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Note to Readers:
All characters here are more than 18 years old. This story is about extramarital sex. Is it a cautionary tale? Will selfish thrill-seekers do things that they know they shouldn't, and suffer the consequences? Some people seem to believe that's what happens with adultery. But what if this story is a fun romp? With people banging because they enjoy it, while [unselfishly] making sure that nobody, in any of their relationships, gets hurt? And what if they also prevent unwanted pregnancy and the spread of microbes? Maybe a perfect world is unattainable, but what about a better world? Enjoy!)
***
"I have half an hour before the exhibit hall reopens," said Olivia with a sigh. She secured all of the locks on the hotel room door.
"You sound tired."
She took a moment to enjoy the sound of Connor's voice. Then:
"Mostly the feet are complaining," she told him. "No shoes are sensible enough for a full day of breakout sessions." She pulled off the shoes, one at a time, with the hand that didn't hold her phone.
He asked, "What's your plan?"
She grinned as she slid the backpack off her shoulders, onto the bed. He sounded so nonchalant! He'd go along with whatever she decided. He always did. So did she, when he was on a work trip and she was at home.
In her seductress voice, she said, "Patch me in to the big screen. I want the same from you." She found the remote and turned on the room's television.
It took several code additions and selections, including those to outfox the hotel surveillance in the TV, but they were accustomed to this. Within two minutes, she was lying on her side along the foot of the bed, nude. Her heart raced as the TV brought her the image of her husband, also nude, in a similar posture.
"Damn!" she said, with a finger poking between her labia, as she stared at him. "I should quit this fucking job! I'll never leave town again, and we can live in a refrigerator box!"
"Won't happen," said Connor, chuckling. "I'm a weakling, enslaved to creature comforts. Keep making money."
"In that case," she said, "I'll have to find some himbo here, to get me through the week." She felt the waft of the air conditioning tickle her skin, especially in the swooping curve from her ribs down to her waist and up to her hip. She was convinced that this view of her was her hottest.
"Oh, that's your plan."
"Not necessarily. My plan might be to get several himbos, since I can't have you." She shifted her lower arm so that the hand could squeeze a nipple.
His eyes widened. He began stroking his cock.
"Don't spooj on the bedspread," she said between audible breaths.
"Got a towel," he huffed.
She curled the finger in to work her G Spot. She and Connor had considered getting her a remote vibrator, but she had decided that this would be the worst of both worlds: Surrender, to a man who wasn't even there!
By the time she was at the brink, she had dragged a pillow close and jammed it into her mouth. Since this took the hand away from her breast, she then used that hand to mute the TV just as Connor started to howl.
Over the top of the pillow, she gazed at her man, yearning for his embrace, his penetration. She grunted as spasms jolted her torso. Her head flopped to the side.
When she was again able to see the TV, Connor was merely wheezing, with the towel at his crotch. She unmuted him and said, "Yeah, I should be able to flirt calmly now."
"Enjoy it."
"Who've you got tomorrow?"
"Sheila. Our morning jogs will just happen to cross paths at Bryce's Cove."
"Lucky bitch. Her, too."
"Kiss my ass."
"Not my thing."
"Nor mine."
Her emotion pushed through their banter. "Love you," she said with a tremor.
"I'm so lucky," he murmured back.
***
She switched from work-serious to work-casual. Her tan suit with slacks, now scattered on the dresser, went into the closet, and the navy blue suit with a pencil skirt emerged. Dark stockings made this ensemble a bit more respectable, while defining the contours of her legs. With a grimace, she opted for shoes that were far less sensible: Also navy, with three-inch heels. This would put her near eye level with any man she'd be willing to consider.
From a look in the bathroom mirror, she decided to skip makeup. Her DNA had blessed her with long, dense eyelashes, and clear skin just on the olivine side of peach. Her black, pixie-length hair needed only a brief brushing.
On the way to the elevator, she mused that she was in a hall, while equipped with a hall pass. A few generations had now used this euphemism, derived from permission to leave a school classroom to run some errand or other.
How many of us at this conference,
she wondered,
will be using 'passes' in this hall?
Then her mind chanced upon the old phrase, 'Ships that pass in the night.' It referred to two people who might have become involved amorously, but either never met, or never had an opportunity to be intimate.
Those ships should signal each other, and meet in a friendly port,
she thought, beginning to feel frisky.
Although, passing in the night would be better than colliding, and sinking.
So far, none of her encounters with other 'ships' had led to a disaster.
In the exhibit hall--
Another hall!
she thought--Olivia's wandering eye took in several candidates. She strolled among the booths, ruling out the men who were actually working, as they extolled the virtues of their booths' products and services.
They might flirt, just to draw me in,
she thought,
but I'm not a prospect for what they want, and they aren't for me, either. I should leave them to do their jobs.
