Niagara Falls High

Niagara Falls. Yep, we're here. And we can't check into the hotel for another three hours. That's both the advantage and the disadvantage of being old with no kids in tow--you only have yourself and your wife to worry about. Simple things like leaving the car fully loaded and going wandering about could not happen when we had two boys under 10. But now our boys--now in their late teens--are holding down the fort at home, while the wife and I have escaped for a little spring break of our own. Teachers of a certain age do spring break differently. Instead of heading south to party with the masses, we go north. That's how we ended up in Canada, gawking at the falls, staying in a hotel two blocks from a cannabis store.

Now, it's not that we're prudes or anything. It's just... both of us grew up working fast food in the '90s alongside burnout druggies who swore weed was their god. I personally watched three coworkers completely tank their lives smoking the wacky weed. One got pregnant, two dropped out of high school, and three just kind of... faded away. That doesn't even cover the ones who showed up half-baked every shift. Sure, they were amazing at scrubbing the floors and grills during closing, but still. Half the time you were making sure they did not zone out and stay scrubbing the same spot for 15 minutes because they could not figure out how to get out of the lobby.

And then there's my wife. She had at least one bad experience involving weed and a male coworker--a story so bizarre she still won't share all the details with me. All I know is that it involved a milkshake and the guy apparently took her up on a threat to hang it on his dick to prove the machine was making it hard enough. (Yeah, I'm guessing he was on more than just weed that day.) Whatever happened, his dick didn't fare well, he got fired, and she quit on the spot.

Anyway, after years of watching lives unravel around the unregulated wacky weed, you can imagine my shock when my wife grabbed my hand, pulled me into the cannabis store, and said, "Just this once."

"Wait, what?" I said, trying to resist. "We're THC virgins! I don't even know where to start."

She looked me square in the eye, all determination. "I know what I want."

"Oh, really? What's that?" I asked.

She smirked. "After the last few times, we need a change. K told me about these edibles that might jump-start things and mellow you out."

I raised an eyebrow. "Honey, everyone after 40 slows down. You either finish too soon or can't finish at all. It's a timing thing! My doctor told me so. Besides, I'm going on that one-a-day stuff when we get back, remember?"

She rolled her eyes. "Face it. Until you lose 20 pounds and hit the gym like you said you would back in January, you're not going to perform like you did 20 years ago. My toys only go so far."

"Yes, dear," I muttered, the universal husbandly response to being outmatched.

Before I knew it, I was being dragged through the door into a tiny hallway with a pull string bell. A young Asian woman popped out from around the corner. "Come in! Need anything?"

The room was small, lined with display cases full of bottles, jars, and who-knows-what, with four touchscreen ordering stations set up along one wall. I stood there like a deer in headlights while my wife confidently stepped up to one of the screens.

"Um, what are the ones that make you horny?" she asked, her voice calm as if she were ordering off a dinner menu.

From somewhere in the store, three voices responded in perfect unison: "Pineapple Blast gummies."

And just like that, my wife bought $8 worth--four gummies. We were advised, quite seriously, to take no more than one each. Maybe two at most, but only if we were feeling brave. Apparently, the dose was slightly above the recommended beginner's level of 2.5-something-or-other.

"The full effects kick in within 30 minutes to an hour," the clerk added cheerfully, "so... enjoy!"

And with that, we left, me holding a little paper bag that somehow felt heavier than it should. Once we got back to the hotel, my wife was all business. She grabbed the gummy packet, popped one in her mouth, and set her phone timer like she was preparing to launch a space shuttle.

"It says about 30 minutes for the full effect. It's been... 27. No, wait--28. Should we just start screwing now?" she asked.

Before I could answer, she dropped her pants and panties, then turned over and pushed her butt right into my half-hard, half-confused penis as I was only about half-baked yet.

"Uh... okay?" I mumbled.

"Lefty loosey," she said, wiggling her hips dramatically. "And I'm not Lucy, so you'd better do it righty, 'cause I'm tighty!"

I paused, unsure if I was supposed to laugh or start taking off my pants. She turned her head to look at me, grinning.

"Beware there is an exit only. No! Yes--there--there!" she exclaimed.

Not wanting to miss the opportunity, I dropped my pants and underwear. I lost my balance but somehow managed to line myself up. The full effect of the gummies hadn't fully hit me just yet. One stroke in, and she gasped, throwing her head back dramatically.

"Rolling tight!" she exclaimed, giggling as she tried to shift her weight.

But in her wiggling, she turned too far, and I slipped out, leaving us both hanging and laughing.

"That's not for gummies! You don't roll gummies!" I proclaimed.

With a playful grin, my wife rolled over to the other side of the bed. "How about this kind of roll?" she teased, her eyes sparkling.

"Okay, okay," she said, catching her breath. "I'll be good. If you... you know... go down."

She rolled onto her back, looking at me with a mix of challenge and anticipation. "Downtown, where you get the best... best... edible... et it ibitle..." she sang out of tune.

"Okay, okay," I muttered, playing along. "'Oh, good morning, Mr. Tyler. Going down? Elevator... love in an elevator... GOING DOWN!'"

She gave me that look--the one that said she meant business. She beckoned me between her legs, her fingers drumming on the bed like an impatient teacher waiting for a late student. I knew my assignment. Once between her legs, I got to work. I started with the tease--my signature move. Gentle, slow strokes along the edges of her pussy lips, never touching her clit at first. I could feel her squirming, hear the soft burb.. gasp in as her breath was caught up in her throat as I circled closer and closer. When she let out a low, throaty "Oooh," I leaned in, sucked in as much of her as I could, and held it while my tongue worked its magic.

