Sebastian - Secrets (3 page)

I knock gently on the hotel door as a flake of paint falls away.  Three knocks.  Wait.  Another knock.  Our code.  The stranger releases the lock and the door opens.  There stands a treat to behold, naked except for a white towel, which hangs loosely from his hips and is tied to the side.  He’s a classic ‘A’ shape - broad set shoulders tapering down to narrow hips with sharply defined pectoral muscles and solid biceps, I lick my lips keenly, thinking that all my Christmases have come at once.

“Simon.  Hi.”  I can’t think what to s
ay to him, suddenly embarrassed, my face flushing fiercely.  I place the holdall and my handbag on the wooden luggage rack next to the door.

He doesn’t reply, instead he’s all hot breath and sultriness, as he
pushes the door closed, stands behind me and places his fingertips lightly on either side of my neck.

I shiver in momentary alarm, as I remind myself how little I know of this man.  His fingers slip beneath the lapel of my coat and he pulls it from my back.  I outstretch my arms to aid the coat’s removal and he drops it to the cheap green patterned carpet, where it pools at my feet.  He’s still behind me and I feel the prickle of tiny electric shocks coursing down the trail of my spine.

“Sit on the bed.” He commands and I step forward to the queen size bed and sit on the edge
, revelling in his assertiveness and keen to comply. 

“Wow,” I say
nervously.  “Aren’t you the bossy one.”

“Sshh.” He puts his finger to his lips.  Oh my.

The ache between my legs is becoming unbearable and my breathing quickens in anticipation of what this man will do to me.  He saunters slowly, with a sexy swagger, to where I sit and my eyes travel from the trail of dark hair at his perfectly formed upper pubic area to his navel, up to his beautifully sculpted chest, which is matted with course black hair.

This man is a God.  I’
ve won the sex lottery, and I intend to spend my winnings during the next two hours before I’ll have to leave to collect my children. 

Guilt surges through me like a tsunami as I think of the family I am betraying, but Simon forces my legs apart with his knee and
guilt gives way to lust once more.

Gazing
longingly at Simon’s ruggedly handsome face, I note that he appears younger than his profile age of thirty-eight, by a good ten years.  His youthful looks belie his manly expertise as he sinks to his knees between my quivering legs.  He leans forward and his mouth finds mine.  His tongue pushes between my parted lips and probes inside my hungry mouth.  He bruises my lips with his brutal kiss and I reach forward and entangle my fingers in his bushy black hair, tugging roughly at the roots until he moans.  His hands clutch at my breasts, releasing them from their Lycra restraint. 

His mouth leaves mine -
I’m panting and wanting, my hands pushing his head downwards demandingly. 

“Wait,
” he rasps, as his expert mouth finds my throbbing nipple and sucks and flicks it so tantalizingly slowly.

“I want you so badly
,” I groan.  My fingers travel down from the nape of his neck to his back where they glide over the beading sweat that is forming. 

“You’
re so hot Rosie.” He pulls away from my nipple, leaving it bereft, and trails his hot tongue down to my navel, his towel falling away exposing his lean buttocks and colossal manhood.  Oh thank you Lord … he’s huge!

Self conscious, suddenly, I try to suck in my jelly belly, extending my arms behind me I rest back onto my hands so that my midriff is elongated
, and the small folds of tummy fat become less obvious. 

He roughly pulls off my panties before h
is tongue continues its journey southward. I close my eyes in utter rapture, as his fingers part my cleft and hold me open and exposed.  His mouth encompasses my clitoris and sucks before his teeth catch the tip of me making cry out in ecstasy. I collapse back onto the bed and grasp the white cotton sheets in my fists as he circles and flicks at my sweet spot with his tongue.

“Y
our cunt is dripping for me,” he murmurs appreciatively as he slides two fingers into my wetness.

“Oh. Please
. Don’t Stop.” I pant at the bliss I feel from the unfamiliar attention my body is receiving. 

A third finger slides in, lubricated by my juices and all three of his probing digits massage the sweet bundle of nerve endings deep inside me while his thumb rubs me so exquisitely. 

