It was not supposed to be a bad day. My divorce from Dillon was official. My boss rewarded my mentoring of a newbie with a penthouse suite for the company’s annual meeting. The shadow of where my wedding ring had been disappeared. Now, I was officially single. Plus, I’d lost the weight I intended to lose.
The new-found freedom from my decade of being faithful to a now-I-know philandering ex was a foregone conclusion.
I thought, “One day soon, I deserve a good day and a great night as well.”
“Yeah,” I thought. “Now comes the who, what, where and when?”
The latter of the w’s might be very soon. Stories abound of women hooking up with guys in hotel bars and having bone-shaking sex. I seriously doubted how many times that happened in real life, but I was ready to give it a try.
Not today or tonight, though. Work was only thing I could concentrate on, as the trite quotation goes, “With great honor comes great responsibilities.” My daydreams of sexual release and my search for reverie and peace would have to wait.
However, (and there is always a ‘however’), things were going downhill. I was not prepared for the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune coming for my body and soul.
True, my divorce was final, but Dillon was still the go-to lawyer in my company’s firm. Not only did I see “Dillon” and our last name on a daily basis, but I also had to speak with him on a professional basis.
My lawyers had warned me to do nothing wrong: no sex, no gambling, no immoral conduct. I was getting a substantial settlement, but any misbehavior would queer the deal and leave me penniless.
Business necessity usually meant I called Dillon.
Usually, I started with something like this, “This is a professional call and I want no talk of anything else, other than the file Mr. Biaggio sent you yesterday.” I had to break it off in him or Dillon would start talking reconciliation and wooing me back.
When I redirected he called me a slut or an ice cold bitch. He was tacky enough and ask, “So, who are you fucking now?”
The genesis for this was my fault as well. Our pillow-talk marriage bed fantasies involved him watching me with other men while I was screaming rapture-induced vulgarities.
Both my husband and my imaginary lover called me names and ordered me around with “You are only a slut, a whore, fuck-meat for any man. Crawl over here and do what you were born to be.”
Yeah, we both got off on that, but we both knew it was purely pretend. I was, as I said, forever faithful to my marriage.
Not good! Bad and not going to get better when he reminded me of my fantasies. Despite that kind of talk, I never, ever strayed. Dillon, however, did.
My bad day got worse with Angie. Angie was no longer my trainee. I had mentored this new girl to the point where she could survive on her own: find her own leads, develop a client base and become independent. I taught her the tricks of the trade and a few fine points.
Imagine my surprise at the General Conference when Mr. Biaggio (We call him Mr. Beeg.) announced, “Angie will be the manager of our new branch office in California.”
I wanted that job because I was ready for it, had earned it. Plus, I could be further away from the ghost of a ten year marriage.
I eschewed trolling our hotel bar and was too tired and pissed off at Mr. Biaggio catch a cab somewhere else. I stayed close.
I called for room service, “Please send up a bottle of good red wine.”
An hour later, after a hot soak, I was quietly sipping a nice merlot. I could be alone in my suite for a well-deserved pity-party.
Dillon introduced me to porn. He liked to watch people fucking and sucking and engaging in all kinds of sexual activities and sometimes, perversions. Surprisingly, I got into the habit as well.
Tonight, I could relax in my hotel room and lose myself in someone else’s fantasy.
In this film on the hotel television, I watched a couple eating crabs at a roadside diner.
“No Way!” I shouted at the screen. Their names were Dillon and Clarese. Too damn close for me.
Begrudgingly, still cursing my bad omens, I watched.
I predicted the plot line. When the couple returned to their car, it wouldn’t start.
A nice looking gent who had been their waiter volunteered, “I’ll drive you home and you can come fetch your car tomorrow. I guarantee it will be safe here overnight.”
The idea of a threesome entered my little foggy brain. It would have to be two guys and me.
I resolved, “No ‘other woman’ would be my completion.”
Also, if ever I did it with two guys, no ass action. My sorority sisters had convinced me of that a dozen years ago.
Back to the movie:
Pornographers flag at good dialog, so it wasn’t long before the scene shifted to the couple’s home. Clarese was sitting between the two men. After a few drinks she started kissing one man, then the other.
She got comfortable in the middle. She got two tokes for each gent’s one. The smoke and the wine and ambiance led to her getting really comfortable.
“Ooh, hubby,” she whispered. “Do you mind if I play around a bit?”
“Not at all,” said her husband. “What do you want?”
