by Ben Boswell
I looked back at the man leading this pair. I didn’t recognize him, but he obviously had something going on. A fat bank account? Whatever it was, he’d landed not one, but two beauties far out of his league.
I panned across the opposite wing of the hotel. There were a few couples having a late breakfast, some open patio doors. As I scanned past one room, a tall, slender young man stepped out onto the balcony. He had sandy, blond hair and was dressed just in boxers. His physique was androgynous enough to have tricked my eye into thinking it was a topless woman. I was ready to move on disappointed when a hand appeared on his upper arm. I saw his shoulders sag incongruously as he allowed himself to be dragged back inside the room. As he cleared the doorway, I caught a flash of a delightfully sexy woman’s body, petite, busty and completely naked. I lingered on their windows for a few minutes hoping to see more of her, but they were back inside now, away from my prying eyes.
I scanned the balconies for a few more minutes before returning my attention to the pools. I yawned. I needed to nap, but I wanted to try to find Claire before turning in. I followed the meandering waterways, pausing to check in on the Millionaire and his harem and my athletic lesbians. I finally found my wife, spotting first her bright blue bikini, then zooming in to confirm it was her. She’d stopped off at one of the poolside bars and was sipping on a tall, yellowish drink, topped off with a bright pink umbrella. A Daiquiri of some sort? No, we were in the Pacific. A Mai Tai probably. My stomach grumbled menacingly at the thought of alcohol.
She suddenly threw her head back in a laugh, and I realized she wasn’t alone. She was looking to her right. I zoomed out and spotted the comedian who’d made her guffaw. I hated him viscerally. Tall, slim, with a full head of thick dark hair. He was smiling broadly, his teeth perfect and gleaming. He was wearing swim tights. Not Speedos, rather the length of bike shorts, but equally snug. He was fit enough to pull off that look. He spoke again. She laughed again.
I thought about calling her, telling her I needed her back in the room. I’m not sure why, but I just wanted to get her away from him. I shook my head. I was being silly. And anyway, I was feeling too lazy to walk to the phone. I put down my binoculars and rubbed my eyes.
I woke to sounds coming from the room. Voices. More than one?
“Claire, is that you?”
No answer, but more sounds. Housekeeping?
I rose shakily and stepped inside. Going from bright to relative darkness blinded me for a moment. I swayed unsteadily just inside the glass doors. I heard a warbling giggle. My eyes adjusted slowly, but my vision was blurred.
Still, I could make them out. Two people, on the bed, going at it.
Had someone come into my room by mistake? Had Claire left the door unlocked?
“What the hell?” I said.
Another giggle. This one clearer. More familiar. Claire’s.
I took another step and the room came into focus. Claire was on her back on the edge of the bed, her legs over the shoulders of a tall, strapping man, the comedian from the bar. He was thrusting against her, hard and fast. She looked over and gave me a big goofy smile, very proud of herself, showing off.
I looked up at him. He gave me a cocky grin.
“Someone’s gotta fuck her,” he said in a south Jersey slur.
Or did he? His lips didn’t move, but I heard him clearly.
I looked back down at Claire, jolting back and forth from his rough pounding, her firm breasts jiggling wildly inside her bikini. Her lips parted and she let out a sultry moan. A drop of sweat appeared on her temple and then flew off as she closed her eyes and rolled her head in passion.
“Stop it.” I said.
“Please,” I added absurdly.
She threw her head back in an exuberant laugh. I felt sick. Dazed. My vision blurred again.
I woke with a start. For a moment, I was disoriented. Had I passed out? I was back on the balcony? Had they put me back out there?
I rose quickly and immediately regretted it. My head spun, my stomach churned. I stumbled into the room. Again, my eyes blinding me in the adjustment to interior lighting.
“Claire, where are you?” I grumbled angrily.