I feel myself building, and he senses my imminent orgasm and quickens his rubbing and massaging, thrusting now with his hand, his mouth on my thigh, biting into my flesh and I’m lost in the crescendo of pleasure which ripples and spasms, drenching his fingers in my liquor.  As I feel the tremors subsiding I lay panting on the bed feeling a release which is alien to me in its’ completeness. 

“Holy fuck,” I gasp
, breathlessly.

“Suck me.”  The cold instruction cuts through my stupor and I raise my trembling body from the bed.
He’s standing before me now, between my legs still.  His magnificent cock stands erect and hard, the veins along its’ length throbbing as he thrusts his hips toward my eager mouth. I slide off the bed so that I’m on my knees and, grabbing the backs of his thighs I pull his waiting organ to my mouth.  He grabs my hair with both hands and forces my head toward his groin.  The shiny head of his enormous cock is almost too large for me to take him into my mouth.  I flick my tongue across his crown and eagerly lap up the salty bead of fluid, which has formed on the cleft of his tip.

“Ye
s.  Take it all, you fucking slut.” His hands force my head nearer still so that his pulsing cock enters my mouth and I gag as it hits the back of my throat.  He is so immense but I work him with my mouth, sliding him past my lips, sucking hard and working his root with my cupped hand.  His enraptured moans reassure me that I’m pleasuring him well.  My head bobs as I work his cock but my breath catches as Simon pulls sharply on the hair at the nape of my neck, tugging me away from his groin.  He slips from my mouth but continues to pull my hair so that I’m forced to stand, aroused by the hair pulling, the pain blending seamlessly with the pleasure.

I lean into him and kiss
him, seeking assurance that he’s pleased with me.  He pulls away from my kiss, grasps my shoulders and spins me around so that I have my back to him once more.  Still using the tug of my hair to guide me, he forces me forward over the edge of the bed so that my ass is in the air. 

Releasing my hair, he moves close to me so that I can feel the tickle of his pubic hair against my buttocks and the hard rod of his penis pressing into my ass.  I feel him reach to the nightstand, hear the tearing of foil and he slides a condom onto his hardness.  Panic sets in at the vulnerability of my most private cavity but instead, the head of his cock presses into my pulsing vagina and with one sharp thrust I feel him fill me
so full that I fear he’ll tear me apart.  His thrusts are purposeful and fierce and, in just a few short moments, he cries out my fake name,

“Rosie. Oh shit. Here it comes,” and he pumps and releases his load as his swea
ting torso arches back in frenzy. 

“Fuck, you’re good”
he praises as he pulls out, removes his condom and tosses it into the waste paper bin.

I crawl up onto the bed and pull the sheet over my glistening body, feeling suddenly self-aware, exposed but deliciously used.  Actually I feel dirty, as though I’ve been a mere vessel for his climax.  Is this a good feeling or a bad feeling?  It feels both.  This inner conflict is not what I envisaged, and yet it’s entirely what I bought into when I began my illicit journey.  Hearts and flowers and loving sentiments do not marry with uniform dating and extra marital affairs.  Simon takes my hand and pulls me up from bed.  We’re both flushed and the hotel room smells of sex. 

“S
hower with me, I’ve got to go in a minute,” he orders curtly. 

“So soon?  I have another hour,” I say.

He’s a man of few words though, and I wonder whether he has much depth but then I remind myself that the purpose of our meeting wasn’t for conversation.  The water is cleansing and goes part way to purging the dirtiness I feel within.

“Will I see you again?” I ask tentatively
, towelling my body dry.  He’s made no mention of repeating today’s sleazy afternoon, which doesn’t boost a girl’s confidence.

“Yes, sounds good.  I’ll call you, I’ve got your mobile number,” he promises.

“Only call between 9am and 3pm please,” I’m suddenly concerned that Simon may call when I’m at home.

“No worries.
Jealous husband?”

“You could say that,” I frown.  Alan would kill him.  Or kill me, if he found out.  Or would he even care? I wonder.
 

“Alright, I’ll be careful. 
It’ll have to fit round my shifts though,” he replies.

I retrieve my work clothes
and fresh underwear from the holdall and dress quickly, screwing the gold dress and slutty underwear into the holdall, boots on top.

“Very prim,” says Simon, watching me while leaning against the wall by the door, towel still draped around his hips.  “But I know what a whore you really are, don’t I?”

