Thomas

 

I kept my distance from the Fosters. I needed nerves, the wonder of surprise in pretty Grace’s eyes as I took my fill of her perfect little body. I needed disdain, hate, maybe a flash of insecurity in Brett’s as he watched me take his wife to places she’d never dreamed of.

Friendly drunk conversation had crossed some barriers. I wouldn’t be crossing them again.

I avoided breakfast and easy walks along the beach. I avoided the bar entirely that evening, slipping out through the rear exit and heading further into the village for a steak at one of the few small pubs I’d seen in passing.

It went down a treat in light of the cruddy hangover symptoms. Thick cut and rare, with a healthy side portion of greasy fries and onion rings. I opted for a cold pint of bitter, sipping it down steadily by the warmth of a crackling fire, my feet kicked out as though this was a regular holiday and I was a regular passer-by.

I moved to the bar after declining dessert, dropping onto a stool and ordering a refill of local beer. The place was quiet, but not empty like the Fosters’. Locals, I guessed, laughed in a small huddle, tossing darts at an old battered board at the back.

I kept a smile on my face as I watched them over my shoulder, waiting for the barman to strike up the inevitable conversation. It didn’t take long.

“You staying round these parts?” he asked, with a smile to match my own.

I made sure my expression was easy. “The hotel on the front.”

“Cliff House?”

I nodded. “Nice place. Seems quiet though. Heard there’s another hotel opening a few miles down.”

The guy grunted out a sigh. “Budget shit hole. Whole place will feel it. All of us.”

“The Fosters said they haven’t owned the place long, bad timing on their part, it seems.”

He nodded, his bushy eyebrows furrowing. “Poor sods. Between you and me, I think the Keswicks shafted them royally last springtime. They knew about the new place coming, just wanted out before it took them down. New guys didn’t stand a chance.”

“Guess you’ll all be hoping for a miracle. Maybe the ground will open up and swallow the place before it gets going.”

“We can pray,” he said, and pulled himself a beer from the nearest pump. “New place will bring crappy supermarkets and all the other bigger town dross, most likely. Seen it happen further down the coast. Once one of them comes it opens the doors to all the rest.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I told him, and I was, in a distant part of me.

Not just for the confirmation that the Fosters were screwed by hoteliers dashing for an easy escape, but for these other people, about to see their small-time coastal haven swallowed up by the first of the incoming corporates.

I’d seen it happening all over the country, in one way or another. I’d been involved in some of it myself.

It wasn’t the most satisfying aspect of business, even if I did enjoy seeing small-time assholes coming unstuck along the way.

I thanked the barman for an excellent meal soon after and headed back slowly through the quiet lanes, approaching the hotel from the rear where I could sneak easily back up to the top floor unseen. It was a good time to think. An easy time to think, even though I should’ve probably steered well clear of the introspection.

I lit up a cigar and pondered as I strolled, staring up at the stars in the cold sky overhead.

I knew well enough what was coming, from that poor sad barman’s expression regardless of his words alongside. Fifty grand would go some way towards keeping those guests checking in Cliff House hotel, in spite of the bargain budget prices down the road. Fifty grand might well limp them along a little further in their dreams, but fast forward a few years, to the influx of opportunists and chain stores and those looking to make a quick buck off the transformation of a quaint little bolthole, and what you’d have is more of the same as they have now.

A dead business. Debts racking up overhead. Tired dreams and weary legs.

And a shattered marriage along with them.

But that needn’t concern me. They’d have a shattered marriage long before that. Maybe I’d even be doing them a favour, a split in a few months’ time might ensure they had at least the dregs of my cash remaining to set them up anew.

They should be thanking me in the aftermath.

The telephone extension started ringing a few minutes after I arrived back in my room. I picked it up with a grunt of hello, halfway undressed for the shower.

Grace’s voice was gloriously uncertain as she greeted me on the line.

“Mr Heath? I saw the light in your window. There are um… parcels…” I heard the nervous smile on her face. “Many parcels.”

“Keep them for me,” I told her, preparing to hang up sharp.

“We didn’t see you… today…” she added, and it made me smirk to myself.

“What did you expect? A timetable of my bathroom visits? A request for your signature on a permission slip to allow me to venture elsewhere?”

