A Devious Homage

Almost the instant we walk into the hotel lobby, I notice the signs advertising the extensive gym and spa facilities. There’s a flash, and then my mind is filled with images, memories stirred up from the dusty recesses of my mind. Not repressed; just forgotten.

As we check in, I toy with the freshly surfaced recollections, roll them around the back of my mind like you might roll a fine wine, or a single malt whisky around your tongue. It is like discovering a bottle of something really special you stashed away at the back of the liquor cabinet, waiting for the right occasion.

This just might be the right occasion to uncork this particular vintage.

I dismiss the porter from our room with a thin smile, palming the folded five pound note into his waiting hand. The door closes with a reassuringly solid thud. The king-sized bed looks soft and inviting. My cock half-stirs, waiting to be further enticed. My wife smiles at me, but it is a gentle, sleepy smile that her lips form, and gentle sleepy lovemaking is not the desire that’s been awakened by my recollections.

“Tired?” I ask.

She nods, her smile deepening.

“Why don’t you take a nap?”

She kicks off her shoes and stretches out on the bed. “What are you going to do?”

I shrug. “Take a look around. I might check out the pool.”

“Your swimming trunks are in there,” she says pointing to the smaller suitcase.

I roll the trunks into a hotel towel and tuck it beneath my arm. I saunter down to the basement. The odour of chlorinated water seeps over me. From behind double doors I can hear the sound of weights being lifted, of masculine grunts. The cream walls gleam sterilely beneath the hot halogen circles in the tiled ceiling. The air tastes warm and damp.

I change into my trunks and slip into the blood-warm pool. I immerse myself, push away from the wall, gliding an inch above the smooth tiles. I skim the bottom from one side of the pool to the other, then back again, and then back again. Lungs burning, limbs trembling, I explode through the surface, gasping, drawing the fetid air deep inside, replenishing my hypoxic blood cells.

Still breathing hard, I loll against the edge of the pool, looking around at my fellow bathers. Mostly men in their forties and fifties. No rippling abdomens here. The bellies on display bare the scars that come with middle-ages replete with opportunities for excess. There are a few women, and I allow my eyes to linger over them for a time, my gaze toying with the sleek, wet Lycra, the hard bumps that mark the peaks of their breasts, the narrow clefts between their thighs. The vistas are pleasant, but no more. None of them wears a swimsuit as well as my wife. Besides, those freshly surfaced memories have snared my focus now, diverting my libido towards the fulfilment of an age-old fantasy.

My attention turns towards the lifeguard. He looks lean and firm, his lightly muscled physique the result of years spent drawing wakes across the surfaces of countless pools. I guess that he’s in his early twenties. My mind does a little mathematical stereotyping: full time pool lifeguard + past the usual student age = fit, but not too bright. He could have stepped right out of my memories.

After thirty of so lengths, I retire to the showers, then to the small cube of Swedish pine at the back of the pool. The air hits me like a wall of moist heat. The sweat pours from me even as I pull the door shut behind me. One of the middle-aged men from the pool sits on the sauna’s upper tier, lolling against the pine. Perspiration rains down his chubby face, drips onto his milk-white chest. The excessive body hair makes him look like some well-fed albino gorilla. He nods tiredly and I return the gesture, choosing the lower tier. I stare into the grey coals of the heater, and play with my new thoughts.

There’s a blast of cooler air as the door to the sauna opens, and the lifeguard, now clad only in a bright red pair of Speedos, walks in.

“Hello, Mr Evans,” he says to the gorilla.

The gorilla nods. “Finished for the day, Tim?”

Tim sits on the same tier as me. “Finished in the pool. I’ve got an aerobics session now, then a couple of massages.”

He’s not even looking at me, but I still work hard at keeping my face completely neutral. He’s just plucked that last word from between my ears. ‘Massages’. If I didn’t know for sure that it was coincidence, I’d think I was being set up.

After a few minutes’ of small talk, the sauna lapses back into sweltering silence. The gorilla grunts. “That’s my lot,” he gasps. He gets up, grunts again and waddles to the door. It’s a wonder he got through. I wait a few minutes after his exit before I speak.

“I heard you mention that you do massages.”

Tim looks at me quizzically. “Yes?”

“Do you only do those down here? Or do you do them in guest rooms as well?”

Two days pass before it’s time to instigate the plan. The patience, the concentration required to maintain focus on the routine, the mundane, comes from somewhere barely human. Is this what it is to be a spider, watching from the centre of a self-constructed world, waiting for events to unfold in your favour?

My mind is consumed by the desire to see my scheme reach fruition.

