Authors: Ben Boswell
I zoomed in, and as I did, a gust of wind blew open the gauzy fabric. With the sunlight cascading into the room, I saw briefly, a delightful vision. They were on the bed, she was riding him, eyes closed, head swaying gently from side to side giving me periodic glimpse of her visage. He was laying still, allowing an unobstructed view of her body.
She had shoulder-length blond hair, feathered in a way that hasn’t really been in style since the early 1980s, but it somehow worked with her roundish face and tiny button nose. She had big breasts, not the high, too round, obviously fakes of the Millionaire’s daughter, but heavy torpedoes, with a wide valley between, aimed to the sides. I couldn’t see her areolas, but I imagined them huge, silver dollar sized. She probably hated her boobs; they were at odds with what society valued, and yet I found them incredibly erotic.
She was astride him, her hips thrusting languidly. Like her breasts, her ass and hips were wider set than you see in magazines, but she wasn’t fat in the least bit, just built that way, maybe a little long-waisted. But there was something about her, about her natural body, her swaying breasts, about the way her ass ground against her man, something that was almost ineluctably erotic. She was like an ancient fertility goddess come to life.
And then then the wind died and the curtain draped again across the patio door. For several minutes, I continued to watch. Each small gust of wind giving me a frisson of excitement as the fabric rippled, lifting up slightly, but never quite enough to give me another view inside their room.
I put the binoculars down and for a moment imagined myself in that man’s place. I certainly wouldn’t have just been laying there like a lummox. How could he keep his hands off that ass, those tits? Why wasn’t he caressing her pink cheeks, pulling her closer to suck her big nipples into his mouth? It was truly a case of pearls before swine.
I doubted Claire’s new boyfriend would be quite so passive. No, he had the looks of a man who liked to be in control. Even as I scanned the resort of signs of her, I imagined her in bed with him, bent in half, ankles pinned by her ears, getting pounded into the mattress.
And then I saw her. She was sitting in a lounge chair, by the sloped lagoon pool, in a shady spot. Her book was on her lap, the bookmark unmoved from this morning. She hadn’t read a page. She was laughing again. I zoomed out, and there he was, again. The handsome stranger, camped out beside my wife, chatting her up animatedly. On the table between them -- they had had the decency to not pull their loungers right up next to each other -- were a beer for him and another fruity drink for her.
What the fuck was she doing?
Oh, we were talking. Tony has so many funny stories.
But she had to see it? Feel it? The sun, the booze, the heat, the skimpy swimsuits, the carefully planned impression of privacy. They whole resort, by design, oozed sensuality. There was sex in the air. The Newlyweds felt it. The Millionaire’s daughter, eyeing the waiter, felt it. The Lesbians back in their room scissoring felt it. So what was Claire doing, talking again with this stranger?
I recognized that my visions were just that. Crazy images spawned of sickness, medicine, and frustration at being stuck in the room. And yet, how had he found her again? Was he stalking her? Had they made plans to meet after lunch? Had they exchanged numbers? Or were my visions actually premonitions, some form of remote viewing? Jesus, I was turning into a loon. A full-blown crackpot.
Of course, it was just a coincidence. Sure, they had both noticed each other’s bodies. That would be only natural. But it was just innocent. Two people, having a couple of drinks and telling some stories. It happens every day. A little flirtatious, maybe, but nothing particularly untoward. Except… the way she laughed… the way she glanced at his body and then averted her eyes… the way they leaned in towards each other. It looked… it felt oddly intimate. If I didn’t know Claire, if I didn’t know she was married to me, what would I think if I saw them?
The answer came as another vision. The two of them laying together in bed, naked and sweaty, faces glowing in contentment. They looked like lovers, and not just any lovers, but lovers in that first, heady phase of intoxicating attraction.
CHAPTER FOUR
She stayed out by the pool for a long while. At least her beau hadn’t spent the whole afternoon with her. After about an hour, he’d risen and, with a wave, walked away. It’s a testament to my state of mind that I was shocked she didn’t leave with him, and immediately after coming to terms with that, I began to wonder whether she would soon follow him, whether his leaving early was just for show to avoid giving the impression they were together. That didn’t make sense. She didn’t know I was spying on her, and they had no reason to care if other people saw them together. Even so, I couldn’t shake the feeling that they had an assignation planned, or maybe
another
one. Was it just that they were still satiated out from their earlier encounter?
I stared at her obsessively for over an hour until I felt confident that she wasn’t about to decamp. She was finally reading her book, and had ordered yet another fruity drink. Claire’s never been a big drinker, and for all I knew, she was drinking virgin cocktails, but somehow I doubted it. Was she just heedless, enjoying the sun and the breeze, not paying attention to how much she was consuming? Or was she trying to drink enough to work up the courage to meet her lover? Or was she boozing away the guilt? God, I was making myself nuts.
