Thomas

 

A text message buzzed in my pocket as I made the final room preparations.

I finished lining up the impressive array of props on the dressing table before I took a look at it, my excitement tingling deep through my balls.

Don’t. Please don’t do this to yourself.

Her good intentions pained me, but not nearly enough to make a difference.

My poor sweet Polly was missing the point entirely. For every ounce of dead hope I was bringing down on myself through this endeavour, I was bringing a world of pain to the guy I’d hated right the way through living memory.

And beautiful Grace, the girl I’d lusted after since before I really knew what the word meant. She’d be mine.

I’m certain Polly was missing the true meaning laced within my plans, assuming my infatuation with Grace would lead me down a treacherous path, veering between self-hatred and some strange semblance of romantic love turned bad. But she was wrong.

Grace Foster would be mine, but there would be no hearts and roses. No long evenings laughing over shared jokes, the way she’d been doing with her husband for years.

Grace Foster would be mine in soul. Shackled by the tainted memory of the way I’d played her body, and her spirit along with it. Her skin would crave my contact, even as her bruised heart bled from all the fallout.

She’d want what she could never have. A soul-felt connection like the one she’d believed she’d been blessed with as a married woman. Only more.

More lust. More sweat and shivers and the crazed ripples of a body driven over the edge.

Maybe I’d give her the latter all over again, once or twice to seal the deal. Maybe even once too many, beyond all reason, her siren’s call tempting even a stone-hearted sonofabitch like me.

Or maybe I’d abandon her to her shattered memories and never return her calls.

I tightened the waterproof sheet over the bare mattress, stretching it taut before stuffing the covers and pillows out of sight in the big double wardrobe.

I shifted the hulk of furniture along the carpet slightly, ensuring the full length mirror was positioned just so, prime for all parties to see all glorious angles of the action.

Brett’s chair was already in place, mid-way along the bed and close enough to see the dirty display, despite being just out of arm’s reach. If he broke with jealousy enough to spring to his feet and assault me halfway through proceedings it would be the biggest mistake he’d make in his life.

I’d already set up the camera and app with its infrared mapping light on the bedside table. One move across the trigger line and their remaining twenty-five grand would retreat from its holding account and rush safely back into mine.

It wouldn’t be the first time money had slipped from a couple’s grip in such a manner.

Part of me hoped it would pan out that way, just so I could witness him at maximum pain in his jealous rage. It was one of the unfortunate side effects of leaving in the morning with only a business card in my wake — never getting to witness the ensuing relationship meltdown first-hand.

I could only imagine. As luck would have it, I’m a very imaginative guy.

My shower was short but thorough, my spritz of classic scent generous as it clung to my still-damp skin. My suit was my finest, crisp in its stark black and white lines, so perfectly monochrome. My brogues were polished and my teeth were brushed and flossed. My hair was swept back from my face and my beard freshly clipped and smoothed neat.

I’d never been more ready for a pretty woman’s cunt as I was for Grace Foster’s inexperienced little treasure trove, I just wished I had ninety hours to explore her rather than nine.

I took the stairs down slowly to the bar, arriving at just after nine for an hour of careful drinking before proceedings began. The room was empty of outsiders, which was somewhat of a disappointment. I’d hoped for at least a few oblivious guests thrumming around the place, forcing my hosts into easy smiles at odds with their rattling nerves.

Instead it was only Brett, propped at the bar with a beer half drunk, scrolling through his phone and feigning ignorance of my presence.

He knew I was there, just as I knew he knew it. His surly pretence of superiority did nothing but encourage my inner bastard, my smirk at full smugness as I took a stool opposite him.

“A scotch,” I told him. “Single shot this time. I want my senses… alert.”

He made sure to leave me waiting a few seconds before switching his handset to sleep mode and grabbing a full bottle of scotch from beneath the counter, slamming it in front of me along with an empty glass.