During breakfast on day three, I tell my wife that I’m planning on playing golf in the afternoon. It’s a gamble. She doesn’t play herself, but sometimes she enjoys strolling with me as I hack my way from fairway to green. But our second day had been strenuous, and I’m counting on her desiring a day of rest and relaxation.

I’m in luck.

“I think I’ll stay here,” she says distractedly as she thumbs the morning paper.

“Ok.” I wait a few seconds. “You know, there are some signs down by the pool about complementary massages for guests. They do them in the guest rooms.” I hesitate. “Would you like me to book one for you?”

My wife nods. “That’s a lovely idea. I’d want a female masseuse though.”

I smile. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

After lunch, my wife heads back up to our room, three gin and tonics nestling inside her. She doesn’t realise they were all doubles. The depth of my scheming knows no limits. I follow her upstairs, grab my clubs, kiss her full on the mouth and tell her I’ll see her in three or four hours.

“Enjoy the massage,” I call to her as I head out the door.

Pulse racing, I head down to the fitness suite. I stash my clubs and then go to find my marionette. He’s wearing a brilliant white singlet and tailored white cotton shorts. The colour enhances his tanned limbs.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Sure.” His smile is easy and relaxed.

“She’s expecting a female masseuse. Just tell her you’re the only one available for the next few days.”

“No problem.”

I lead the way to our room. I knock the door, then step to one side.

“Come in.” My wife’s voice is muffled by the thick wood.

Tim opens the door and walks inside. He glances back at me and nods once. The signal that it’s clear for me to follow, that my wife will not see my entry. I slip through the doorway and into the bathroom. There’s no direct view of the bed, but the large mirror on the opposite wall reflects the entire room, and I can see everything.

My wife is sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing one of the complementary white terry-towelling robes. Her face registers surprise when she sees Tim.

“I was told I’d be able to have a female masseuse,” she says, a slight tremor in her voice.

“I’m sorry,” says Tim. “I’m the only masseuse available for the next few days. If you’d prefer me to leave…”

Doubt flickers across my wife’s face. “No, that’s ok,” she says after what seems like forever. She glances down at herself, and then the bed. “How should I…?”

Tim opens the heavy looking box he’s lugged upstairs. He pulls out small bottles of oil and places them on one of the bedside units. “If you can just lie face down on the bed,” he says. He sounds as though he’s said the line to a hundred different women.

My wife’s hands start towards the belt on her robe, then stutter to a halt. “I’m … naked,” she says, almost apologetically.

Tim’s smile is reassuring. “You can put a towel around your waist if you’ll feel more comfortable.” He turns away gallantly. His reflected gaze meets my own, and he winks conspiratorially.

My wife slips out of her robe, allowing it to fall to the floor. The thrill of seeing her alone and naked in the room with another man is electric, the current coursing up and down my spine. My cock is already at half mast. I watch her stretch out on the bed, pulling a towel over her buttocks.

Tim turns back to the bed. He drips some oil into his palms and rubs them slowly together. Then he begins to work his hands over my wife. He strokes and kneads her neck, her shoulders, the backs of her arms. She looks tense to begin with, but as his hands continue to glide over her body, I can see her beginning to relax, softening, yielding to the experience, to his touch.

Tim works down the line of her spine until he reaches the edge of her towel. Through the mirror, I can see the twin mounds of her buttocks, an inch or so of the delicious valley that runs between them. The masseur’s hands skirt down to her thighs, working her legs from mid-thigh to ankle one at a time. The tiniest moan of contentment escapes my wife’s lips. He begins to work his way back up towards her arse; when he reaches the point where her thighs meet the towel, he rolls the edge of the thick cotton up an inch or so. I can’t see as clearly as he can. I wonder if her sex is visible to him, and the moisture in my mouth evaporates.

He strokes the tops of her thighs, the backs of his hands occasionally brushing against the underside of her buttocks. I half-expect my wife to stiffen up, to tell him to stop.

She doesn’t though.

Tim rolls the towel higher. Now more than half of my wife’s arse is exposed. His hands massage higher, fingers kneading and shaping her buttocks, fingertips trailing lightly along the tight valley, then back down between her thighs. I can imagine his fingertips brushing over the plump lips of her sex. Can he feel them swelling, becoming engorged? I can see from the reflection of her face that she’s becoming physically aroused. As Tim’s hands continue to stroke her lower body, I can see her thighs beginning to tremble, opening further, her arse lifting up to meet his touch. Suddenly she gasps, and I assume that his fingers have skimmed over her clitoris, or even found their way between her labia to the secret flesh inside.

I wonder how wet she is.

