I dropped the towel I'd used to dry my hair to the balcony floor, opened a beer and sat back inhaling the salty evening breeze. A vacation was long overdue, or at least so I'd been told, but there was that old restless resentment bunched up in a corner of my mind, just waiting for me to relax to swallow me up.
"Fuck off," I muttered at it.
I've never been to the seaside before. The hotel room was a little pricey but as of late, I could afford it and it overlooked a beautiful sandy beach close enough to spit on. I was determined to enjoy it if it killed me. Maybe that little towel girl would do. She sure blushed like someone having a lot of naughty thoughts. She knocked at the door every day around noon and if I opened shirtless, her eyes widened and she'd almost whisper, "Clean bathroom? Towels?" At least I think that was what she was trying to say. Five star hotel and not even the concierge could manage more than three words of any foreign language. I guessed when they hired her they thought she'd do well enough with body language only—and she did.
Shadows grew longer across the sand dunes but it wasn't until the light came on in the room to my right that I realized I'd just been sitting there for over an hour. I had to throw on some clothes or I was going to miss the dinner hours. My neighbor for the past couple of days, a willowy blonde with chocolate brown eyes, about a decade older than me, came out of her room and leaned against the railing, unaware of me in the dark. Light from behind her treated me to a supreme view of her well-sculpted ass in a leather mini skirt. The cream-colored angora sweater didn't seem to match the skirt, not until she turned; the fact that the thing was two sizes too big for her and hanging so low on one shoulder it looked like it was about to slide off to the floor made the combination seem more harmonious. More slutty too. The low V-neckline drew my eyes. Mmmm. I might miss the dinner after all. The view had certainly improved.
I took a swig of beer and she gave a start, her hand flying to her chest, but then she laughed.
"Oh. I hadn't seen you there."
"Mmmhhmm."
During the past few days, we'd exchanged a couple of nods and polite questions about the temperature of the sea and location of the gym. That was it. She had mischief in her eyes and a nice throaty laugh that tickled a man's spine, but she also had a ring on her hand and a husband. Even I drew a line there. She had no business eyeing me as she was.
"I love your evening attire," she said. My evening attire consisted of a single towel wrapped around my hips, if you didn't count the one on the floor.
"Hate Fridays," I muttered. "Didn't feel like getting dressed."
She looked at me for two more seconds, but my mood had registered and she turned away, leaning on the railing again. Between us and the bay couple of flags fluttered cheerfully. The wind occasionally brought sounds of music and laughter; at the other end of the hotel, someone was having fun. I do hate Fridays.
My neighbor folded her forearms on the railing and stepped back, bending over and pushing her chest down as if trying to stretch the muscles in her back. The only thing I saw stretching was the leather across her ass; her sweater hung below her chest and as she moved slowly back and forth I realized that what had looked like a strange bra when she'd been upright, were in fact two little nipple clamps. At least I thought that's what they were. I'd seen things like that in stores. Never used them. Certainly never seen a woman rub her breasts against the railing with those bastards biting into her nipples. Sighing and shuddering, she seemed to enjoy it. I sure did. My imagination ran wild. The slow pulsing in my crotch was not far behind. She turned, stepped to the shoulder-high blue glass division between our sections of the balcony and plastered her palms and breasts against it, her eyes holding mine. A chill tickled my shoulders and up the back of my neck. My neighbor was a slut and showing it off with a purpose.
She stilled for a while, looking me over brazenly. "You're a good looking young man," she said with that twinkle in her eye. Good-looking is a matter of taste, I guess; I wasn't likely to model for one of those girly fashion mags, but I was tall and muscular enough for most women to notice me. Came in handy.
"You're much too young to be sitting there sulking. You should be out there," she waved toward the center of the peninsula where most of the clubs were, "making some lucky snot moan and scream."
"You're a good looking wife who should be in there," I jerked my thumb toward their room, "making your husband moan."
She laughed, her head tilting back, making me wonder whether she'd stop if I sank my teeth into her throat. She opened her mouth to say something witty no doubt, then her eyes shifted toward the room and she smiled again. There was a sound of a door opening and closing.
She nodded. "There he is now. We'll ask him where he wants me." She studied me curiously, but I refused to move, not quite sure what game she was playing. She wasn't the first woman older than me who'd thought I might be fun to play with. When a woman calls you a young man and says you should go bang some snot, what she wants to hear is that she doesn't look all that old and that you'd rather bang her. The trouble was, with this one it wouldn't be a lie.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"My name's not important," I mumbled.
"Ah. Well, Mr. Znot Important, meet my husband, Mr. Green." Not his real name. I noticed them signing in the other day. Well, I noticed her. She had a nice smile and a spark in her. I like that in a woman.
I nodded to her husband. He nodded back with a crooked half-smile. "Mr. Important seems to like you, Danielle," he said, letting the woman ease back into his embrace with a happy sigh. Yeah. That's the trouble with towels; they don't hide well the effects of watching a woman with nipple clamps on her tits.
"Hey, man, I was just sitting here enjoying the view." I raised my arms in what pretended to be a defensive gesture but displayed my ability to break his neck if he didn't accept the apology. His eyes did take in my size, but his legs didn't take a step back as most men's would, glass division between us or not. I hoped he wouldn't start a fight. Not much pleasure in fighting a man twice my age and about half my size for his own—if somewhat flirty—wife.
He didn't start a fight. He shrugged off both my apology and my threat. "No problem. Danielle likes to meet new friends, and people often like her." She smiled and twisted to give him a look of complete devotion that'd be the last thing you'd expect under the circumstances. His head turned to his left. We were in a hotel wing separated from other rooms by an elevator. Three rooms, three balconies, only two occupied. Mr. Green's hands slid under the angora sweater and whatever happened there next made Mrs. Green gasp, blush and take a few ragged breaths.
"She also likes," he continued in a perfectly flat tone, "to have a beer with a friend now and then. You don't happen to have another one of those lying around?"
I must admit I was staring at the man with more than a few doubts. I think I would have felt more comfortable taking Danielle behind his back than accepting her on his offer—if he was offering. You know, I wasn't the kind of guy teen aged girls usually held hands with; my appetites appealed to ladies with a few years on me. The result was slight jadedness, and on a bad day, bitterness. For a guy who was about to celebrate his twenty-fifth birthday the following winter, I'd been called a sick bastard more often than necessary, but this—this was something else. I guessed I had a few outdated ideas about marriage. But hell, I also had a monster of a hard-on.
"Sure." I motioned toward my room only to realize the sun had set a while ago and they couldn't see a thing back there. "Got lots. I was hoping to get wasted enough to get an early night."
