Confluence of Hedonists #2

They’ve reserved a double en-suite at the Russell. He’s always been drawn by the grandeur of its Victorian exterior. How many times has he turned his head towards it as he drove by? Once, when he was on business in the area, he’d stood in the gardens opposite and just stared at the place, almost hypnotised. Rich waves of decadence seemed to seep from its every window, flowing into the dark, romantic core of him. He’s even fantasised that its architect designed it with lust in mind.

He sips some more Glenmorangie. The bar is a much different affair to the one they’ve left behind at Heathrow. He glances over his shoulder at the long, oak counter, at the black hide stools and the waist-coated bar stewards. A heady scent of leather and money hangs in the still air. He finds it intoxicating.

The two women sit facing him from either end of a rich leather Chesterfield. There’s no disguising the awkwardness in their expressions, in their postures, in the way they nurse their glasses and raise them carefully to their mouths. Their discomfort is irritating, crushing, contagious. It’s almost enough to get him to his feet, to start him walking until he’s back outside on the pavement, amongst the buzz of the early evening traffic.

Almost.

Again, he finds himself wondering if coming straight to the hotel was the right move. He’d considered dropping them off at a bar he knows in Covent Garden, driving the car here alone and then taking the Tube back to meet them. But the logistics were untidy, and leaving them alone together on such short acquaintance seemed more gauche than suggesting that they come straight here. No win scenario. He shrugs, consoling himself that he’s opted for the lesser evil, forcing the recriminations to the back of his mind.

Now he watches the women across the rim of his glass, suppressing a thin smile. Until an hour or so ago, few men would have turned down the opportunity to be sitting in his chair. Now he wonders how many of them would swap places with him at this exact moment. He ought to be sitting here like the smuggest bastard on the planet, his eyes wandering greedily over their bodies, anticipating the warmth of their skin, the taste of their flesh. And instead…. His thin smile becomes thinner still, a bitter laugh barely concealed behind it. Two beautiful women in his company, and both of them dispirited by their discomfort. And when both of them were prepared to share….

He pauses.

What had they been prepared to share? Their bodies? Their innermost desires? Their souls? What were they prepared to give up? What did they expect in return? What price were they prepared to pay for their lust?

What price was I willing to pay?

He shrugs again. This time his wife notices.

“Something wrong?”

“I’m fine.” It sounds flimsy, in need of expansion. “I think I tweaked my shoulder when I put Catherine’s case in the car.”

Their guest smiles half-apologetically. “I didn’t realise I’d packed so heavily.”

“You didn’t. I think it must be old age creeping up on me.”

Everything up to the hotel had been just as awkward. He should have realised it before, long ago, not waited until the moment she walked out into the arrivals hall. She’d emerged in the midst of a throng of travellers, but he’d recognised her instantly from the photographs she’d emailed. She was taller than he’d expected, almost eye-to-eye with him in the dark blue stiletto heels adorning her feet. He’d wondered if she’d worn them all the way here, or whether she’d carried them with her in the holdall slung over her right shoulder.

She’d stepped out of the moving crowd, stood off to one side, eyes questing for a single familiar face. She’d smiled when she found him.

He’d started to walk forward, then hesitated. He turned back to his wife.

“Go on,” she’d said. “I’ll wait here.” Her expression had been inscrutable.

There had been no time to debate the matter. Eyes had been watching him, watching them, looking for signs to reassure. He’d smiled, then walked forward to their visitor. He stopped a foot away.

“Hello, Catherine,” he’d said, holding out his hand. “Welcome to England.”

“Hello.” Her voice was naturally husky, her hand warm and soft, her grip firm. He loathed wet handshakes. He’d leant forward and pressed his lips chastely against her cheek. Her aroma was clean and fresh, a hint of Coco lingering in his nostrils as he’d drawn back.

They’d released their hold on one another. He’d grinned crookedly.

“Never like this in fantasies, is it?”

