“I fucking hate you!” Her voice was definitely getting louder as she screamed at me from the locked room, but mercifully the crashing and smashing noises, symbolising wanton destruction of my property, had ceased. “You dirty fucking piece of fucking shit! Fucking get the fuck away from me!”
While her vocabulary was unfortunately limited, there was no doubting the clarity of her request or the anger contained within it. To summarise, I was in what some people might term, trouble. Lots of it, in fact. I’d been up to mischief, and my wife was mildly dischuffed.
The problem was caused two Wednesdays previous. My employer had sent me to some forgotten seaside town, long since abandoned by tourists but tragically not unnoticed by the rainclouds above. The day was supposed to be in a “bonding week” for our team to unite as one. By Wednesday the only thing we were united about was the desire to remove the smug smile from my boss’s face. By any means necessary.
But it was my birthday. I was thirty, and instead of spending the night with my wife I was in a cramped hotel room, in a town probably twinned with Hell, Tartarus and Baghdad. Oh, and Geoff.
Geoff was a weird character: his ambition in life was to win the lottery and open a brothel, staffed with ladies of Eastern European origin. He claimed he got more bang for his buck with Hilda from Hungary that Astrid from Amsterdam. Indeed a few pints slunk down his gullet and the aforementioned Geoff would happily regale his guests with a reading from his personal What Prostitute guide. He’d been around.
But Geoff was my companion. A mild disagreement and major brawl over the knots on our raft had left most of the team on less than epic speaking terms with me, and I was keen to escape the hotel for a few hours.
Indeed, Geoff proved to be good company over dinner: the subject of prostitutes or sex was not mentioned and we escaped to a pub shortly afterwards, downing a few beers as men on expenses frequently do.
Only that’s when she came into the pub. I can still see her vividly: the virginal white miniskirt stopping scandalously inches from her waist, the fake tan on her smooth, sexy legs, the calf-high black boots with a sizzling heel and the confidence in her eyes. She oozed confidence, the spark in her gaze as she surveyed the drinkers.
“I’m getting her a drink!” Geoff cried and before I could stop him, our expenses card had another three drinks added to it. She didn’t seem surprised to have drinks bought for her, the ominous looks the locals gave us was a warning but Svetlana either didn’t notice or didn’t care. She radiated sexiness, smiling and pouting as we drunkenly enjoyed the Slovakian’s company.
I loved how she twirled her light brown hair around her finger; it was sexy. I loved how she licked her lips when I spoke; that was sensually erotic. And I adored how her hands wandered under the table and over my crotch as my eyes stared into her deep blue pools of simmering sexuality.
And that’s when Geoff waded in with his size twelves. A throwaway comment about Hilda from me, had Svetlana forced to listen to why Hungarian girls were so good in the bedroom. “Slovakian girls are even better,” she promised to him, causing his mouth to drool slightly. “We amazing … for a hundred pound each, I show you two hours of heaven. I’ll be two minutes.” She slid from her seat at our table and tottered to the toilets.
“I have a wife,” I muttered, before he said anything.
“Yeah, your wife ain’t Slovakian! Dude, don’t pass this up.”
“One hundred pounds. I can’t pay that, my wife will notice that in the accounts. No.”
His reply: the company credit card.
I was too drunk to argue. Svetlana returned from the toilets holding a couple of condoms in her hand: she didn’t need to try alluring with us, she already had the sex-starved drunks on tenterhooks. Her apartment was a minute’s walk from the pub on the seafront and Geoff stopped at the ATM to remove a further bundle of notes from the expenses account, which he gleefully gave to Svetlana.
She undressed in the small bedroom, sliding her skirt to her ankles.
It felt so wrong, but so inevitable. I closed my eyes as I tried to block out the feelings of adultery and cheating from my mind. Her hands on my waistband put the guilt to one side, her hands on my engorged manhood removed it completely.
It’d been a while since my wife had played like this; the subtle motions of her mouth on the tip of my cock, sliding down my manhood as she maintained eye contact. She licked her lips as her tongue made broad brushstrokes along the length of my shaft, her hands exploring every inch of my stressed body.
Svetlana smiled as her fingers traced over my skin, her mouth sucking on the tip of my prick, as Geoff waited impatiently. I ignored him, focusing on the glorious sensations from my cock. I whimpered, panting and squalling as my arousal erupted into a wave of pleasure and I came in the young lady’s mouth.
We spent two hours with Svetlana; I took turns with Geoff, but Svetlana and I fucked, massaged each other, and did “69”. Indeed, Svetlana was awesome company.
But Geoff clandestinely used my smartphone to take pictures of me and Svetlana.
I didn’t know about them.
And while I didn’t expect my wife to find out about the tryst, I didn’t know she would go looking through my phone for photos of Aunty Leah’s garden.
Which landed me in a bit of trouble.
“Can we just talk?”
She really needs to work on that vocabulary. But now is probably not the time to tell her.
Written for the Everyday Kinky Challenge #2. Image comes from the Everyday Kinky Site.