Staring at her through binoculars was addictive. But I had periodic moments of clarity where I also realized how creepy it was. I forced myself to look away from Claire. I looked first for the Newlyweds, but not only were they not visible, they’d also closed their patio door. Then I searched for the Lesbians. They were probably out front, playing beach volleyball or maybe out on the tennis court or maybe going for a ten mile run that they would call a “jog.” They had that look about them. I finally went back to the Millionaire.
He was dozing on his lounger, covered head-to-toe with a towel. He looked a little like a corpse that way. His Latina trophy, her kids, and his daughter were also still out there. The brunette was sitting by the edge of the pool watching her children frolicking in the water. The blonde had just finished yet another drink, and the ever attentive waiter had returned with a refill. He stood beside her, shading her face, hand on his hip in a cocky pose. She wasn’t laughing this time, but giving him instead a saucy smile. He bent down to pick up her empties, lingering for a moment to share a whispered conversation. She glanced over at daddy, then gave the waiter a quick nod.
The waiter stood up quickly and walked away, her eyes following him. A beat, then two, and then a little too soon for plausible deniability, she stood and walked in the direction the waiter had gone. I saw the brunette cast her a quick, contemptuous glance – the Millionaire’s two women did not like each other apparently – and then a quick look at her sleeping hubby. With a shrug she let her stepdaughter walk away.
The blonde looked around nervously as she approached the bar. She seemed to startle and then turned and walked toward a small path hidden between hedges that ran from the bar to the hotel itself. It was funny. From where she was, she had ducked into a hidden passageway. From where I was, she’d just gone from one side of the hedge to the other, while remaining perfectly in view.
She took a cautious step or two and then the waiter stepped out from under a palm. She smiled, but took maybe a half-step back, betraying her nervousness. He moved toward her smoothly, holding out a hand. She hesitated, then smiled and took his hand. He pulled her close and leaned down to whisper in her ear. I thought I could see her blush, though it might have been the start of a sunburn.
I didn’t have much of an opportunity to continue to look for nuance because their encounter quickly picked up steam. The whispering turned into a kiss. His hands slid down her back and cupped her ass, first through her thin swimsuit, then beneath it. As he squeezed her ass, she reached around and ran her hands up his back to his shoulders. He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her easily off the ground. He walked her over and deposited her on a waist-high cooler or storage box or something. He kissed her again then dropped to his knees between her legs.
She pushed at him half-heartedly, but her hungry expression made it clear it was just for show. He either realized that or maybe he didn’t care. He grabbed the fabric of her swimsuit and slid it aside, burying his face in her crotch. Her hands seized the back of his head, her finger running through his long hair, and she threw her head back, eyes closed, in passion. He ate her snatch vigorously, judging by the movement of his head and her jerky, twitchy reaction.
At one point, she opened her eyes, and looked down at her lover, licking her pussy. She closed her fist on his hair and pumped her hand up and down, a proud and haughty look on her face. It wasn’t hard to imagine her thoughts, her satisfaction at this sexy, young man, completely at her disposal, servicing her. She closed her eyes again, and threw her head back. Her mouth opened and closed rhythmically, as if moaning in pleasure. She shuddered and then looked down at him again with a smile.
Then suddenly he rose. As he pulled away, I got a perfect view of her shaved snatch, swollen, pink, and even from a few hundred yard away, visibly wet with excitement. Still, she didn’t seem quite ready as he wrenched down his pants and roughly shoved what looked like a fat prick inside her.
There was nothing subtle about the way he fucked her. She might have seen him as an exotic and safe play toy, but he obviously saw her as nothing more than a convenient hole. He hammered her cunt hard, bouncing her up and down on the cooler. He reached out and roughly pulled down her top, exposing her big, fake tits. They bounced wildly. He grabbed a handful of blond hair, his other hand closing firmly over her breast. She reached out and placed her hands on his stomach, trying to slow him. But he was too strong, too aggressive to be managed.
Without warning, he stepped back, pulling her off the cooler and onto the floor. She was on her knees now, looking up at him. He stroked his cock roughly. She realized what he was doing too late to react, but soon enough for her eyes to widen in apprehension. He spurted across her face, and then again and again. She flinched, but he reached out and held her firm, and his eruptions repeatedly found their target. When she looked up at him, in shock, her face was covered and shiny with his jism.
It had happened so quickly, I almost felt sorry for her. Little, rich girl. She’d gone from getting serviced by one of the little people to being covered in cum so fast that she hadn’t had time to react. He lifted her to her feet and gave her a bar towel to clean herself off. She did so, a little sheepishly. There was what I imagined was awkward small talk, and then he walked her to the gap in the hedges and led her back out from the backroom into the bright daylight.