"Lick... lick..." I heard her murmur from up top, her hips shifting slightly to match my rhythm.

And then, out of nowhere: "I want to foot-fuck you!"

"What?" I blurted, pulling back for a second.

Somehow, while I was focused on her pussy, she had managed to get both feet under me. Her toes were now on my dick, wiggling like they had a mind of their own.

"No, no, no," I said, trying to wiggle away.

"Come on, foot fetish, no?" she teased, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

"No," I said firmly, shaking my head.

I tried to stay focused, slipping off her for a moment to plant my feet firmly back on the ground. From this new position, my dick was lined up about at her waist while I stood on the side of the bed, so I leaned forward and started massaging her pussy with my fingers, circling her clit gently. But she wasn't done.

"Oh, come on, you like my feet!" she said, squirming around and bringing one leg off the bed and up again, grazing my dick with her toes.

"No, stop that," I groaned, half-laughing, half-pleading as I batted her foot away.

"But they're so soft!" she teased, curling her toes playfully.

At this point, I was trying not to laugh. "I swear, you're impossible," I muttered, gently moving her foot back down and resuming my work between her legs.

But she wasn't done being ridiculous. Next, she reached over and grabbed the toys. Her hand went straight for the sucker toy--the one we jokingly called the "Wally Mart Sucker." I'd picked it up on a whim during a late-night run, and it had quickly gained legendary status in our house. After all, the first time she used it, she practically turned into Niagara Falls herself and I had to look up the term "squirting." It had been such a spectacle that I half-expected to see tourists showing up at our bedroom door with ponchos. Now, she was back for round two, but not without a little creative detour. She held the toy up like a trophy, grinning mischievously.

"Don't even think about it," I warned, but of course, she did.

She turned it on and, for reasons known only to her, pressed it right against my belly button.

"AHHH! Stop that!" I yelped, half-laughing, half-panicking as she giggled uncontrollably.

"What? It's just a test!" she said between fits of laughter, clearly enjoying my reaction.

"That is not what it's for!" I shot back, trying to wriggle away from her.

"Oh, come on, you're already leaking!" she teased, pointing to the damp trail of sweat now running down my stomach.

"Yeah, because you're trying to suction my insides out!" I said, shaking my head and giggling despite myself.

Finally, she moved the toy to its rightful place, and her laughter shifted to gasps as the sucker made that brrrrrrrrddddrrrd noise it does when it has her pussy lips slapping against her clit. I couldn't help but chuckle as she let out a soft moan and arched her back.

"Looks like the Falls are open for business again," I muttered, earning a swat on the arm before the mood took a more serious turn.

With the toy set aside, and she properly wet, I finally took over, sliding into her and finding a rhythm. She gasped, wrapping her legs tightly around me as we moved together. Everything seemed perfect--until it wasn't. She started small: a quiet little pfft. I tried to ignore it, thinking maybe she hadn't noticed that I noticed. But then came another one, louder this time, followed by a quick, embarrassed laugh.

"Wait--are you--" I began.

"Oh my god, I'm farting!" she burst out, laughing so hard she couldn't speak.

"Seriously?" I asked, half-laughing, half-shocked, as I tried to keep going.

"Yes! Don't stop!" she cried, tears of laughter streaming down her face.

I had no choice but to power through, each thrust producing a mix of gasps, moans, and the occasional unexpected toot. By the time she came, she was laughing so hard she was nearly breathless.

"Well," she said, wiping her eyes, "that was... an explosive finish."

The hotel bathroom door had this mirror that, when open, reflected into the over-the-sink mirror, creating one of those endless tunnel effects. I knew it was me, but I swear, in that moment, it wasn't. It was another guy--one who had some thoughts to share. Important thoughts. Life-altering, deeply philosophical musings like how maybe he should mind his own business and, perhaps, consider working on getting his own wife. Meanwhile, my wife swears I carried on a full 20-minute conversation, stark naked, completely engrossed in this debate with myself. I vaguely remember gesturing emphatically, pointing at the mirror like I was laying down the law. I was making sense, damn it. To whom, exactly? No clue.

Who needs a Ripley's Believe It or Not museum at the Falls when you've got two mirrors, a mini coffee maker that hums like a tiny spaceship, and your very first high? Then there were the five different-sized "decorative" mirrors on the hotel room wall behind the bed. Perfect circles, all lined up like some modern art installation. I stood in front of them, utterly baffled, trying to figure out why my head stayed the same size in each one. Shouldn't my head shrink progressively, like my bathroom friend from earlier? He kept getting smaller and smaller in the endless mirror loop, but here I was, looking at five identical versions of myself, all judging me in perfect unison.

I became convinced I had somehow stumbled into a black hole science experiment. Maybe my bathroom buddy was stuck in a different timeline--one where he wasn't just a reflection but a real person dealing with some existential crisis of his own. Or maybe I had accidentally unlocked the secret of the universe while trying to figure out how the hotel's single-serve coffee maker worked. Either seemed equally plausible at the time.

My wife, in her infinite patience, just watched from the bed, shaking her head and laughing so hard I thought she might pass out. "I told you we were THC virgins," she said, holding her stomach.

By the time I finally crawled into bed, I was still giggling about my bathroom buddy and those stupid circle mirrors. "Wally Mart Sucker, the falls, and a bathroom guy who's clearly got his own issues," I mumbled, drifting off. "Best spring break ever."