I looked over at the bed. Looked at the spot where Claire had gotten fucked, looking for evidence of it. I stumbled over and felt the sheets, looking for an indentation, a wet spot, something. Where were they? Fucking in the bathroom? Downstairs getting some more Mai Tais and talking about what a chump I was.
The door mechanism whirred as the keycard was swiped from outside. I seethed. Claire and loverboy were back for another round. I’d give them a piece of my mind.
“You…” fucking cunt.
I caught myself in mid-sentence, doubting myself. The image of Claire on the bed getting plowed suddenly seemed gauzy. It had been so clear in my mind a second earlier. But now, instead of immediacy, it felt like something from the distant past.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You don’t look well.”
“I…”
I shook my head.
She hurried over to me and took my forearm, sitting me down on the bed. I sat clumsily, avoiding the spot where she’d…. She’d what? Nothing. It had been a vision. A dream. A nightmare, actually. So vivid, but not real.
“John, John…” she was shaking me.
“What? No. Claire, I’m okay. I just, I just got up too fast.”
She looked at me with concern.
“Really, I’m okay. Well, not okay. I still feel sick. But no worse than before.”
She was still watching me closely. It felt uncomfortable.
“Did you have fun?” I asked.
She hesitated as if unsure whether to move on from a further discussion of my health.
“Yeah. Oh my God, the resort is beautiful. You know what I noticed?”
A tall, dark and handsome stranger wearing swim shorts tight enough to count the veins on his package?
I shook my head.
“No bugs. I mean, none. Think they spray the place every night?”
“Probably,” I replied. “Beautiful on the surface, but really a Super Fund site.”
She shrugged. “Small price to pay to be able to have a fruity drink without flies or whatever buzzing around.”
“I thought you were an environmentalist.”
“Nope. Not on my honeymoon. I’m here to have fun. You ready to join me?”
She batted her eyelashes at me.
God, she was tempting, except that I was feeling woozy and bloated, and not in the least bit sexy.
She read my expression perfectly.
“At least come down by the pool with me.”
My stomach rumbled menacingly.
“Tomorrow, I promise. I just need another good night sleep to get over this. But please, you go back out. It’s still early. Enjoy the rest of the day. We can order room service and have dinner on the balcony this evening.”
She nodded. “Okay. So you won’t join me for lunch either?”
I grabbed at my stomach. “I think I’m still on a liquid diet. And the smell of food makes me queasy. But thanks for checking up on me.”
“I needed to reapply sunscreen anyway. In case you haven’t noticed, we O’Neills don’t come from the tropics.”
“You’re not an O’Neill anymore. Mrs. Rivers.”
She laughed. “I’m not so sure about that, Mr. Rivers. We haven’t consummated this thing yet, and until we do, I think legally I’m still a single woman.”
I forced a chuckle. It was just one of those silly things Claire liked to say. And yet, after my dream…. Or was it a dream? Had she just hinted at something more?
“Well, that makes me a single man, too.”
She grinned. “Yes, but you’re stuck in this stuffy room, and I’m out and about. Hopefully that will motivate your recovery.”
I wished it were just a matter of will. My belly disagreed.
“Um, Claire, I’ll be right back,” I muttered as I hurried to the bathroom.
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CHAPTER THREE
Thankfully, by the time I came out, she’d left. The room was neither small nor stuffy, but it was a hotel room, and close quarters given my intestinal ailments. I was presently poor competition for a tall, handsome, funny stranger in tights.
I sat back down on the bed and thought about my dream. It wasn’t a normal dream, full of non-sequiturs and absurdities. That’s what had made it so hard to dismiss. It felt real. Most significantly it was way out of character for me. Well, mostly. And that’s what bothered me.
I’m conscious of the fact that I married “out of my league,” though I’m also conscious of the fact that it is a meaningless phrase. By definition, the fact that she went out with me, stayed with me, and married me meant that Claire was in my league. As a matter of objective reality, though, she’s a ten. Okay, maybe a nine or even an eight in, say, a room full of models, but I’d say that at least 95% of the time she’s the best-looking woman in the room, which puts her not in the top five percent but in the top one percent since just because one time in twenty there is an equally pretty woman, she’s still prettier than 99% of the women in all twenty of the rooms. Or something. This might be one place where the math wasn’t worth exploring.