As the blonde approached her stepmother, I thought I could see an exchange of glances between them. Was that a smirk on stepmom’s face? Did she know what had happened? Did she have similar experiences as a hot-bodied young woman back in Rio or Cartagena or wherever she came from? But they didn’t talk, didn’t commiserate. There was an unbridgeable gap between them. The blonde jumped into the water before reaching her lounger, washing away whatever evidence remained of her encounter.
The show was over. I swung my binoculars back over to where Claire had been. She was gone. How long, I didn’t know. Long enough for Blondie to get eaten, fucked, and coated with jism. Where had she gone? Was her boyfriend coming on her face right now?
CHAPTER FIVE
By the time she returned, a good hour later and who knows how long since quitting her lounge chair, I was in a pissy mood.
“Did you have fun?”
With your boyfriend?
I said through a barely suppressed sneer.
“Yeah,” she giggled. “It is gorgeous out there, and they have the cutest family of cats living out by the gazebo bar. She was apparently too giddy from fruity drinks to notice my attitude.
“You were gone a long time,” I asked probingly.
“Sorry.” She gave me an exaggerated pout. “I know you’re cooped up in here. Are you feeling better?”
I nodded. I was. At least a little. I’d try some regular food for dinner. I was actually looking forward to it.
“Good,” she said brightly. “I got us tickets to one of those Hawaiian pig roast and culture shows on the beach for tomorrow night. Took forever. The concierge had to deal with this old couple who needed special accommodations for everything.”
I nodded again. We were operating in completely different universes. She was talking to me about normal touristy things, but my own mind was wallowing in a morass of depraved sex. How could she talk about a pig roast when we were in the middle of a giant orgy? Or was this all an act? An effort to throw me off the track?
She was looking at me expectantly. I’d missed something.
“Sorry, what?”
“I was just asking if you thought that would be us. You know, the old couple, in fifty years, informing some poor concierge about all our ailments.”
“I… I dunno.”
She gave me a queer look. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem a little loopy. And I’m the one who’s been out in the sun drinking Mai Tais. By the way, watch out for the gazebo bar, they mix ‘em strong. Out by the pool is much better.”
Or maybe out by the pool you didn’t notice because you were too busy flirting.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She opened her mouth to talk, but then stopped. After a moment, she continued, “Well, I’m going to take a shower and wash off the sun block. Wanna plan dinner in the room? We can just get something small and simple if you’re still not feeling well.”
She was acting so normal that it brought me out of my funk.
“I’m sorry. I just missed you.”
“Awww, that’s so sweet.”
“Go ahead and shower. I’ll check out the room service options.”
We had dinner out on the balcony. I was starving. I hadn’t had any real food in over a day. But I decided to take it easy and ordered a simple piece of steamed Mahi Mahi for myself. Claire had the same thing, except seared with a sesame-soy-lime sauce. The smell of her food made my mouth water. My fish seemed bland and tasteless by comparison.
We’d gotten a bottle of white wine. We probably shouldn’t have. She’d had plenty to drink already, and my stomach was far from a hundred percent. But it was our honeymoon, damn it!
Claire had changed into a cute little, flowered sundress, blue to match her eyes. She’d gotten a little sun on her cheeks and was looking, frankly, radiant.
She told me all about her day. She’d roamed across the resort, checking out the pools, the beach, and even the golf course. She described the salt water pool and the sunset cruise that left from the beach. She told me about everything, everything except for the man she’d talked to and flirted with on two separate occasions during the day.
I sipped my wine as I listened to her. The alcohol hit me and my empty stomach hard. I was buzzed by the time I finished my glass. The more she told me about the resort and touristy options for the week, the more the lacuna in her narrative gnawed at me. She could at least mention the mystery man. Her failure to do so seemed increasingly significant and suspicious.
She took a bite of her fish and turned to look at the sky, the bright red-orange of the sunset transitioning into the violet of twilight. A breeze kicked up, washing the balcony with the sweet, salty smell of the sea. The palms rustled. A bird cried out as it dipped into the canopy of trees. It was a slice of paradise. And I couldn’t stand it.
“So, tell me about your boyfriend.”
She looked at me quizzically. “Huh?”
I gestured vaguely in the direction of the pool.
She followed my gaze and then turned back toward me. “Were you spying on me?”
Even in my buzzed and jealous state, I sensed the danger in her question. Her eyes were locked in on mine. I tried to read her emotions, but it was hard. Was she angry? Amused? Defensive? Guilty? All of the above?
“No, not spying on you, per se. I was just looking around and happened to notice you… with a man.”
She said nothing. She just continued to frown at me, almost inviting me to hang myself with my own words.
“You… um… seemed to be having fun,” I continued lamely. “I don’t know… do you know him from somewhere?”
She hesitated, as if considering her options. Her continued silence tempting me to continue rambling.
“I –“
She cut me off. “We were just chatting. His name is Trent. He’s here for the week.”
“So, is he married?”
