Room 612

Knock. Knock.

My knuckles rapped the hotel door, each strike barely audible as if I intended not to disturb anyone from their slumber. Beating with vigor, my heart palpitated. A midday summer breeze off the ocean threw my blonde hair in my face, tickling my cheeks and eyelashes as well as littering the backs of my arms with goose bumps. Nervous hands pushed my hair back only for the August wind to double her efforts. Certain battles were never meant to be won. After waiting several seconds with no answer, I questioned whether I should leave with my morality and wedding vows in tact. I motioned to return to my room but something prevented me from leaving. My feet became as heavy as ballasts and my legs as still as the iron parapet behind me. Looking up at the number posted on the door, 612, I realized my lust had augmented in strength. Unable to keep my hand still, I raised my hand and knocked once again on the door, this time with added force.

Saturday

Just three days ago, Saturday, August 12th, my husband and our two teenage boys arrived at our summer vacation destination, Myrtle Beach South Carolina, with intentions of tearing up the links. Both of my boys, just like their father, live for the game of golf. Several times Wayne, my husband of eighteen years, has dragged me out onto a course only to regret ever doing so. Although I am athletic, actually earned a scholarship for dance back in my youth, I think I will never become adept at hitting a little white ball with a metal club. The few times Wayne and I shared a golf cart, we lost as much of our patience as we did balls. Now that the boys are old enough, Wayne never asks me to join him, which suits me just fine. Instead of a humbling experience on the fairways, I choose to read a book on the beach, soaking up the sun's rays and forgetting about the daily rigamarole that I left back in Michigan.

Years ago, Wayne purchased a time share at a resort off the beach, just a quarter mile from his favorite course. After parking the van, Wayne had the boys carry our luggage to the lobby, where my husband proceeded to the check in counter. The concierge handled the transaction and asked if we needed any help carrying our bags to our room.

"That's what I have two boys for," Wayne said with his salesman smile.

We walked to the elevator and squeezed into the lift, barely managing to fit all of our luggage into the cramped space. Much to the chagrin of my husband, I tended to over pack for week long trips. Once on the 6th floor, the doors opened and we made our way to room 614, our home every second week of August. While we stood in front of our door, a tall black man wearing only his swimming trunks passed us. Years of weight lifting chiseled his upper body into statuesque perfection. With a chest that protruded over a hardened abdomen and biceps that resembled a world class athlete's, I could not help but draw a double take. Normally, I am not the kind of woman that looks at another man, especially a black man. Raised a good catholic, I try to remain pure in thought as well as action. Also, I grew up in a community that did not promote diversity and could not recall too many occurrences where I confronted black people. However, this charismatic, black man demanded my attention and felt compelled to give it to him.

"Excuse me," the black adonis said, his voice the lower octave notes of a piano. My husband and boys nodded and scooted to the side, allowing this towering man to pass.

Then our eyes made contact. Standing well over 6 feet 5 inches, this lumbering giant stared through the pupils of my eyes. A smile came to his face as he slowed his gait allowing him more time to soak in the meeting of our eyes. His eyes glanced down at my breasts, which showcased a little too much cleavage. Wearing a simple low cut white tank top with no bra, my 34B's were revealing more skin than concealing. When he lifted his eyes, he winked at me. Standing in his way, I reacted too slowly to allow him a passage through the aisle.

"Excuse me, miss," he said in that low voice. As I backed a way, he brushed his stomach against my nipples. I am only 5'3" so his chest seemed to glide across my face.

"Do you see how big that guy is?" Darren, my youngest said under his breath.

"He's huge," my oldest said. "Probably a football player."

My husband opened the door and the boys filed into our room. Before stepping inside, I glanced back and noticed the black man standing in front of the door next to ours. He stared at me with an intensity that rivaled the southern heat. He looked at my ass and then my breasts not caring that I knew he was being crude. Hesitating, I allowed him to stare at me. Then our eyes met and his mouth formed a sinister smile. Feeling insecure and ashamed, I nervously closed the door. While inside, I found myself thinking about our next door neighbor, wondering why he intrigued me so much. A part of me felt guilty for spending so much mental energy dreaming about his physique, however, the mind has a difficult time forgetting images of pure splendor and this black man, who stared at my body with unabashed desire, was close to perfect.

Sunday

The men went out golfing, leaving me to relax on the white sand. Wearing a yellow bikini, I lay on the beach with a book and a liter of water to keep me company. Losing myself in the plot (I am a sucker for romance novels,) I did not realize that the tide was coming in and that I had to move or suffer the steady inundation of waves. Picking up my towel, I retreated deeper inland. The white sand felt hot beneath my naked soles and I danced along the surface as if I walked along hot burning coals. Finding a vacant spot, I straightened out my towel between two elderly couples. Before laying down, I noticed my next door neighbor, that muscular black man, five meters away from me. He lay next to a beautiful black woman who owned boobs that spilled out of her top and a body as pristine as his.

