“See you around, no, doubt,” he said.
“Hopefully,” I said and regretted my shorts and shirt, my socks and my shoes; regretted the hotel, wild for a jungle, wild for a deserted beach, a wild underbrush. Blink. Life is real. Life is wooden. “See you around.” Stood waiting until he was gone as if I were a statue, frozen to the spot. The Greek statues were blind. If I had no eyes I couldn’t see him, couldn’t imagine sex with him.
Perhaps it was time to find husband? Must be time for lunch. In the daytime cave of the bar my “better half sat with three other people – two women and a man. They were vaguely familiar. They had been on the same plane. I hadn’t talked to them. He talked to everyone, bouncing up and down the aisle like a bad child. Mr Sociability when it suited him.
He half stood. “Hello, love, this is Jack and Linda and Linda’s sister, Fiona. They’re from Hamilton. My wife, Irene. We’re all playing.”
Play? What? Where? With whom? Why?
“Poker. Playing poker. Want to play?” he said without much enthusiasm, his words slurred.
They all appeared to have had a bellyful to drink and seemed happy. I did not want drunken, happy talk.
“It’s almost time for lunch,” I said, detecting a very definite whine in my voice.
He laughed. “That’s Rene! Always looking after my precious tummy.” He focussed on cards as he talked.
“Well, it’s time for lunch and I’m hungry. Are you coming soon?”
“No, I’m playing cards right now, can’t you see? When the game is finished, then I’ll have lunch. Not before.” His voice cut through me, cold as ice. This was going to be a fantastic, exciting, thrilling holiday. When he spoke in iambic pentameter, I knew it was going to be bad.
“Fine. Can I have the room card, please? If it’s not too much trouble and doesn’t interfere with your game too much. I have a need to freshen up before lunch.” I was excessively polite. He handed me the security card.
Had to pee. Wondered if I could find the room again in this labyrinthine place. Strayed along identical corridors. A sign said rooms 302-350. The door to my room was open. Their suitcases stop between the beds. I went in. The man from Buffalo sat on the toilet. The extractor fan buzzed.
“What the hell are you doing in my room?”
He didn’t seem at all perturbed. “I would imagine it’s clear enough what I’m doing. I had to go and the door was open. Guess the maids left it open. They were occupied, must have thought it was my room. My wife has the keycard to our room. They only give you one. Something faulty with the machine. Nothing works in this hotel. When a man has to go a man has to go.” I didn’t mind a stranger using the room for a fast pee but this wasn’t right, not right at all.
“You should go.”
“What harm am I doing?”
“It’s my room and I want it to myself.”
“Are you giving me time to wipe my arse? Finished, anyway.” He did the necessary, washed his hands and left the room without saying anything.
Now I would have the room to myself. My own hotel room, this home for the next two weeks. The holiday was all paid up, the plane did land, his mother had been bribed to keep the children so we can have this “second honeymoon”. Second honeymoon? Knew it was a stupid idea. Wasn’t the first honeymoon in “Romantic Bermuda” bad enough? One long fight. Ben and I did just fine when we saw little of each other. I would not play cards on holiday. Not cards. I sprayed the room with Xanadu. Peed. That was better. God! I’m beautiful – so the dressing-table mirror announced. Took off my blouse and bra. God, I’m beautiful. Ben didn’t know what he was missing. Silence. Peace. Cupped my hands and sniffed them. The man was on my skin. My own sweat wafted up to me. Peace after the roar of the engines. Rubbed oil on my nipples and they stood out red and hard. I had to have the most beautiful nipples in the world. Turned round to look at my butt. Not bad for a lady of thirty-something with three children. Not bad at all. Not a rear-end to be ashamed of. Took my new bikini out of the case and dragged off my shorts. This totally beautiful naked woman. God, I’m beautiful. I lay on the bed and concentrated on how the holiday should go.
For a start there would be a knock on the door. I would be naked.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, the man from Buffalo. Forgot my book. Can I retrieve it, please?” His voice soft and polite.
God, this man is too polite. Politeness deserves politeness in return. He used my toilet uninvited and I will answer the door naked.