“No, of course not,” she hissed, and I laughed aloud at how swift her hackles were to rise.

“Goodnight, Grace. Please sleep well, you’ll be needing all of your energy tomorrow evening.”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “Yes. Will you be at breakfast?”

I wanted to say it was none of her business and to be standing pretty in the dining room just in case I made an appearance, but the local ambience of the village must have softened up my mood.

“I’ll be at breakfast,” I told her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have an evening to get on with.”

Her apologies were delicious. Her goodbye was feeble enough to make my cock twitch.

I pressed to end the call with my fingers already casting aside my trouser buttons.

She wanted me. The stubborn little minx might still be denying the obvious, but it was there, as plain to see as the dead-end future of this quaint little bud of paradise.

She wanted to know our deal was still on, that the filthy items in those parcels were really going to be used on her tomorrow evening. She wanted to know I still wanted her, was still willing to pay for her, was still busy thinking about all the filthy things I’d be doing to her.

And I was still busy thinking about the filthy things I’d be doing to her.

My dick was swollen hard, throbbing with a dull ache even as I gripped hard and worked fast. Tomorrow evening she’d be right before me, on all fours with that tight little ass stretched wide open, a pink tunnel of dirty flesh winking as I dribbled a healthy gob full of spit down into its depths from my hungry mouth.

She had no idea how badly I’d hurt her in the name of ploughing her deep. No idea how the ache in that tender cunt could pain her good enough to beg for more.

But she would.

And that’s when I decided to have some fun, my dick still rigid in my grip as I picked that phone extension back up and pressed for reception.

Her voice was just as needy as she answered my return call.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I told her. “Bring them upstairs. Alone.”

“Alone?” she asked, and I grunted my exasperation.

“Yes, Mrs Foster. Alone. Call it room service. The customer is always right.”

“But Brett…” she began.

“I’m perfectly aware what our agreement is,” I barked. “Are you bringing them or not?”

I counted to three before she answered.

“I’m bringing them.”

“Good girl,” I told her, and hung up the phone all over again.

 

* * *

 

Grace

 

Brett was watching a rerun of the football in our living room when I gathered up those parcels and headed upstairs. My arms were filled to the brim, packages on top of packages. I only hoped my balance was good enough not to set them all tumbling back downstairs as my shaky legs made the climb.

I told myself my ragged breath was from exertion and not from nerves. I told myself I’d have let Brett know where I was headed if he’d have been closer, and I would have. It was no big deal, just delivering items to a paying customer. Nothing more.

I felt clammy all over as I approached his bedroom door, my heart pounding so loud I could feel its thump against the boxes pressed to my chest.

I managed just the sharpest tap to announce my presence, being sure to hold on tight to his precious purchases when the door swung open and revealed him in nothing more than one of our Egyptian cotton bath sheets.

I couldn’t stop the way my eyes widened. Didn’t have a single hope in hell of delivering even the most clipped of words through my gaping mouth.

He saw it all, of course he did. His eyes twinkled as he stood so easily, his weight on one hip and arm up high on the doorframe as he beckoned me inside.

I looked anywhere but at him as I stepped over the threshold. His suitcase was standing neatly in the corner, his coat folded over the back of the armchair by the dresser. His sheets were rumpled and I struggled not to picture him in them, his naked body tossing in his sleep and his perfect hair a mess on the pure white pillows.

“You can drop them on the bed,” he said, but approached close behind all the same and took the majority from me, hoisting them easily over my head and carrying them the rest of the distance himself.

I didn’t say a word as I followed him and positioned the remainder gently on the bottom of the bed.

I couldn’t avoid looking at him from that proximity. The towel was slung low around his hips, showcasing that he was every bit as toned as I imagined.

His chest was smooth and hairless, his nipples dark against his golden torso. His abs were ridges of muscle under rippling skin, the V of his hips proud, with the most tempting of happy trails down beneath the white of the towel.

He was nothing like my husband.

Brett was broad and toned, but paler. His chest was dusted with dark hair and his happy trail was far more prominent. His hips were wider, his bulk meatier and less professionally sculpted, the glorious tone of his body all natural and good genetics.

My husband was gorgeous beyond words, more than enough for my wildest dreams, but this other man, this handsome stranger with a million dirty parcels and a bank account rammed full of cash to back up his cocky smirk was a whole different ballgame.