Noticing that I realized who he was, he nodded his head and gave me a wink. With a nervous smile, I returned his greeting and quickly laid on the towel. Opening up the book, I attempted to avoid any eye contact and delve back into my story, but I was unable to concentrate, rereading the same sentence several times. Picking my eyes up from the novel, I glanced his way and noticed that he was studying my figure. Although I did not possess a body as hard as his girl's, I kept in excellent shape and concentrated on maintaining a sexy physique. His prowling eyes made me feel uncomfortable. Not accustomed to a man's undivided attention, I felt awkward, almost embarrassed. With defeating results, I tried to return to my story. He caught me glancing back at him and he responded with a wave of his long index finger. Humiliated I dipped behind my book like a soldier running from heavy fire.

Why did I keep glancing at this man? I wasn't that attracted to him was I? These questions began circulating inside my head, making me feel like an unchaste wife.

Unable to hide forever, I peeked my eyes from the book and saw this towering man with midnight skin straddling the ass of his beautiful black woman. He rubbed oil into her shoulders and back, kneading his hands into her muscles. At that moment I noticed both of them wearing wedding bands. Although, his hands concentrated on working oil into his wife's skin, this black man's eyes were transfixed on me as if he envisioned that I lay between his legs and not his wife. With slow, erotic swipes of his hands, he re-sculpted his wife's body while he studied my figure. My breathing rate increased and the sun's rays poured down upon me with more potency. One long stroke after another, his lubricated hands traveled the length of her naked back. She sighed every time her husband's powerful and large hands compressed the small of her back and her ass. As this black man stared at me he wore a face of a man possessed, willing to do whatever it took to get what he wanted. His unwavering countenance struck fear in me because I felt powerless as I looked into his eyes as the heels of his hands continued to grind into his wife's muscles. Picking up my towel, I left the beach, but not before glancing back at this perfectly chiseled black man. His eyes followed me every step of my retreat until I escaped from view. When I returning to my room, I noticed my heart raced as if I ran a 400 meter sprint and my nipples were as hard as metal tacks.

Monday

"Goodbye honey," Wayne said as he kissed me on the cheek. I could smell his normal dosage of cologne.

Rolling over, I attempted to return the kiss but he was already making his way toward the door, ready to play another eighteen holes. "Goodbye," I said in a groggy voice.

"Do you need any money?"

"No, I have the credit cards," I said.

"Be careful. Don't get too crazy."

"I'll probably just relax on the beach again," I said sitting up against the headboard.

"Okay, enjoy."

"Good luck."

"There's only bad luck involved when I play," Wayne said. Before leaving, he peeked his head inside the door and said in a low audible voice, "Sorry, I fell asleep last night. I promise to make it up to you tonight."

"That's okay."

Then Wayne was gone, the boys already waiting for him in the lobby. Last night, I was sexually charged, which was uncharacteristic for me. Wayne always played the aggressor, which suited me just fine. However, it was I who came on to Wayne when we retired for the evening. I got on top of him the same way that black man got on top of his wife. I rubbed my hands into my husband's back, using my weight as leverage, trying to mimic the movements of our neighbor. I remembered being wet with anticipation for a great night of sex only to hear my husband snoring within minutes of my massage. Apparently, my erotic hopes had been dashed before they could even line up in the start blocks.

Easing myself into my day, I made myself a pot of coffee, watched the news, and ate a donut (a true treat because I usually avoid sweets like the plague.) Then I sat on the balcony and listened to the waves crash onto shore for nearly an hour as I read my romance novel, the dirty parts being read with a voracious appetite. With the view too beautiful to resist, I put down my book and perused through my bathing suits ready to enjoy a walk on the beach. Initially, I selected a patriotic bikini that would have made George Washington proud, but then I thought of that colossal man straddling his wife, his biceps bulging with each stroke. His body moved with poetry and raw animalistic urges. I recalled his chiseled chest, stomach, and arms as well as his magnetic eyes, remembering when he passed by me in the aisle and when he stared at me on the beach. With fantasies of what it would feel like to have his hands touching me, I put the patriotic swimsuit back and culled a tiny, red string bikini that my husband bought me years ago for my birthday. I never wore it because in my mind it lacked enough material to qualify as a garment of clothing but Wayne managed to pack it for me every summer. Constructed of nothing but strings, the material just managed to cover my nipples and nothing more, leaving my boobs practically exposed. The bottom was a g-string, which set high up on my hips and left very little to the imagination

Realizing that I had too much pubic hair to wear such a risque garment, I took a quick bath and shaved my lower region completely bald, something I had never done before. Slipping into the kite string bikini, I looked naked. Studying myself in the mirror, I appraised my body, wondering if a 38 year old mother of two should wear something so revealing in public. Maybe it was the book I was reading or maybe it was the residue of still being sexually charged or maybe it was the black man I could not stop thinking about, but I thought I looked worthy of wearing such a suit. I possessed enough muscle tone to stave off any fat but still owned a feminine figure.

