased this way and whether it’s her specialty. Maybe they ask for her. It occurs to me that John may have set me up, but how would he know to ask?

  “Please to turn over,” she asks. Her fractured English is cute.

  I take a deep breath and turn. During other massages, the girls hold up the sheet in the name of modesty, but Natalia doesn’t bother with that pretense. I turn in all my naked glory and present myself to Natalia. She oils her hands again and goes back to work.

  “Good?” she asks.

  “Mmhm,” I answer, nodding my head with eyes closed. I can’t look. I’m afraid if I make eye contact with her it will break the spell. I don’t want to think about what’s happening. I just want to go with it.

  I’ve never been with another woman before, not really. I drunkenly made out with a friend in a bar once, but my first husband was so freaked out I never even saw that friend again. It was nice from what I remember. I’ve always been curious what it’s like, but I’ve never had a burning desire to make it happen. It’s one of those things I’d go with if it happened organically—or for John’s birthday sometime, whichever came first. Yes, all my husband wanted for his birthday was a threesome with another woman, and when I told him it might happen someday I was serious—mostly. The problem was, how does one make that happen? As Natalia massaged my boobs, I thought John was missing his chance.

  Natalia’s hands seemed perfect when she was only massaging me, but when she begins touching me intimately, the girl takes things to a whole new level. She massages my breasts the way only another woman would, and they tingle with pleasure. She pinches my thick pink nipples, and as her oil-slick fingers slide off them I cry out. God, I love having my nipples teased, and Natalia seems content to tease them all afternoon. My breasts are heaving, and I grip the sides of the table as she masterfully pleasures me. I’m truly putty in her hands.

  “Oh god!” I whimper, when she touches my pussy.

  The heel of her hand presses right above my clit and her fingers curl inside me. Yes! Two, then three fingers dip inside me and I cry out again. My eyes flutter open. I finally want to see. Natalia is not looking at my face, but at my body, like she’s studying me. She’s reading my reactions. She’s rolling my nipple and slowly fingering me, pressing my clit.

  “God…yes…” I cry. I’m not a screamer—like some girl in a porn movie—but I am not quiet either. Especially not when I’m feeling the way Natalia has me feeling.

  She leaves my breasts and my nipples throbbing. Natalie is all about my pussy now. Her three slender fingers piston in and out of me and she spreads me to expose my clit. Her fingers rub my clit hard. Both hands are focused on pleasuring me and I erupt with a deep, blasphemous moan. My back arches off the table and I lock my thighs around her hand, trapping her fingers inside me. Natalie keeps rubbing my clit and my orgasm goes on and on. I cry my blasphemy over and over.

  “Oh god…god…yes!”

  Natalie rubs me until I am left shaking and I beg her to stop. I can’t take any more. I melt into a puddle on the massage table and she leans down, pulling back her long raven hair, to kiss my forehead. I want her to kiss my lips.

  “Good, yes?”

  “Mmm, perfect,” I whisper.

  Natalia turns away from me and I just lay on the table trying to compose myself. Did that just happen? It was surreal. I felt a bit like a cliché—the married woman who gets off during her massage—but that didn’t bother me. If anything, it made me smile. I knew other people out in the world were up to wild times, and now I was one of them. It made me rue the time I wasted with my first husband when I was young and could have really had some fun. Well, I wasn’t too old yet!

  Natalia hands me another glass of cucumber water, freshly poured from an iced pitcher on the sideboard. Her hands smell of fresh Purell. I sit up to sip the water, but I really want to just lay there. No, that isn’t quite true. Part of me wants to grab Natalia and see what happens. She is a pretty girl in her mid-twenties, with a thick, sexy, curvy body and raven hair down to her waist. Her eyes are impossibly blue, and she has sensual full lips. More than anything, I want to feel those lips. But I don’t think that’s allowed, and I’m not brave enough to push my luck, so Natalia brings me my robe, and after she helps me into it she leaves like nothing unusual has happened. I lean against the wall and laugh. I can’t wait to find John.

  Two

  The rest of my spa time passes in a blur. All I can do is think about what Natalia did to me and smile. A facial leaves me feeling refreshed and a mani-pedi gives me beautiful deep red nails. During the seaweed wrap I wonder again if my husband set me up, but I don’t see how he would have known to ask for that without the risk of giving offense. Did someone tip him off? I think of all the people we know but can’t think of anyone who’d have that inside knowledge. It’s funny to think of John going to one of our friends and asking, Do you know where I can get Carol a happy ending massage? I giggle at the thought and the girl working on me gives me an odd look.

  John is not in our room when I’m released from the spa. I’m disappointed. The other thing I realized during the rest of my pampering is that although Natalia gave me
a great orgasm, it left me wanting more. To put it bluntly, I need to be fucked and my husband is not around. I go down to the blackjack tables looking for him.

  He’s not at the blackjack tables where he claimed he’d be, so I work my way around the loud, busy casino floor, checking out all the games of chance. Of course there are no clocks, but I see neon and flashing lights everywhere. It’s late afternoon, but it’s still crowded with gamblers looking for their big score. I briefly join the crowd gathered around the roulette table, and I’m tempted to throw some money down, but I move on. I sit at a slot machine, feeling lucky after my massage, but it only takes a few minutes to burn through five dollars.

  I look everywhere I can think of, but John isn’t anywhere. I text him and he says he’s back at our room, so I make my way back toward the elevators. It’s when I’m leaving the casino floor that I think I see a familiar face. It’s been a few months, but I’m sure it’s Conner.

  “Conner, is that you?” I call out, closing the distance between us.

  “Carol? Is that you?”

  It’s definitely him, and he looks startled to see me. I offer him a hug and he holds me a little tighter and longer than necessary, practically lifting me off the ground. He’s two or three inches over six feet and he’s got a foot on me in my flats. I’ve had a crush on Conner since he was part of the crew redoing our kitchen last fall. He’s in his late-twenties and built like you’d expect of a former Marine. His muscular arms are thicker than my thighs, with colorful tattoo sleeves that reach each elbow. Conner has a hard look, which makes it all-the-sweeter when he smiles. Conner smiles when he sees me.