by Kalen Laurel
No kidding!
My heart is beating out of my chest, and I have to take a deep breath to calm myself before answering lest I sound too eager. “I’d be honored.”
Instinct drives my hand inside my trunks and my fingers around the shaft of my cock, but I hesitate, concerned that the action would fall within her definition of ungentlemanly, and not wanting to break the spell. I end up leaving the now fully erect appendage tucked inside the leg of my shorts and stroking it in a less than overt manner.
She’s no longer making any effort to hide her own intentions, and while I cannot easily discern what it is she is doing, from the various contortions I’ve observed since divulging her intentions, I’d guess she’s tugged her bathing suit bottom down and has positioned herself so that one of the powerful jets is aimed squarely between her legs, where one hand juts—the fingers either contributing stimulation, or possibly parting her vulva to fully expose her clit. I can’t know for sure what she’s doing, but my mind processes dozens of possibilities as I watch her body be buffeted by the force of the water and the ferocity of the bubbles boiling up around her breasts and upper chest. Each possibility is more salacious than the last, and all contribute to a rapid build of pressure at the base of my erection.
She struggles to hold her body in place, and eventually she pulls her free hand out of the water to grip the side of the Jacuzzi. It’s then I realize that this hand also holds the bottom half of her bikini all bunched up and clenched tightly.
Oh God!
My cock twitches and I abandon all pretense and push the elastic waistband below my balls in one swift motion, allowing them to pop free of the fabric that had restrained them. The knowledge that she is naked and exposed under the surface of the churning water is almost more than I can handle despite seeing no more than I’d been able to before enlightenment. I wrap my hand around the base of my throbbing shaft and draw it up the length until my fingertips have trapped the tip just inches from exposure.
I raise my eyes to her face again and realize she’s watching me.
Intently.
I again stroke the length of my cock and her lips part just slightly, as if she’s imagining wrapping them around it, and her eyebrows rise as they might if my cock were actually being revealed. She shudders, and her head flops back against the edge of the spa momentarily before she drills me with her dark eyes again.
“Will you show me?” Her voice is strained.
I suspect she’s as close to orgasm as I am. And, though it seems complying with her latest request will push our encounter beyond the scope she’d intended or I could have hoped for, temperance is not playing a key role in my behavior at the moment. I struggle my trunks down to my ankles and free one foot which I draw up under my buttocks as a fulcrum upon which the act of arching my back and thrusting my pelvis out of the water can be built.
I grip the base of my cock behind my balls with one hand, and draw tightly-clenched fingers up the length of my shaft with the other as it breaks the surface. Her eyes follow the rise and her reaction mimics the look on faces in a crowd watching a fireworks display as the first burst of beautiful light is still reflected in their eyes.
“Yes!” she exclaims, and she quite obviously presses her hand against herself under the swirling water while lifting her shoulders and drawing her arms together alongside her breasts in a manner which thrusts them together and out of the water in a magnificent display of abundance. “So close,” she manages before her eyelids flutter and one closes in a look more pirate than pretty.
I’m drawing my hand toward the tip of my cock again as she makes this pronouncement, and I realize that I too am perhaps one stroke, maybe two, from a similar goal.
“Do it!” I hold my breath and clench every muscle below my waist in an effort to thrust myself higher out of the water and into an orgasmic spasm.
As I feel the burn of semen build in my balls and make its way up the shaft of my cock, my lust-blinded accomplice lifts herself from the protective cover of bubbles and water, opens her legs as far as the posture allows, and urgently thrusts her gaping cunt in my direction while her fingers circle her clit with the fevered intensity of eminent orgasm.
And moments later, we come. Evidenced by my launch of hot spurts of semen in a gentle arc over her left shoulder, and her gasping, moaning, bucking chain of spasms leaving her chest speckled with rash and her knees buckled.
* * *
The trunks are still slightly damp when I stuff them into the cheap plastic bag supplied for submissions to the hotel laundry the next day and zip them into an outside pocket in my daypack. This particular garment is now assured permanent residency and revered status amongst my travel paraphernalia.
We’d dried and dressed mostly in awkward silence after composing ourselves enough to exit the tub. She had a hard time looking me in the eye as we said our goodbyes at the pool door a few minutes later. She thanked me like I was dropping her off at her front door after a date and mumbling something about maybe happening upon each other again some day.
As wonderful as the idea sounds, I don’t expect to return to this particular hotel again, and I’d be surprised if she does either. I think we both know that an encore to this experience would likely take us into territory neither of us truly wants to explore, and anything less could taint a memory of something that was truly sublime.
I sling the pack over my shoulder and take one more look around the room before leaving to ensure I’ve left nothing behind—not a phone charger, not an article of clothing...
Except a memory.
Dirty Laundry
An Outrageous Comedy
about Outrageous Behavior
From all appearances, Donna and George Stevenson are an unexceptional example of a modern, married couple. Both are on the grey side of forty, though attractive in the well-turned-out way only truly attainable by people with a certain amount of wealth and privilege. And that they have.