She had to remind herself of this pointedly, because some of these guys were her kind of eye candy.
There were also men strolling as she did, clearly free from booth work. She began her silent cutdown process on each. Two men, or more, together? No, either genuinely interested in the booths or connected professionally. Men clustered at one of the cash bars? No, likely drinking as a response to workday stress.
This still gave her plenty of prospects. She worked her eye contact and expression so that these men, one at a time, approached her.
Tyler was one of five that she allowed to progress past flirting, to her personal variety of detailed conversation. Olivia guided their strolling to a space behind some booths, where pipe-and-drape blocked the view of the access to the exhibit hall's loading dock. None of the hundreds in the hall were hanging around there. Tyler caught on, and matched her lowered voice tone to allow for relative privacy.
"You don't wear a ring," said Olivia, after their first few exchanges. "Single?"
"Correct," he said with a calm smile. His eyes flicked towards the hand that held her ginger ale. "And you're not?"
She returned a smile. "Married, not dead." Then she took a sip, to push her into what she had already done a few times that night, and might do again later. She put away her smile.
"Look," said Olivia, "what I'm going to say might make you think I'm weird. If so, please just walk away. No harm, no foul. My husband and I routinely give each other hall passes, when we're apart for several days."
"That's not weird," he said, still smiling.
She read his expression and body language as confident, but not arrogant.
"This part might be," she pressed on. "I could see hooking up with you, but only if I get valid data about you. Genuine personal information. You're not wearing a ring, but if you're in a close relationship with someone, I won't do anything that could hurt that someone. And also, I'll need results of a current STI test from you."
His eyes bugged. His smile vanished.
Olivia delivered the rest of the spiel. "If you can give me all that, I'll give you the same. So you can make your own informed decision."
She savored the sight of Tyler's strong features, his wavy brown hair, the suit contours that suggested a lean, fit frame. He was clearly in mid- to late twenties, as she was. She regretted that she might never see him again.
As always with this process, she wanted to ditch her principles, race with him to his room, and bang this guy silly.
But no,
she thought
. This is what's best. As frustrating as it is.
"Okay," he said. "How can I get in touch with you?"
Her pulse accelerated a bit. "Here's how you can text me," she said, getting her phone from her outer jacket pocket.
***
In bed that night, Olivia was even more exhausted than she had been after the breakout sessions. From all of her encounters, she had picked up three prospects who had responded favorably, or neutrally, to her requirements. Fortunately, her rubout with her husband had taken her edge off, and solitary sleep was okay.
The next day, she focused on the work that had brought her to this conference. It was entirely possible that the next sex she would have would be at home with Connor. That had happened before.
During a coffee break, after checking for texts that weren't there, Olivia recalled with a tiny smile when Connor had returned from a work trip in which he had failed to find any action. He had adhered to their rules, gratifying Olivia but frustrating him. Olivia's welcome-home, to her desperate husband, soared her over the moon. It also left her with pussy soreness she didn't notice until hours later, when the lingering buzz finally faded.
The pleasant recollection didn't last. This day of the conference was especially grueling. Her solitary sleep was possible only after a solitary rubout.
The day after, however, she was awakened an hour earlier than she'd planned, by a text from Tyler:
//CAN U MEET AT THE BREAKFAST BAR?//
She was fumble-fingered, but after some backspace-deleting, she sent that she'd be there in twenty minutes. After the shower, she was grateful that her hair was short, and responded quickly to the dryer.
"Hi," she said, breathlessly, as she arrived at his table. Then, seeing his serious expression, her smile faded.
Tyler pulled up a backpack from the floor and unzipped it. He pulled out a stack of papers and handed them over to her, a few at a time.
"This is the lease on my apartment," he said. "Mine is the only name. Next is the postal delivery schedule. Mine is also the only name, for delivery to this apartment. This doesn't prove that I'm completely unattached, but do you accept that I'm not cohabiting with someone?"
Olivia scanned the papers, impressed with how he had extracted copies via the cloud, and sent them to a printer in the hotel's business center. "Yes. So far, so good."
He nodded, then showed the final paperwork. "I took this STI test yesterday. That may not have caught everything, because of some latencies, but this shows no infections."
She tried to limit her grin, and failed. "Condoms and dental dams anyway. Barebacking is something I enjoy only with my husband. Sorry if that's a disappointment."
That made him crack a smile. "I'm good."
She opened her own backpack. "Here's what you need to know about me."
He was puzzled, looking at her STI test. "This is dated a week ago. You expected to use this before you left home?"
She barely managed not to giggle. "I'm an optimist."
"Um, so, when can you be free?"
"Lunch break today. My room." Then she made herself lose her giddiness, and said seriously, "Don't bring your phone, or any electronics."
***