Point is, she’s super-hot and I’m, well, average physically. I’m 5’10”, 165 lbs, my medium brown hair is both fine and thinning. I have a round face and hazel eyes. They’re my best feature, I guess. I’m fit, reasonably put together, but most of the time I blend in. She’s the hottest girl in the room, I’m just one of the guys.
I don’t dwell on it a lot. I just consider myself lucky, if anything. Now, a lot of guys in my situation get wrapped around the psychological axle on this sort of thing. They have a hot wife. They are threatened by it, and as a result they become obsessed and pathological. Jealous, suspicious, accusatory, controlling. You see that a lot in abusive relationships.
At the other extreme, you get guys whose identities get so bound up in having a hot wife that they get a powerful validation from other men showing an interest in their spouse. Sometimes, that is such a rush that they even get off on sharing their wives with other men as a result.
The middle response is the most common, I guess, which is that having a beautiful wife makes some guys insecure, and their insecurity manifests as a dark fantasy of their wife cheating, the eroticized fear that is at the heart of many cuckold fantasies.
I’d thought of all of this. There is no way not to. Men look at Claire. All the time. She claims not to notice. But she must, right? From the first time I introduced her to my friends, I’ve gotten teased about her being out of my league. I’ve been living with it for years now, and yet until our honeymoon I’d never had a dream or a nightmare about her cheating. I’d never fantasized about it. I’d never felt particularly jealous. Grateful. Watchful, maybe. But never jealous or fearful.
Maybe it was just the medicine. Or maybe it was just the situation, being sick and feeling particularly unappealing at a time when we should have been making love like sea otters. But what really freaked me out was that this had happened to me once before.
I lost my virginity in high school to my long-term girlfriend. It was awkward and we broke up soon after. Then in college I had a couple of hook-ups. But my first real lover was Debbie. It was sophomore year. She was the first girl with whom I had sex enough times to get past the initial, “Oh my God, I’m inside her actual vagina” sensation that dominated my first several sexual encounters.
She was more experienced than I was, though I only realized that consciously later on. She gave me my first real blowjob, the first one to live up to the hype. She was the first girl I gave an orgasm to, first by eating her out, then during actual sex. We had sex with the lights on. We tried all sorts of positions. We’d lay in bed together naked, doing homework or watching TV, and then bang like rabbits.
She was nineteen, like me, but somehow more sophisticated. She knew how to dress. She was pretty, with thick, blond hair and heavy boobs, though a little soft in the body. She was probably out of my league, though more for reasons of maturity and experience than just physically. But I don’t think I realized it at the time.
Nevertheless, I couldn’t shake the suspicion that she was cheating on me. I was jealous of her male friends. And I started having these visions, fantasies, I guess, that she was with another man. Vivid things. I pictured her with other men. At first occasionally and then all the time.
It was filtered through my immature fantasies. She’d mention going to a professor’s office hours, and I’d immediately begin imagining how he’d have her. Her on her knees sucking him off for a better grade? Bent over his desk getting hammered from behind? Any night we weren’t together, I’d think of where she was without me. At a frat getting gang banged? At a townie bar perched up on a bathroom sink, her legs spread, a sneering construction worker plowing her college girl pussy?
Worse, instead of being repulsed, I was turned on. Those fantasies were masturbatory fodder. I’d get off on it, on the idea of Debbie being used by this procession of clichés.
But then one night, I was out with some buddies. I was already drunk. We’d “pre-gamed” in the dorm. We went to a house party and I spotted her, sitting on a couch, with a couple of her friends, and a couple of other guys I’d never seen before. The one on her right was sitting close, too close. His hand casually resting on her thigh, near the knee. He was older. He had a goatee, a leather bracelet on his wrist, at least two tattoos that I could see.