Our brief peek at their lives centers around their 1990’s bedroom dominated by a king-size bed upon which a large quilt is pulled to cover twisted sheets and blankets and wrinkled pillows, flanked by a dresser. The only other essential furnishing in the room is a large clothing hamper on the opposite wall.
Donna enters the room dressed in a casual but rather short and tight knit dress and sandals she purchased at full retail from her favorite boutique downtown. She walks directly toward the bed where she claws the sandals from her feet one at a time and throws them one-by-one across the room in anger.
“I really don't give a shit how you feel about it, George.”
George, wearing a conservative business suit cut well enough that no one would mistake it for something off the rack, pauses just inside the door while he loosen his tie, and then moves slowly toward the dresser. He looks more stricken than angry as his wife continues her tirade.
“You roll in past eleven, after a day of high finance…” She pauses for a breath—but only slightly as she’s obviously unwilling to cede the floor to her husband. “…and expect me to greet you with a smile and a pair of slippers? I've barely been out of this Goddamn house in twenty years and I'm not going to apologize about doing so now.”
Donna whips the comforter off the bed and begins stripping the sheets, blankets and pillowcases while George carefully rolls his tie and places it neatly inside the top dresser drawer. “This has nothing at all to do with me wanting you to stay home to wash clothes and cook dinner. It's where you're going and what you're doing that bothers me,” he says. He slips off his suit coat and lays it carefully over the top of the dresser and begins to unbutton his shirt as Donna stuffs the dirty sheets and pillowcases into the clothes hamper and goes into the bathroom.
“Bullshit, George,” she hollers from the other room. “You're not upset about me going back to school. You're upset because most of my professors are single, male…and undoubtedly no more honorable than yourself.”
George looks toward the empty doorway with a furrow
ed brow and then visible anger of his own as Donna continues speaking while joining him again in the room. She stops just short of the bed and looks him in the eye while dumping an armful of folded sheets on the bed. “Isn't that what your boxers are bunched up about, George? You're afraid somebody's going to find me attractive. Maybe even desirable?”
She grabs clean pillow cases from a drawer and tosses one to George and begins covering the pillow on her side of the bed. “And then, George, despite the availability of thousands of horny young college girls with big breasts and tight asses, that somebody is going to pick up a forty-six-year-old housewife.”
George sets the covered pillow on the bed and watches Donna shake out one of the sheets and flip it over the mattress. “That's not fair, Donna. I never suggested anything of the sort. I just think it's beneath you.” He begins to tuck the sheet into his side of the bed as she smooths her side. “You already have a degree and you don't...”
Donna brings her hands to her hips and stares George down before he’s able to complete his sentence.
“I don't what, George? I don't work? That's what you were going to say, isn't it?” She glares at him, and he's visibly flustered. “Fuck you!” She reaches for the top sheet and begins to tuck it onto the bed without bothering to do it neatly.
“I'm sorry, Donna.”
“You are, George,” she mumbles with a disgusted shake of her head as she heads back into the bathroom. “You're really sorry.”
George tucks the top sheet in his side of the bed and removes his shirt. “I didn't mean anything by it, Donna. It's just that you don't have to have a job or go to school. You can do whatever you like with your days.” He tosses his shirt on top of the bedding inside the clothes hamper. “What do all your friends do, for Christ's sake?”
Donna returns from the bathroom in just a bra and panties and removes a nightgown from the top drawer of the dresser. “My friends all stay home and take on lovers, George.”
George looks stricken but his expression slowly softens as Donna gestures with the nightgown above her head and continues talking with exaggerated drama. “They fuck the pool boy, George. They have phone sex with big, hairy truckers from Des Moines, Iowa and buy trashy lingerie from the Frederick's of Hollywood catalog to wear for the television repairman and the plumber.”
George rolls his eyes and heads toward the bathroom. “Okay, Donna. Drop it.”
She follows him toward the door. “But it's all true, George. That's why I can't understand why you've got a wild hair up your ass about this.”
Donna pulls the nightgown over her head. It's short, but opaque. She immediately begins removing the bra from underneath the gown. “I'm going to school for Christ's sake. Would you rather have me take on a few lovers of my own, George? Would that make you happier? Maybe you wouldn't have to feel so guilty all the time if you knew I was getting some on the side like you?”
George is now in boxers and black dress socks. Donna looks down at his feet and wrinkles her nose. “And God I wish you'd take your socks off before your pants,” she concludes.
He sneers at her. “And I wish you'd take your underwear off before you put on your nightgown.” He hops on one foot at a time while tugging his socks off and tossing them on the floor just shy of the hamper. “It's not like I haven't seen you naked.” He regains his balance and confronts her as she tosses her bra in the hamper and leans down to pick up the socks.
“And why are you constantly accusing me of having an affair. I told you this morning I would be working late.”
“Well let's see...” She flips the socks into the hamper and stands in front of him, tilting her head to the side and and tapping her temple in a melodramatic show of deep thought. “Could it have something to do with the way you put your hand up your secretary's dress at the company picnic and announced she wasn't wearing underwear?”