“Isn’t that a good mix?” I ask.  “Prim on the outside, whore on the inside?”

“Oh yes.  A very good mix,” he purrs.

Buttoning my coat, I take a last look at my surroundings.  The bland interior of the economy room does nothing to lessen the cheapness I feel in myself.  We kiss briefly, Simon assuring me that he will be in touch in a few days, and I leave.

As I sit alone in my car in the school car park, killing the hour until pick-up time, I reflect on the afternoon, mentally flaying myself for being an adulterous slut.  The enormity of what I have done overwhelms me and tears sting my eyes. 

With the children on board, s
uppressing the forlorn sobs, which threaten to burst forth, I dutifully ask them about their day and resign myself to settling back in to my dull life.  What was I thinking?  This isn’t the answer, Beth, I tell myself.  If I do leave Alan, it needs to be because of his unreasonable behaviour, not because of my cheating.  The children would never forgive me if I chose another man over their father and yet, having tasted the forbidden fruit, I’m not convinced I have the willpower to stop myself now.

Alan won’t be home for another hour, which gives me time to hide the holdall at the back of my wardrobe, under a mound of shoes.  I’ll have to launder the clothes at the weekend, hide them amongst the school uniforms.  Thankfully for me, Alan never gets involved in laundry duties.

Later, lying in bed in the darkness – with Alan snoring beside me – sleep evades me.  My mind runs through today’
s encounter moment by racy moment.  Feelings conflict from relief at not being caught, to arousal at the memory of the hair tugging, from fulfillment to deceit, from elation to despair.  I ponder the idea of seeking counselling, it cannot be normal to feel so mixed up, but dispel the idea – there is no way I can add more pressure to my schedule, nor can I share these disreputable thoughts with another.

It is eight thirty-five am.  We are even later this Friday morning.  Lack of sleep means I am running on zero energy.  I shout at the kids to get in the car, forget Joe’s book bag and forget to say goodbye to Alan.   Thank goodness it’s nearly the weekend … except of course I have to drive all the way to Cornwall for the teambuilding thing.             

When I arrive at work, I’m truly thankful for the peace and tranquillity my office affords me. 
Immersing myself in work takes my mind off the jumble of emotions, which plague my mind, and dip my mood.  Our finances are under strain, the industry is doing well in spite of the recession, but we have to chase the work more than we used to and this requires additional advertising investment.  We are fast outgrowing our offices and need more administrative staff.  All of this pressure falls upon me, Ruth leading on the operational side of the business.  I need to find the money, but where? 

In need of a distraction, after three hours of number crunching, I click on Google search engine.  What shall I search?  Hair tugging?  Caning?  How quickly my mind degenerates!  I’m carried along on a web thread to the dark and lurid world of BDSM – bondage (and discipline), dominance (and submission) and sadomasochism (sadism and masochism) is but a small part of the comprehensive definition offered up by Wiki.  It’s a whole new world … and yet
strangely familiar to me.  I’m a masochist.  There, I’ve said it, like an alcoholic at an AA meeting.  Hello, my name is Elizabeth Dove and I’m a masochist.  It’s been twenty-four hours since I last had my hair pulled and it’s driving me crazy.  I long for another drink of sadism, but I worry that another drink will lead to a real BDSM addiction.  I’ve got kids, you see, and I’m a respectable woman.  Nobody knows I long to be drunk on a good beating.  Can you help me quit the habit? 

A BDSM dating site is displayed before me, tempting me shamelessly with free and instant membership. 
After hesitating and battling with my inner demons for fifteen minutes, it only takes five minutes to create my profile, after which I sit back and stare at the screen with trepidation and excitement.  Just two minutes later, three men have viewed my profile - dominant men seeking submissive ladies.  Opening a new frame, I search ‘dominance and submission’ online for clarification and confirmation that I can call myself ‘submissive’.  It seems that I do indeed fit that dynamic sexually, albeit in my fantasies if not in real life.  Beth Dove – submissive slut.  Actually, I’m no longer Beth Dove, technically I am now ‘rosiesub’, not imaginative but it hadn’t already been claimed.  The pseudonym enables me to separate my professional and personal life with my sordid desires and alter ego, this in turn lessens my inner conflict.