He drifted past me as if he was used to people who answered the door naked.
I reclined on the bed, leaned on one elbow. I was in the mood for . . . whatever.
“I left it on the chair beside the bed.” He found it and stood holding it. “Going swimming?”
Stupid question. His short tight blond curls glistened in the shuttered afternoon sun. He had to have the blondest hair ever seen on man. Not fair for a man to have such beautiful hair. I ran my hands up and down my legs, stroked a nipple. “Getting changed. Felt tired. Needed a rest. You flew in today? Is the book any good?” I combed the rich, black hair between my legs with my fingers. The curtains drifted in and out in the gentle breeze of the air-conditioner.
“Detroit. The book is good. Took your suggestion and picked up Darcy’s Utopia in the shop across the square. They have a good selection. Started it when . . .” He indicated the toilet.
I nodded. “How nice. Yes. Nice. What do you do?”
“Flower business. What do you do?”
“Nice to have a flower shop. What do I do? Doctor. Skins.”
Long, long legs finished somewhere under his arms. I would have given my right arm to have legs like that. He wore short, short, blue shorts and every fold of his body knobbed plain under them. He sat on the edge of the bed and fondled the cover. A long slow shrug. Every cell of my skin tingled, exploded, effervesced.
He said, “It’s cool here. We’re in the other block, the annexe . . . cold there but cool here.”
I shifted over slightly so he could have some room. “How was your flight?”
Oh, this conversation was moronic. I knew it and I knew he knew it. I would have to create something better than this.
“Same as yours, I guess. Boring.”
I stroked my belly, imagined it was his belly. “Husband is playing cards. Hate cards. Not much point in coming on holiday and being bored, is there? Especially when it’s a second honeymoon.”
“Yours, too?” he said. “It’s our second honeymoon too.”
“Funny that, isn’t it? Both on second honeymoons and my husband playing cards. Well . . . now he’s shit-faced.”
“My wife departed on a bus tour. Detest them. Usually I ends up in some bar picking up someone to talk to. She’s amused by talking to strangers. Never talks to me. Well . . . sometimes talks but never listens. Same, every holiday. Talk, talk, all the time.”
“That’s nice. Better than playing cards. What’s her name?”
“Lisanne. And yours – I mean your husband’s?”
“Ben.”
“That’s nice. And yours?”
“Rene.” He toed off his sandals and rested back against the pillows. “You smell nice,” he said.
“Thanks.” I bent over and sniffed behind his ears. “So do you.” He had large strong ears. I liked ears. Ears are the nicest part of a man I sometimes thought. I licked the lobes one by one. “Ummm. Now you.”
He lightly feathered each nipple with his lips and then licked them; he rolled them round in his mouth, turn about turn. So delicately, it was hardly a touch. He folded my breasts together, the dark line between them concentrating the oil I had used earlier. He ran his tongue down the valley, down my belly down to my belly button. I took in a deep breath. Lovely. I nibbled up and down his strong thick biceps. He tasted of clean flesh, chocolate, mineral water, gin, honeysuckle . . .
He slipped off his shirt and lay back on the bed. His giant hard-on pushing against the denim of his shorts. I
got up and locked the door. Let Ben Dearest come and bang on it. He should have taken up the invitation when it was offered. I worked too hard to miss one day of holiday. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional crackle of starched sheets.
Solly was smiling and drinking in my body. Oh, I could tell he liked it. I sat on the bed and looked down at him. Unzipped his shorts and tugged them down. He was beautiful. He was plainly a man who kept himself fit. Not a spare bit of flab on that body. Tight. The muscles of his abdomen rippled as I ran my fingers up and down them. His balls were neat and tucked in. His circumcised cock rested like a tree trunk, thick, solid, against the hollow of his belly. I bent down to nuzzle him. Big on nuzzling, I was, like a cat. A man had to smell right for me. Yes, male musk, clean sweat. I licked his cock up the shaft and finished with a kiss on the tip of his nub.