George's exasperated look suggests they've gone over this ground before. “You know full well we were both as pickled as olives at that point.” He averts his eyes. “And besides, she knocked me to the ground and broke one of my molars with a right hook to the jaw a few seconds later.” He rubs his jaw as if reliving the pain. “Doesn't exactly suggest intimacy to me.”
Donna laughs as she picks a brush off the top of the dresser and begins running it through her hair. “But you're failing to mention what her first words after she belted you, George.”
He rubs his eyes and shakes his head slowly. “I haven't forgotten.”
Donna smooths the hem of her nightgown as though it were the secretary's dress, swivels and walks toward the bathroom with a sexy sashay. As she reaches the door, she turns and purses her lips into a pout—changing her voice to mimic the other woman. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, George hangs his head a moment before looking toward the bathroom. “That doesn't mean the surprise was meant for me, Donna. It doesn't mean we're having an affair.”
Donna appears at the bathroom door. A trace of toothpaste rings her lips and she gestures with a toothbrush, “Okay, George. I'll pretend for a minute you're not fucking your secretary, let's talk about the time I caught you packing cons for a business trip for which spouses were not invited. How about it, George?”
George lowers his head into his hands and says nothing.
George glances toward the bathroom door. His expression quickly turns from relief that she's done to dismay that she's back as she reenters the room. A smile has replaced the toothpaste on her face and she's clearly enjoying herself. “At the time, you claimed to have purchased them for Frank.
“You might find it interesting to know, however, that I had a little talk with Frank while you were bobbin’ for beaver at the picnic and learned he wasn't invited to that conference either.
“Oh...” she continues rather coyly. “...and Frank never uses cons.”
George looks up with his eyebrows raised in alarm.
“Don't worry. I didn't tell him why I was really interested in the answer to that question.” She reaches up under her nightgown, pulls down a pair of white panties and steps out of them. “I told him I was researching a report for school.” She tosses the panties in the hamper and closes the lid before turning back toward George who’s now leaning back on the bed and watching her performance.
“Oh...he has a seven inch cock and he and his wife have sex at least three times a week.” She smiles broadly. “He was very cooperative!”
Donna moves toward the dresser and turns her back to George while continuing. “Isn't this fun? Why don't we talk about the time I caught you and Lydia next door playing doctor?” George stretches out on the bed with a sigh as though hoping God will simply take him.
“We weren't playing doctor,” he says with a heavy sigh.
Donna picks a textbook and some notes up off the dresser. “That's funny. I guess I jumped to that conclusion since you had her sprawled on her back on their picnic table and appeared to be giving her a gynecological examination.” She turns around, raises her finger and pauses—Detective Columbo-like—before continuing with great drama. “Oh. Wait. I forgot. You said she was stung by a bee, and you were simply attempting to remove the stinger.”
George doesn't even move. He squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, waiting for her punch line.
“With your teeth, apparently.”
She sits on the bed next to George and brushes her fingers through his hair as though soothing a small child. “But then we went for couples therapy, didn't we? Every Wednesday afternoon for six months, you and I sat in her office and worked through our problems.” She gazes off into space as though watching it all unfold on some great, cosmic theater screen. “I reaffirmed my devotion to you and pledged to stand by your side as you searched your soul for the strength to master monogamy.” She grabs a fist full of his hair and turns him toward her—lowering her face toward his as though preparing to kiss him but freezing just inches from his lips. “Until t
he day I was sick and asked you to cancel our appointment. Do you remember that day, George?”
Donna uses her grip on his hair to shake his head ‘yes.’ “Of course you do, honey. You couldn't possibly forget that you showed up at the appointment anyway. Remember?” She pulls her face away from him and pulls his head back against the mattress with her hand full of hair. “I found out later you spent the entire hour on the couch. On top of the therapist who was on her back on the couch.” She rises over George and his eyes are wide with fear. He squirms as though attempting to get away but her grip is too fierce. “Fucking the dirty whore we'd been paying $100 an hour to help put our marriage back together. Surely you remember that, George? You claimed she talked you into it.”
She releases his hair and scoots away from him. More than a minute passes in silence while she arranges herself against the headboard—book in her lap, notes at her side, pen in hand.
“You were the patient; she was the psychologist. You were weak; she was powerful. I believed you; I took you back. I'm a gullible fool, but you're worse.”
George watches her silently for several beats, then gets off the bed and walks toward the bathroom, pausing just short and looking over at her as though planning to say something. Instead, he takes her place in the bathroom and slowly shakes his head.
“You're not exactly the Virgin Mary yourself, you know,” he calls from the other room, and then pokes his head around the door with a toothbrush in his mouth to see if he has her attention. He doesn't. He disappears into the bathroom again and he spits and rinses before reappearing, wiping his face with a hand towel. “Hey. I said you're not perfect, either.”
She looks up at him. “I heard you. But if you think I'm going to allow you to put anything I do in the same category with your escapades, you're wrong.” She goes back to her book but puts it down in a huff when he begins talking again. George tosses the towel back into the bathroom and faces Donna with his hands on his hips.