She’d laughed. “No, things tend to flow a little more naturally, don’t they?”

He’d felt like an awkward teenager. The knowledge that he felt that way only because his wife was standing thirty feet away stung him deeper than he’d expected.

“Come and meet my wife,” he’d said.

A shadow had flickered across her face. “I’d love to.”

The two women had smiled at each other, shaken hands, exchanged pleasantries. No, nothing like it had been in all those fantasies, he’d thought. In the end, he’d found himself pathetically grateful that neither of them had overtly sized the other up. He’d caught both of them casually scrutinising the other as they’d walked to the car park.

They’d driven to the hotel in near silence. In the most fervent of his imaginings, the two woman had sat beside one another in the back seat, looked longingly at one another, slowly coming together, kissing, caressing, hands starting to roam, oblivious to the travellers around them. In reality, he would have settled for them sitting together and continuing with the pleasantries. His spirits had truly begun their downward slide when his wife had climbed into the front passenger seat beside him.

The three of them had remarked on a few of the sights as they headed into the heart of the capital, but it had been little more than banal chit-chat. By the time they were ensconced in the Russell’s bar, he’d already started to conclude that this had been a big mistake.

This is his second glass of Glenmorangie. His throat is pleasantly warm from the passage of the amber liquid, but he’s conscious of the way it sits in his empty stomach. Once again, he tries to decipher the expressions worn by his companions.

“Can I tempt either of you to come with me to explore what the restaurant has to offer?”

His wife takes the seat beside him, directly opposite to Catherine. The wine waiter brings them a bottle of Château Pavie, which proves to be excellent. They all drink lustily, and a second bottle is brought to the table along with their entrees. Finally, with several drinks inside them, the feelings of tension begin to ebb a touch. The women seem to appraise one another more openly, with a little more warmth and acceptance.

“Is this the first time you’ve visited England?”

“No, it’s the third. I still have some family over here.”

“Really? Where is that?”

“Gloucestershire. The Wye Valley. Do you know it?”

“A little. We stayed there a couple of years ago when we visited the Cheltenham Festival. Didn’t we, darling?”

The chatter continues. He listens to it wax and wane, chipping in whenever he senses the rhythm beginning to stutter.

The food is almost as good as the wine. He’s chewing a mouthful of salmon when a bare foot presses itself against his shin. Its owner skilfully negotiates the cuff of his trouser leg, and suddenly he feels warm flesh pressing against his own.

He looks up casually. Catherine is looking innocently across at his wife, smiling, saying something about how much she enjoys Edinburgh. Five soft, warm toes are walking slowly up the front of his leg. It’s a minimal contact, but it’s enough to start his cock stiffening, remind him why he’s here, why they’re all here. He’s grateful for the heavy napkin across his lap. He shifts his foot forward a fraction, strengthening the contact, letting the vendor know that the contact is welcome.

More than welcome.

At the same time, he manages to ease his other foot out of his shoe, and he runs his instep up the back of Catherine’s calf and slowly down again. He watches her face, sees the very tip of her tongue protrude fractionally from between her pale pink lips. His gaze narrows. Was that a nearly suppressed shiver of delight? He glances guiltily to his left, but his wife appears unconcerned with Catherine’s reactions.

The waiters gather their plates. He turns to his wife, then Catherine. “Please excuse me,” he says. Getting his foot back into his shoe is proving difficult; he moves as though to rise, and deliberately knocks his napkin onto the floor. He bends to retrieve it, and in the moment fumbles his errant footwear back into place. Movement beneath the table catches his eye.

Somehow, he keeps his face neutral as he walks to the washroom. He enters the endmost cubicle, locks the door and unzips himself. His cock is semi-hard, rising quickly as he strokes himself. The memory of what he glimpsed beneath the table - his wife’s bare foot running slowly up and down the side of Catherine’s naked calf - is inspiring.

He sighs, once more gripped by the anticipation of the hours to come.