“Knock yourself out,” he grunted. “It’s on the house. Piss your pants in a drunken stupor and be my guest.”

My laugh was full of malice. “I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

He stood me off, eyes burning and shoulders high as he took another long swig of his own beverage, and then he laughed a bitter laugh of his own.

I poured a single shot, and he scoffed at my measure.

“You really think this means something, don’t you?” he said. “You’re really so puffed up with ego you think we’re gonna be fucked up proper by one sad fuck on a January Tuesday.” He took another swig of beer, but his eyes held mine. “We won’t be holding a toast to your memory every twelve months, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

I enjoyed the smoky fragrance of the scotch before I took a sip.

“You’re really so bloated in ego that you believe your own sorry bravado,” I retorted, making sure my shoulders were as relaxed as ever.

“This ain’t bravado, pal–” he began, but his words dried up in a flash as his eyes widened at the doorway behind me.

Spinning to face the object of his distraction was instinctive, as was the way my own throat dried up at the sight of the beautiful woman walking through to join us.

She was Grace Foster, but she wasn’t. Her tight red dress was divine on her curves, finishing high enough on her thighs that the lace tops of the stockings I’d picked out for her were visible for a flash with every step. Her heels were high enough that her calves were straining tight, black gloss stilettos with a hint of hooker that her classic beauty offset so perfectly my dick was pulsing in seconds.

Her makeup was smoky and her lips were deep red to match her dress, her hair shining dark with a side parting that highlighted her high cheekbones.

There wasn’t a price tag in the world that could do justice to the hunger she drew from me. If her brute of a husband had slapped me on the shoulder and called off our deal in favour of sweeping her to bed himself I’d have risen my glass to him gladly.

But he didn’t.

He was uncharacteristically dumbstruck as his beautiful other half arrived alongside me, his eyes full of the sappy kind of adoration I’d devoted the past few years to proving impermanent.

“Did I polish up alright?” Grace asked, but she was playing. I loved the confident twinkle in those hazel-green eyes as she smiled first at him and then at me.

She knew she looked incredible. She maybe didn’t appreciate quite how incredible, but she was well on her way.

Being the catalyst for such a confident transformation of the poor, broken woman I’d seen at the bar a few days earlier was a strange, heartfelt pleasure.

“You look beautiful,” Brett told her across the bar, and his words bubbled with the kind of honesty that brought many a man to his knees.

I gave them a moment, sitting silent as the look of adoration simmered between them, well prepared to back away if they came to their senses enough to realise fifty grand was worth nothing more than a drop in the ocean of their commitment to each other.

But no.

Grace’s eyes were still sparkling bright when they turned their attention back to mine.

“Are you satisfied with your investment so far?” she asked me with a flutter of those falsely thickened lashes.

“Very,” I told her. “It’ll be almost a shame to strip you of those gorgeous adornments.”

“Almost?” she prompted and I smiled.

“Come on, dearest Mrs Foster, fishing for flattery doesn’t become you. You know how magical you look this evening. You could Pied Piper every male in a hundred mile radius with one flash of that siren smile.”

I’d have believed her nerves had vanished if it hadn’t been for the way her fingers trembled as they took a glass of wine from her husband.

“Just the one,” she commented, clearly for my benefit. “I want to be in control of my bodily functions, after all.”

“I want, doesn’t get,” I responded drily. “I’ll be the one in control of your bodily functions this evening.”

Her eyes were all on me as she took her first sip, and there, behind the glossy confidence of a sexy set of lingerie and the fried nerves of a woman giving herself to another man for the very first time, in the quiet shadows, in the core of her very being, was the palpable flutter of desire. I felt it. All of it. Every breathy quiver. Every clench of that curious pussy in the black lace I knew was kissing the soft pink lips between her legs.

And tonight, without a doubt — despite the husband across from her with puppy dog eyes and the steady grip of his ring on her finger — that pussy’s wetness was all for me.