She laughed at how transparent I was being.
“No, not quite. He was actually supposed to be on his honeymoon, but he got left at the altar, poor guy. The plane tickets were non-refundable, so he decided to come out anyway.”
I snorted.
“What?” she asked.
I shook my head. “You don’t really believe that?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh please,” I chuckled, self-satisfied with my powers of deduction. “That’s just a line. Poor guy. Some woman just broke his heart. Won’t someone please help him learn again to trust? Restore his belief in love?”
Claire regarded me open-mouthed. A look of understanding crossed her face. I smirked smugly thinking I’d convinced her.
She grinned and shook her head.
“You’re really invested in this.”
“What?”
“In this whole… what… fantasy?
My boyfriend.
Your poor, dumb, naïve wife getting hit on by the pool.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I muttered.
She gave me a piercing gaze. “Oh God, John, more? Is that why you accused me of being away too long? Did you think I’d gone off with him?”
It did sound crazy when she said it out loud.
“It’s not like that.”
She eyed me skeptically. “Oh? Then how is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You see me sitting by the pool talking to a man, and your mind immediately jumps to me cheating on you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to. So, it’s okay. Come clean, is that one of your things?”
“What things?”
“The cuckold thing. Do you think of me with other men?”
“I am not a cuckold,” I denied hotly.
She laughed.
“You can thank me for that!”
“So he
was
hitting on you?”
She rolled her eyes. “He was nice. He never propositioned me.”
Would she admit it even if he had? I didn’t know. I wondered how he’d describe it.
“So what put this in your head then if it’s not a thing,” she persisted.
“Never mind.”
“Oh come on, John. I’m not angry. It’s just a little funny, you know. Here we are on our honeymoon, and you’re thinking of me with other men.”
Her tone struck me as patronizing. I dug in.
“You
are
being naïve, babe. He was definitely hitting on you. The sun, the ocean air, the booze, this place oozes sex. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen.”
Her eyes lit up. “Oooh, tell me.”
“No, I…”
“You might not be a cuckold, but you’re definitely a voyeur. You just admitted it. Anyway, you’ve always gotten a kick out of playing Sherlock Holmes with people. You used that routine on me when we first met.”
“Did not.”
“Did too!”
She paused, then continued, “Come on. Tell me what you saw. What put the idea of me cheating on you into your head?”
She peered over the railing of the balcony. “We do have a great view up here.”
She looked over at the other wing of the hotel. “I bet we can even see into some of those rooms over there.”
It was like she could read my mind. With each statement, I felt myself blushing a little more deeply, until my guilt was written all over my face. There was no point in denying it.
“I was bored,” I offered by way of excuse.
“You’re a pervert,” she accused, but with an amused glimmer in her eyes.
“You knew that already,” I replied.
“Yes, but I didn’t know what flavor of pervert. So I married a voyeur.”
“Maybe… a little.”
“Okay, so tell me. What did my voyeur husband spy from his perch?
I was uneasy, but she was encouraging. I felt like I was traipsing through a minefield. No matter how tolerant and even interested she seemed to be, I couldn’t help but feel that I was courting disaster in talking about what I’d seen.
I began with the Lesbians.
“How do you know they’re lesbians?”
“I don’t. They just had that look about them.”
“The lesbian look?”
“No, I mean, they had that newly married look about them. They just happened to be both women.”
“They could just be friends.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’ll point them out tomorrow. We’ll see what you think.”
I mentioned the Millionaire’s clan.
“Ohh, I saw them too,” Claire gasped excitedly. “The wife is quite the number, isn’t she? Sofia Vergara, only bustier.”
I told her about what I had seen with the daughter.
Claire gasped, hand to mouth. “No! You did not really see that!”
I nodded.
“Oh my God, all over her face? That is so rude.”
I shrugged. “Back alley quickies have their own rules I guess.”
She laughed. “I can’t say I’m that surprised. That girlie had slut written all over her.”
“Slut shaming, are we?”
“Not shaming. Just sayin’ I’m not surprised.”
I kept the Newlyweds to myself. I didn’t trust myself to speak about them, about her, without betraying myself. But that was okay. I’d given Claire enough.
She giggled as she finished her wine. “Okay, okay, I see where your mind was. I forgive you for thinking the unthinkable about me.”
“Unthinkable?” I said.
“I would never cheat on you.” She paused. “Unless you wanted me too.”
I felt my cheeks flush. “Claire!” I sputtered.
She laughed -- maybe just a little too hard -- throwing her head back in mirth as I’d seen her do with Trent. “I’m just kidding. Seriously, John, you need to get out of this room.”
I nodded. Then grunted. A piece of the fish had made its way down to my intestines. It was like a volcano.
“Excuse me,” I groaned, racing to the bathroom.
“So, I guess you’re not quite well yet?” she called through the closed door.