She replied, “I want you to take off my panties and show this fine young man what a sweet pussy you own.”
Fast forward to her jerking both dicks at the same time.
Finally, she yielded herself to the new fellow doggy style, while sucking her husband.
I muttered to myself, “This is what we liked to watch.”
The movie’s close-ups were almost real, convincing.
To no one I said, “The spittle is running down her husband’s pole. Every time the new dude slams into her, her mouth swallows more and more and hubby’s dick gets wetter.”
One more sip of wine and I was keeping time with my own fingers to the human music on the screen.
My climax was enough to relax me. I dozed.
Later.
I woke up to an alarm. Morning already?
“Jeez, it’s morning!”
“No, wait. That’s the fire alarm! Holy shit.”
Sweats donned in a few seconds. I grabbed my pocketbook and went for the door.
Mr. Biaggio’s room was across the hall. Our keynote speaker team was in the room next to my boss. The two wunderkinds came out at the same time I did.
“This is for real. Let’s get out of here,” I heard one say.
Then Biaggio’s door opened and out came Angie. Our new Branch Manager was dressed in nothing but a top sheet worn like a toga that barely covered her sleazy baby-doll pajama top. Her nether-regions were showing, almost.
I yelled at her, “You can’t use the elevator in a fire. Take the stairs.”
She yelled back, “I’ve got to get back to my room downstairs.”
Chaos reigned. One of us physically turned Angie toward the staircase door. She just stood there.
I pushed her to the exit door and gave her my last piece of advice. “Move or burn.”
She moved.
I went down the stairs next, then Brad and Jake, the guest speakers. Such gentlemen my hall mates were.
Angie disappeared two flights down.
Brad, Jake and I were outside for about ten minutes. The aroma of freshly mown grass blended with the steak place next door, enhanced with after-shave and wine. Sexual pheromones began to take over.
Angie tried to join our group but the she-devil in me was polite but icy.
My unspoken message, “Go somewhere else, you cheating bitch.”
The fire drill was over quickly.
We filed back into the lobby and milled around. The hotel manager announced that we could take advantage of an open bar and buffet. He said, “Stay up as long as you like. I’ll keep the staff here until regular closing time, Two A.M.”
“No brainer!” we three agreed.
Brad chimed in, “The firm is footing the room bill. Let’s have a party!”
With a wink in my direction, Jake said, “We can go anywhere and do anything for another three hours, at least.”
We got our complimentary drinks and adjourned to our bench back on the patio. The weather was balmy, so the two guest speakers and I sat, watching the moon travel overhead and the fire trucks rumble up and rumble away.
My guys were personable. Brad was the taller of the two, a black man under thirty; he talked shop.
His sidekick, a short, muscular guy, was more of a flirt. I flirted back. I let Jake hug me, ostensibly to keep me warm. I snuggled into his body as we sat.
I complimented Jake, “Gawd. Your muscles are huge and rock-hard.”
Brad, not to be outdone, settled on my other side.
I cared not that Mr. Biaggio was avoiding me. I was off duty and he had been caught.
I thought, “He will be lucky if I don’t squeal to his wife or an investor.”
Angie disappeared into the crowd. (She showed up the next morning at the breakfast buffet, still avoiding eye contact.)
It seemed longer, but we three were back on our floor within an hour of the alarm going off.
Brad said, “Now I am wide awake.”
“Me too,” I replied.
Cute Jake said, “Me three.”
“Awe shit, shit, shit!” The two guys were not happy. It seems that the electricity had been restored to one side of the hallway (mine). My little green tally light worked fine. The men’s side was dark.
Mr. Beeg ambled up, assessed the situation with a shrug and went back downstairs.
I said, “Good night, boys.”
I let myself into my room and closed and bolted the door.
I thought, “Hmm? Do I want to have sex? Sex with two guys maybe?”
I unbolted the latch and opened the door a crack.. My two guys looked relieved.
“C’mon in,” I said, “I’m not ready for bed, yet.”
If they caught the hint, they didn’t show it.
We pulled some little bottles out of the fridge. Brad took off down the hall with the ice bucket. Jake went foraging the other way.
A gentle tap, tap and I let them back in. Jake had dashed down to the bar and lifted an armload of beer and small bottles of red wine.
I excused myself and went into the bathroom to freshen up.
When I returned, the guys were on either end of the couch, watching the television screen.
The hotel television was on, still tuned to the porn channel. The ‘movie’ had recycled and was almost where I’d left it.