Abruptly, Tim stops. He walks around to the end of the bed, so that he’s looking down the line of my wife’s almost entirely naked body. He starts to massage her back once again, working down from her shoulders to her waist. In doing so, his groin is little more than inches from her face. My wife’s eyes open, and she sees what I already have: the unmistakable outline of Tim’s hard cock, straining against the front of his shorts. My cock feels as hard as his looks. I rub myself through my trousers, feeling my cockhead leaking into my underwear. I’m almost breathless as I wait to see what transpires.

Even as he continues to stroke her back, my wife reaches out with one hand, and traces the outline of his erection with her fingertips. Tim groans, his eyes closing in dreamy repose. Evidently encouraged, my wife grasps his shaft firmly through the bulging material, stroking him once, twice, three times. Then with an almost ridiculous sense of calm and control, she unbuttons the waistband of his shorts, unzips his fly, and pulls them down until they’re midway down his muscular thighs.

Tim’s cock - easily as long and thick as my own - paws the air a few millimetres from my wife’s mouth. Without a word, she grasps his naked prick in her hand, and guides the bulbous glans between her waiting lips.

It’s hard to control my shaking. I unzip my own cock and stroke myself with an easy pace. I watch her mouth working its way back and forth along Tim’s thick shaft. She rolls his foreskin forward, until a glistening dew-drop of semen appears at the tip of his cockhead. Her tongue darts out greedily, smearing his juice across his glans, over her lips. All the time she is sucking him, Tim is reaching forward to stroke her arse, his fingers navigating the tight valley towards her sex.

For five minutes, I wank myself slowly as I watch this well-endowed stranger fuck my wife’s mouth. I guess that she intends to bring him off orally, that she wants to taste his seed as it pours over her tongue.

But I’m way off base.

She draws his cock from her mouth, and looking up into his eyes, she says, “Fuck me now.” No more, no less. She reaches back for the towel that is somehow still clinging to her thighs, and flings it across the room. Then she comes up on all fours, waggling her arse seductively.

It’s evident that Tim needs no diagram. He quickly divulges himself of his shorts, walks around the bed and kneels down behind my wife. He strokes her gleaming buttocks with one hand as he positions his cock with the other. I’m about to witness another man take my wife. It occurs to me that the time to stop things from going further is almost gone. Then I look at her face, and I realise that it has already passed. If I walk in and say ’stop’ now, she’d tell me to go to Hell.

Tim rubs his cockhead over the lips of my wife’s sex. He teases her labia, her clitoris, her tightly puckered rosebud. She groans deliciously, a sound that I’ve only ever heard her make with me, and then she reaches down between her thighs and grasps his cock again, guiding the swollen glans into her. With one long steady thrust, Tim’s cock slides deep inside my wife’s cunt. A cry of utter delight bursts forth from her lips as his balls slap against her clit.

“Fuck, yes!” she gasps, as his hard cock ravages her sex, as his nails draw shallow tracks across the cheeks of her arse, as his fingers seek out her swollen clitoris, her bullet-hard nipples. She comes loudly the first time, even louder the second. I doubt if our neighbours will need to place glasses against the walls to hear her.

It’s impossible to remain passive any longer. I strip off, step out of the bathroom and walk over to the bed. The look of horror in my wife’s eyes begins to fade the moment she glimpses the hard cock cradled in my hand. Her mouth opens, and I feed myself to the exquisite pleasure of her lips, her tongue. She strokes my shaft, caresses my balls as I fuck her mouth. I know that I won’t be able to last for long this way. I don’t care. I just want to come, to have her taste my seed.

Tim fucks her into a third orgasm, before he grimaces and grunts. As we agreed, he pulls out of her sex, stroking himself as he spurts across my wife’s taut arse. The sight of his come glistening on her skin is the final incentive I need. I groan with monstrous pleasure as the ripples in my loins become waves, explosions, and the thick cream cascades over my wife’s waiting tongue. She milks me with her hand, intent on draining me, on swallowing every last drop. Then she looks up at me with her liquid green gaze. Her expression is one of drowning in pleasure. A small rivulet of semen runs down her chin from the corner of her mouth. A sex vampire. I’ve rarely seen a sight so wondrously brazen, so arousing.

Tim climbs off the bed. He retrieves his shorts, and then repackages his box of oils. With a smile to my wife and a nod to me, he leaves the room. I feel no guilt at his banishment. His purpose is served, and he’s been amply rewarded.

My wife is still looking up at me with those dreamy eyes, a stranger’s seed drying across her arse. “You set that up?” she asks.

I nod.

“Where the hell did the inspiration for that come from?”

“From something I read in a magazine,” I smile. “A long time ago.”