“No way. My turn, first,” he said and sat up. He stretched me out so I was exposed on the bed absolutely straight. He kissed me, running his tongue round and round just inside my lips. He lifted my arms right above my head and kissed under each arm in turn. He sniffed me like a dog sniffs a tree.
“I always sniff. Scents really turn me on.”
“Funny. Me too.”
“You smell like jasmine.”
“You smell like vanilla.”
He moaned and sucked my nipples, rolling them round and round. “Your tits taste of brandy.”
I sighed. I was going to rise off the bed and fly like an angel. It had been so long since I had a good fuck I could come any minute. All of my body cried out for it. Cried. Wept. Moaned. Shouted.
He crouched down between my legs and opened me like a flower. He divided the thick black hair so he could see what he was doing. In the mirror of the sliding door of the wardrobe, I saw this gorgeous man bending over the body of this beautiful woman and I was amazed that it was Rene. He spread my lips gently to expose my clitoris and ran his fingers down it as nimbly as warm water tumbles over pebbles in a tropic stream. I raised my body to his face. He wet a finger and just touched the tip of my clitoris. Then the tip of his tongue contacted it. He rolled his tongue into me as if it would reach right into me as far as my cervix. Now he was pulsing his own rhythm, he was moving with me, his tongue circling, circling and rolling against me. He relaxed away from me and I tried to tip his head back to its place but he sat up and kissed me. I tasted myself and him mixed: his lips and the slightly sweet love juice of my own. My orgasm was building up from my vagina into my chest, right into my head. He reached over and fumbled in the pocket of his shorts and took out a small packet.
“Well done,” I said.
“Always prepared,” he said.
“Me too, but they’re in the suitcase.” I sat up on his thighs. He opened the packet and took the condom out. I laughed. “Good god! What on earth?” He had a blue condom, with gold spots.
He smiled. “Way out. Blue spotted. I mean . . . Couldn’t resist it.”
I slid it onto his cock and it became a leopard spotted thing. His balls were tight and so close to his body there was nothing spare, nothing hanging loose. I kissed the tip. The rich, aromatic taste of jelly babies. Good.
“Time to get down to things.” Down to it he did. He bent me over the edge of the bed and pushed his cock into me, right into me until it was part of my own body. I knew I was coming, coming with the largest orgasm ever. He supported himself with one hand and the important finger of the other hand did its thing on my clit. Nothing, but nothing would stop me now. He readjusted his angle and I grabbed his hand and replaced the finger at my clitoris and now he was in the rhythm and I was sure that he was coming and nothing mattered but that great dick inside me and he was coming into me and I was coming and I pulled his hand away so he could concentrate on his own orgasm and fingered myself so I came with him and I did and did and did and went on coming and coming, using his spent dick like a dildo. He was wonderful. Wonderful.
He finally let his cock slip out and went into the bathroom to do the necessary. I stretched, collapsed on the bed, tried to find my body again. It was all in bits in the galaxy somewhere.
He returned to sit beside me, a towel wrapped round his waist. He ran a hand up and down my body. “Do you think we should bother with our spouses or just disappear and leave them to themselves? Your husband and my wife.”
“Well . . . see them later, perhaps. Depends how we feel.”
“Sure.”
“We could both go for a swim.” I liked the idea of a swim.
“Then perhaps . . . see what happens.” He absently stroked my breasts.
“Sounds good to me. Isn’t it funny about the second honeymoon bit?” His cock was again hard and sticking out making an umbrella of the towel.” We are to be on our own, more or less. So it seems. We should amuse ourselves. It could well be a second honeymoon but not you and your wife and me and my husband.”
Yes, this is what would happen. I willed it to happen. Perhaps later I would hang around the pool and see if I could bump into him. And if I didn’t, so what? I would have him in my mind and it most likely would be better than anything that would be real.