I stormed over.
“Hey, get your hands off her,” I grunted.
She stood. “John, no!”
“This is between me and him,” I said, pushing her away.
He chuckled.
“You think this is funny?” I persisted.
“A little,” he replied.
His buddy laughed loudly.
“Oh my God, I am so leaving,” Debbie exclaimed as she backed away.
“Don’t touch my girlfriend ever again!”
He gave me arrogant smirk. “If she’s your girlfriend, then how come I know she sounds like an excited squirrel when she’s getting it hard from behind?”
Maybe it was the smirk. Maybe it was the realization that Debbie had fled because she knew what was about to happen. Maybe it was the fact that, damn it, she did make a peculiar sound, perhaps like an excited squirrel, with things got hot and heavy.
I raised my fist to take a swing at him, but luckily one of my buddies pulled me away.
“She’s not worth it,” he said soothingly.
I struggled to get free. Well, not really. I made a show of it, but was sort of grateful to be hauled away.
I got really, really drunk. I called her a whore and a slut. I yelled it out. And then when I was really, really, really drunk I started crying and telling everyone in earshot how much I loved her. Thankfully, I passed out before I could go to her dorm room and beg her to take me back.
I woke up the next afternoon, viciously hung over, and resentful. I would teach that cheating bitch a lesson. I gave her the silent treatment. But I had to make her notice the silent treatment. So I’d deliberately go places where I knew she’d be and, well, ignore her. Shockingly, to my nineteen year old brain, this technique did not bring her running back to me. So I broke down and bought her flowers and begged her to come back to me. That, um, didn’t work either.
I had spent much of the past fifteen years suppressing the debacle with Debbie, but it all came rushing back to me. I wasn’t the kind of guy who obsessed or focused on his woman with another man. But the one time I had, it had come true. And now, I’d just had a dream vivid enough to have me doubting reality. Was it just the illness? The medicine? Or some weird trick of the subconscious? A harbinger of things to come?
I went back out onto the balcony to look for Claire. I checked the bar she’d visited earlier. It was crowded with the lunchtime rush. It took me a while to be sure, but she wasn’t there. I scanned the various lounge chairs by th
e pools. No luck.
It was a big resort. She could easily be hidden behind a palm or a hut or even out front on the ocean side. There were many places she could be innocuously reading her book and enjoying the sun. But the vision, or a variant of it, came to me like a shot. Claire frolicking with her new man in the surf, jostling against him as the waves crashed upon them. Innocent and playful at first, the attraction would build as their bodies rubbed against each other, as she felt his muscles, as he enjoyed her curves.
He was taller than me, better built, objectively more handsome. Claire wouldn’t plan to cheat on me. But things might just happen. A glance, a touch, a kiss. A moment of weakness, and a man like that, he had the look… a man like that would take advantage of it. They’d sneak into one of the beach cabanas... or maybe he had one of his own already? Was he rich, too?
It could happen so fast. She might protest, weakly, transparently, just for show even as she let him slide his hand into her bathing suit. She’d moan passionately as he’d find her wet slit. She’d reach out, almost instinctively, to stroke his fat cock through his tight shorts. He would push her back onto a lounger, her legs spreading of their own accord.
They’d grind against each other, his mouth sucking on her neck. She’d moan, “hurry, hurry,” as they’d fumble to free themselves of their swimwear. He’d thrust inside her, hard, all at once. She’d gasp and shudder, her moans of “hurry, hurry,” turning to groans of “harder, harder.”
He wouldn’t need the encouragement. He’d already be reaching beneath her, cupping her ass, thrusting roughly inside her. Her legs in the air, squeals of passion filling the cabana. Another thrust, another gasp, and then for both a shuddering climax convulsing their bodies. Then he would slow, his erection subsiding, even as he continued to pump his cock inside her. Their lips would meet, their kiss salty with the sea and sweat.