Different.

That’s the only word for it.

I hated myself for wondering what his cock looked like behind the swathes of white. I hated myself more for realising my pussy was tingling at the thought I’d find out soon enough.

“Curious, no?” he asked, and there it was again. That damned smirk. Always that damned smirk.

“None of my business,” I managed, flinching at how he laughed out loud.

I was getting used to that, too. That laugh. Always with that edge of something nasty, something dirty. Always at my expense, even when it wasn’t.

“Oh, Grace. It’s plenty of your business.” He dropped to sitting on the edge of the bed, the towel straining across his thighs almost enough to grant me sight of his precious assets. I froze as he patted the mattress beside him and picked up one of parcels. “Relieve at least some of the curiosity. Come on. Open one. Don’t tell me you haven’t been wondering.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” I repeated, just like the last time around, but my body moved of its own accord, sitting a safe distance along from him and taking the parcel from his hands.

One wouldn’t hurt. If anything it would relieve me, just to know. Just to see there was nothing too insane about his filthy collection.

If there was nothing too insane about his filthy collection.

“Go on,” he prompted. “Tear into it. I’m as curious as you are.”

My fingers were dithery as they dug inside the tape at the top end of the package. I held my breath as I first peered inside, my heart in my throat as I realised what I was looking at.

“Show me,” he said, but I couldn’t. I handed it over still half-wrapped, knowing my face would be beetroot as he tore the rest free.

The dildo was huge. A thick length of rubber in glossy black. It would never fit. Not in a million years.

He held it up and raised a fist up alongside it. “Excited?”

“No fucking way,” I told him. “Never in a million years.”

His cocked brow made me shiver. “Don’t be so quick to say that, sweetheart. You’ll be begging me for this monster by this time tomorrow night.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

He offered another parcel and this time I tore into it with less restraint.

A set of cuffs. Not the sweet ones from the cute sex shops with leopard print fur and safety catches. These were the real deal, stainless steel and glinting with menace even in their packaging.

He tore into a third parcel. I watched mute as he revealed a set of leather paddles. One of them had holes cut out in a pattern like a cheese grater.

“Less air resistance,” he explained like I’d asked. “Should give your pretty ass quite a thwack.”

“I’ll be a wimp,” I blustered. “There’s no way I’ll–”

“We’ll see,” he interrupted. “We’ll see on everything.”

I picked up another box without being encouraged. This one was big and tearing into it revealed a huge waterproof sheet with loops to fit it over a mattress.

“Worried about wetting the bed?” I asked and wished I hadn’t.

“Not worried,” he said. “Maybe you should be though.”

I managed a bitter laugh. “I’m not wetting the bed, Mr Heath. I haven’t wet the bed since I was a toddler.”

“You’re mine for nine hours straight. You’ll be doing whatever I tell you to do.”

It was enough. I got to my feet and brushed my prickly arms down as though I could brush his filth right the way off me.

“Open the rest yourself,” I said. “I’m done with this.”

“You wish you were.” He wasn’t smirking this time, and that made it worse somehow. His face was entirely serious. “Except you don’t wish you were, pretty Mrs Foster. You’re lying to yourself, even now. Pretending you want out of here when all you’ll be thinking about in bed tonight is all the ways I’ll be using these things on your tight little body.”

I cleared a couple of paces before I dared to cough up a comeback.

“You’re deluded,” I told him. “You think this is about you.”

His stare was hard. “I know it’s about me. Long after the money is in your account, it’ll still be about me.”

I forced another laugh. This time it sounded nasty. Cold enough to be evil.

“Goodnight, Mr Heath,” I told him, shooting only the shortest glance back over my shoulder before I escaped to the safety of the corridor.

It wasn’t short enough to miss the tent under the bath sheet, or the size of it.

I made it around the corner and down one flight of stairs before I came to a standstill and pressed myself back against the wall.

I needed a moment. Just one long moment to compose myself before heading back down to my husband.

But I didn’t.

I needed more than that.

I pulled the skeleton key from my back pocket and let myself into the nearest vacant bedroom.

And I hated every second it took to rub myself to a frantic orgasm in the crisp white bedding.