"My wife thinks I'm at work," I said, deciding to go for broke and tell the big-titted blonde in the tiny black bikini the truth, "but I've got a room at that hotel there. Want to come up to it and get fucked by a married man?"
Her golden skin glistening in the mid-morning Atlantic sun, the curvaceous beach bunny tilted her sunglasses down and squinted her blue eyes up at me, as though momentarily considering my lewd offer. I could already imagine myself unloading the contents of my swollen balls between her pink, pouty lips.
Then she laughed cruelly and rolled over on her taut stomach, the thin, ebony string of her microscopic thong bisecting the full, tanned mounds of her buttocks.
I turned and padded up the sand toward the hotel, glancing back occasionally to wistfully ogle that beautiful ass and worrying that I might have risked both my job and my marriage to drive out here to the coast for nothing. I certainly wasn't looking forward to driving all the way back home nursing the aching hard-on I'd been sporting since first spying the buxom Barbie doll sunning her nearly naked body, nor did I savor the idea of capping my unplanned excursion off with a quick and unsatisfying jerk-off in my room.
Thankfully, the petite brunette prostitute in the hotel bar was far more receptive to my little sob story about suburban malaise and needing a real woman to remind me what it meant to be a man. She wasn't as voluptuous as the flaxen-haired bimbo on the beach, but she had all the right parts in all the right places. She was lean and cute, small tits perky and pointy beneath the tight fabric of the blue mini-dress that brought out a mischievous sparkle in her big, smoky eyes. The bottom of the dress barely covered the perfectly round hills of her heart-shaped ass, and the alabaster legs that stretched from high hem to three-inch stiletto heels were toned and defined like a dancer's. Long, dark hair that cascaded halfway down her back and a wide, full-lipped mouth completed the appealing picture.
If I was going to have to pay for it, I could do a hell of a lot worse.
She said her name was Sarah, and she wasted no time indicating her eagerness to give me the sort of experience I was looking for, in exchange for fair monetary compensation. As she was leaning close and discreetly running her hand over the throbbing bulge in my pants right there in the dimly lit bar, she quoted a figure into my ear which I knew would drain my wallet of the last of the cash I'd withdrawn from the ATM that morning. But under the circumstances, with her fingers and palm skillfully rubbing and squeezing my rock-hard dick through the fabric of my slacks, I was in no mood or position to negotiate. I'd come to the coast looking for a little life-affirming infidelity, and Sarah was offering me a deal I simply could not refuse. I happily paid in advance.
We rode the elevator up to my room on the seventh floor, Sarah sticking close to my side during the ascent and continuing her exquisite massage of my engorged member through my pants. Part of me knew that her enthusiasm for working my cock was simply her priming me for a fast release once we got upstairs, so she could get out and get back to her bar stool as quickly as possible. Still, I was not about to resist. If she ended up milking the cum from my nuts with her left hand right there in the elevator, before we ever made it to the room, I could still go back to my dreary day-to-day life knowing I'd gotten a mind-blowing public handjob from a beautiful stranger when I was supposed to be sifting through a crushing mountain of tedious paperwork and dying an agonizingly slow death behind a cheap desk. It wouldn't be quite as good a memory as grabbing a handful of her black hair and pumping my seed into her tight ass, or plastering her spritely boobs with creamy ejaculate, but it still wouldn't be a bad way to end my impromptu personal day.
Just when I was certain her skilful hand ministrations were going to leave me with an empty billfold and a sticky stain on the inside of my boxers, the elevator bell rang and the doors opened to the seventh floor hallway. I hurried Sarah to room 714, ushering her inside and locking the door behind us. No sooner had I set the deadbolt and turned around than the raven-haired harlot was squatting in front of me, unzipping my fly and wresting my stiff rod from my pants.
"Mmm," she purred as she considered it. "What a nice cock!" Sincere or not, it was a sweet thing to say about my relatively average-sized erection, and ordinarily I'd have given her high marks for the extra friendly customer service. At that moment, however, I wasn't interested in hearing her talk about my dick. I was interested in feeling her suck on it. I grabbed the back of her pretty little head and forced my tool between her lips, sliding it as far down her throat as I could go before she could protest.
To her credit, she neither gagged nor resisted. She simply let the fat, curved staff slide over her tongue and into her warm, wet gullet, humming as though the reddened, inflated meat was the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted, her pert little nose burrowing into my curly pubic hair. The initial thrust into her mouth made her involuntarily hold her hands up in surprise, but as she began to slowly slide my boner in and out of her sucking oral canal, the fingers of her left hand encircled the shaft and pumped in time with her lips while those of her right set about massaging my ball sack through the crotch of my pants.
My wife Emily rarely went down on me anymore, believing as many women seem to that blowjobs are things single girls do to catch a man, rather than something married women do to keep one satisfied. Though my betrothed had been reasonably skilled and spirited in the fellatio department in the early days of our relationship, performing the act with gusto and routinely sucking me off when I least expected such attention, the few headjobs I'd gotten at home in recent years were administered with all of the enthusiasm and technique she put into washing dishes or mopping the floor. These days it was all a singular in-and-out proposition, monotonous and mechanical head-bobbing (always in the bedroom, lying prone on the bed) with very little use of her hands and the occasional grunt or curt exhalation implying that I needed to hurry up and finish or I might end up left to my own devices. Though occasionally fantasizing about other women while Emily blew me was always a part of our sex life, it had become a necessity in recent years, because it was hard to maintain my arousal - much less build to a climax - when the person going down on me clearly took no joy whatsoever in the endeavor.
Sarah, on the other hand, displayed no such distaste for swallowing my dick. Indeed, she took her time savoring the thing, humming and moaning softly as she drew it in and out of her velvet mouth with excruciating deliberateness. Her little tongue snaked and slithered around the underside of my manhood, gliding over bulging veins and electrified nerve endings, probing for the most sensitive spots and remaining on each as long as possible before setting out to locate more. Each time she pulled her lips back over the purple-red flesh, her lips left a fine film of slick, warm saliva, and the trailing fingers of her left hand used that silky spit as lube to facilitate their own gentle milking of the bloated shaft. Her right hand gently cupped and kneaded at the testicles dangling below, rhythmically stoking the man-milk within to the point of boiling over.
