I reached over to the table at the side of the bed, showing my ass to the Portuguese guys, and grabbed my some lotion. SPF 8 to get brown all over. Then I started with my feet and worked my way up. My calves, front and back. My thighs, front and back, massaging them.
Absence makes the cock grow harder. Isn't that how the saying goes? If not, it should.
I said on my profile that I was interested in men, women, and couples, and I got dozens of messages on the first day, all men except for a few couples who wanted to share me (tempting!). I chatted with some of them and although photos of men with hard cocks isn't normally my thing, after seeing one after another you do get a little dizzy! You were also right that there are a surprising number of secretly mouthwatering me in this town.
Our experience with the masseur broke down some walls for my wife. She demonstrated herself as a sexually ravenous woman with commanding needs, in my presence. Since we met we've been fairly open about discussing our desires, but there are always little reservations, and seeing ourselves in such an unhinged fuck removed some of those reservations, and jealousies, and fears. So before she arrived for a long weekend last month, I'd done the research on the most elegant sex clubs in town, and I proposed not a dare, but an adventure. She giggled a bit nervously, but her eyes were already cloudy with possibilities, and we picked a night.
I have been waiting at the restaurant for about five minutes when my statuesque friend Meredith makes her entrance, causing the usual stirs and stares. We see each a few times a year. After we sit down and get some drinks, instead of the usual catching up she starts in on her campaign to recruit me to do a boudoir photo shoot with her.
I make sure I'm in early for this week's sketch class since it's the end of the month and we'll have a live model tonight. On these nights, I like to pick a seat near the front, but one where I can still watch the door well enough to see the models when they arrive. Something about waiting to see them, and then catching them in their street clothes before class begins and they become stone-faced and all business makes these nights more interesting for me. I can feel the difference now, a twinge of anticipation buzzing along the edge of my focus, anchoring me very squarely in the moment.
Have you ever wanted an anonymous, liberating adventure? Have you ever wished just to become someone else for a brief time and explore what another person inside you might experience? What if you were a blonde instead of a brunette? What if you wore clothes more risqué than you've ever dared? What would this other you discover? I decided I would take on this idea and see what naughty border(s) I might cross.
I headed back to my office after checking my watch. "Another late night," I thought to myself: the hands displayed 6:12. This was nothing new. Since taking on these new accounts, I had been working later and later. The fashion world NEVER sleeps! Unfortunately for my assistant, that meant that she, too, had been working late. As I rounded the corner and approached her desk, I saw that tonight wasn't going to be one of those nights where she took one for the team. She was standing with her Louis Vuitton bag resting at her side and her laptop case slung across her body.
Dear Daring One,
I think it's time for another experiment. Here it is: take me to bed. Show me the places on your body where you were fondled by your husband and your masseur. Let me touch those places, lick those places. Let me kiss your adventurous mouth and remember all the borders you've already crossed in your mind.
We were getting serious. After all, he had asked me to attend his friends' wedding with him. That's a sign that a relationship is moving another step, right? Anyway, it was a heartfelt ceremony, and the wedding was beautifully arranged. When the dancing started, a woman he had introduced me to earlier came over and asked to "borrow" him for the dance floor…that it had been "years" since he had danced with her and he "must" give her a few minutes. I'm not a dancer, so I never suggested it. But what I witnessed on that dance floor changed all that. I also discovered that there was a different man hidden behind the bow tie and cufflinks.
Dear Mr. X,
It's been a long time, but I do not want you to think I have been behaving too much. I spent a few weeks in August at [a big beach resort not too far from where we live], and I was disconnected from my e-mail. I went with two girlfriends who like me have divorced in the past couple years (had I told you that?), and mostly we were just lazy by the pool. My tits got nicely bronzed too, you will be happy to know! But we did have a few big nights out, and of course you were always on my mind.
I was rushing to work yesterday morning when I noticed the state of my heels. I commented that I needed to get new ones. You frowned at my worn, black patent leather Ferragamo Vara pumps and asked if I would be getting "those" again. "Of course," I said. "These are classic. Okay, maybe I'll get them in black calf instead." You shook your head: "No, no. I'm buying." You pulled me over to my closet, handed me a short black skirt. You told me to change into it later, but to keep my black fishnet stockings on. You said you would pick me up at my office. Frowning again, you warned me not to even think about sneaking out and getting yet another pair of "those."
I stood laughing with a group of impeccably dressed ladies in the bar of our hotel. A designer had commented on a ridiculous request that one of the buyers had made for that night's Fashion Night Out event, and I was so distracted with our laughter that I never saw him come in. He obviously saw me, because by the time I noticed him he was headed right in my direction.
As her mind wandered down into the streets and the stories there, her eye caught a light in the building directly opposite. The building was as old as Marco and Julie's, but while theirs had been converted into affordable apartments with cheap fixtures, the building opposite was one luxurious loft to a floor, inhabited by those bankers and lawyers on the opposite end of the tax bracket. Now she realized that the fifth-floor penthouse, with its plate-glass windows (and the roof garden above with its subtle lighting), was directly in their line of sight. The cavernous central room was brightly lit tonight, as was the adjacent bedroom that also looked out onto the street. In the main room an elegant couple was sitting at a large wooden table, apparently just having finished what Julie imagined had been a sumptuous dinner. Not omelets, in any case. A slim maid was clearing the dishes from the table as the woman leaned back in her chair and lit a cigarette. The man stood, came around the table, and placed a hand at the back of the woman's neck to gently massage it. At this small show of intimacy, Julie realized that she was staring and was suddenly conscious that if she could see the couple so clearly, then surely they could see her too. She moved to hide herself behind the wall between the apartment's two small windows, then felt doubly foolish for catching herself at being such a voyeur. That's when the slim maid came out again and said something to the couple. "Will that be all, Mr. and Mrs. Something?" Julie murmured under her breath. And no – apparently that would not be all.
"She does get excited, doesn't she," I said. From my office, where I had been sitting at my desk, pretending to do something very important at my computer, I had been waiting for sounds from the bedroom, where my wife was being massaged by a masseur who was admittedly strikingly handsome. I had a sense that she would moan at some point, an invitation to something new and sexual, and I knew that the moaning would be my signal that I was to join her in the adventure.
Friends of Fleshbot