It’s All in the Mind
Corinne (Atlanta, USA)
Although in reality my bachelorette party was quite a bit tamer that this fantasy, sometimes I get carried away and have fond memories for the party I didn’t actually have. On nights when Ben’s away, I’ll put on the slinky slip dress I really did wear to my own party, turn off the lights, and lie in bed, dreaming of what might have been. I had a perfectly fun party, mind you, filled with plenty of good friends, the best friends a girl could ask for. But still, every once in a while, I like to pretend that I’m still single and carefree, ready for sexual adventure at any moment. And since Ben doesn’t really know much about my real party (both of ours are just kept on a private premarital moment basis), I’m free to fantasize about those wild days in any way I want. So the first bit really happened, but the wildness, well . . . draw your own conclusions.
I was getting married for the very first time, at age 32, a bit behind all my other friends, who had been settled in with their husbands and SUVs for a few years, and was grateful to finally be settling down with Ben. He was worth the wait, let me tell you, tall and handsome and strong, and sweet as can be, the answer to my dreams. I was thrilled, but hearing his friends talk incessantly about his bachelor party when they thought I was out of earshot had gotten me a little worked up, if you know what I mean. Oh, they tried to hide it from me, ceasing their conversations when I entered the room and sending secret messages to Ben. But still, I knew something was up and just a small bit of spying led me to the conclusion that the weekend of Ben’s “boys,’ night poker” was going to be a lot more tits and arse than full houses. And part of me wanted the same thing, a last corral, a night out with my favourite girls to see if we still had our magic, to get in trouble just one more time. So I called Stacy, my best friend, and she quickly got on the phone, something she’d been forbidden to do, and in no time, my bachelorette party was arranged. Aside from knowing the time, I didn’t know where we’d be going or what would happen, but I was thrilled anyway – Stacy’s never thrown a bad party in her life.
These were my oldest friends, and some of my best ones, but over the years we’d grown slightly apart. They were almost all married, and secretly saw me as the loser girl who’d had to wait such a long time just to find a guy to ask me, whereas I’d more than savoured my freedom. Some of them had been virgins when they married, or their husbands had been their firsts, whereas I could barely remember what being a virgin was like. Not that I’d been with tons of guys or anything, but enough to know my way in and out of bed with a guy, to know what I liked and what I didn’t, to feel that I wasn’t giving up my youth or my body to have Ben next to me for the rest of my life. I was thrilled to be marrying Ben, but every few nights I’d wake up in the middle of the night, chilled to the bone with sweat and fear, my dreams taking a shadowy turn, making m
e wonder if I was making the right decision. I had deliberately dropped my control freak ways and let my friends plan everything, leaving myself free to ponder the intricacies of my new life and status. I still wanted the thrills, the fantasies, the crazy ups and downs that dating and flirting brought. I consoled myself with the thought that our bachelorette party would be just as wild as any man’s bachelor party, but I was really only humouring myself. Little did I know that I was actually right.
The night of the party, Ben’s friends picked him up in the early evening, giving me time to fret over what to wear. What does a girl wear to her own bachelorette party? I was clueless, and obviously should have thought about this earlier, but my mind had been otherwise occupied. I combed my closets, dismissing all my usual fun and cute shirt and skirt combinations as too young-looking; tonight, I simply wanted to look sexy. Eventually I settled on my favourite lacy slip dress, in black and leopard print, with a real slip underneath, sexy and fun and smooth against my skin. Thankfully it was summer so I could get away with such attire; if anyone questioned me, I’d say it was too hot to wear anything heavier.
When Stacy arrived, she was squealing with excitement; I’ve known her my whole life so this was nothing new, but she was almost more excited about the party than I was. What had she planned that would have her hopping up and down like that? She ushered me into the kitchen to make a round of our signature drink, a mix of various juices and plenty of alcohol, and it was just like high school again as we drank and talked and giggled, but we had much more to laugh about tonight.
We headed out with Eileen driving, and I was shocked to find us at Pizaazz, our favourite club – I’d thought we’d be going somewhere new and unusual. But my closest friends greeted me there, dressed up and ready to have the time of their lives, or something close to it. Most were married or had steady boyfriends and while we still went out and had fun, it wasn’t like our single days, where we’d often drink ourselves silly and then stay up till dawn watching old movies and painting our nails, girl bonding of the highest order. Me, I didn’t quite know what to expect, having tried to not micromanage this night as I do everything else in my life.
The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies Page 35