"I look good," I whispered to myself as I slid my hands across my body.

Then I grabbed a towel and sun glasses and made my way toward the elevator. I felt awkward when the door opened and two elderly men were already waiting inside. I stepped to their left and tried covering myself with the towel but the geriatrics's eyes had already been called to attention. I could feel their stares as the elevator descended sixty-five feet. Once the door opened, I nearly sprinted toward the beach with my towel wrapped around my entire body like a robe covering my entire frame. I looked around for my huge, black neighbor but could find him no where. Disappointed, I walked up and down the shoreline for at least a half mile in both directions (my towel draped around me the entire time) until I realized that he was not on the beach. Suddenly, I started to panic. What if he left and went home? Like a school girl gravely stung by the prospect that her crush would never ask her out on a date, I was crestfallen. Returning to the stretch of sand in front of my resort, I inconspicuously laid out the towel and rested my backside on it so my naked ass was hidden from any roaming eyes. As the sun beat down on me, I forgot I was wearing such a slutty bikini and nearly fell asleep until I was accosted by figure shading the sun from view.

"You better get some sun block on you," a voice said.

I opened my eyes and my black neighbor stood above me, his body dripping wet, speckles of water sprinkled over his mammoth frame. Caught by surprise I did not know how to respond. His wet swimming trunks clung to his legs, revealing the outline of his cock. Like everything else on this man, his equipment between his legs was as large as the rest of him. I tried not to stare but realized that I was wearing sun glasses and took my time soaking up the image. He was gorgeous.

"Want me to put some on you?"

"I don't need any, thank you," I said.

Bending down to a single knee, he reached forward, touched my shoulder, and then slid it across my left breast. Shocked, I leaned back on my elbows as his hand practically groped my boob. "You're already burned right here," the black man said. "You better let me put some lotion on you."

"All right."

"Turn over," he said

Doing as I was told, I rolled over, completely forgetting that I was a married woman and another man touching me could be a sin.

"Oh, look what we have here," he said.

I blushed.

He sat down upon my naked ass (only a single string running up from the crack.) Against my right cheek I could feel his growing cock, which felt like an extra limb expanding from his lower abdomen. I heard him snap open a lotion bottle. Then I heard his palms rubbing together, the friction adding tension and anticipation. When his hands came to my skin, they covered my entire back running from one side of my body to the other. His hands were as large as baseball mitts. Oh God, his hands felt like a piece of heaven as he stroked them up and down my back. Without asking, he lowered his hands to my ass and kneaded each buttock. Then he'd run his fingers along my rib cage, feeling the sides of my breasts and return back to my ass via my spine, only to repeat the journey.

"You wore this bikini for me didn't you?"

I didn't answer, too embarrassed to admit the truth.

"I said, you wore this for me, didn't you?" he asked with a voice that bordered on being upset.

"Yes," I said meekly.

I could feel his cock grow against my ass. It felt scary big. His hands were strong and I felt vulnerable lying beneath him. With his fingers he parted my ass, holding a cheek in each hand. I could tell he was looking at my pussy.

"You've been thinking about me, haven't you?" he asked.

"Yes."

Surrounded by people, he did not show any discretion as he inserted an index finger between my inner legs and rubbed it against my pussy. Never had another man besides Wayne, before my marriage or after, touched me down there. Half of me was shocked and appalled. Another half of me melted. He massaged my inner lips with the magic of a professional masseur. As one finger rotated my clitoris the other hand roamed up the length of my back and along the sides of my body. What was I doing letting a man touch me down there? Before I allowed my guilt to usurp my actions, this black adonis penetrated my pussy, burying his index finger to the webbing of his hand. It felt bigger than my husband's penis and it was only a single finger. Never had something pushed into me as deeply and caused me to moan as instinctually.

"That's it baby," he said in my ear.

Then a pang of conscience shot through me and I tried to sit up.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"I shouldn't be doing this. Please get off of me."

Ignoring me, he reinserted his finger into my pussy. Pushing it deep into me with more force and using his index digit to massage my insides. He tickled my inner wall, causing a sensation I had never experience before. Oh God, I did not know what he was doing but it felt as if he was controlling my body by pushing some sort of button inside of me.

"Please. Please. Please get off of me."

"You want me to fuck you don't you," he whispered into my ear.

"Oh God," I said, never being talked to in such a crude fashion. "Please stop."

"I said, you want me to fuck you don't you?"

For the first time in my life I actually considered the notion of another man inside of me as I openly wondered what a different cock would feel like if it penetrated me. Feeling his finger swirling around in circles as well as his enormous hard-on pressed against me left leg, my inhibitions crumbled into something malleable and unstructured. My wedding vows were pushed to the corner of forgot and I concentrated on my own sexual satisfaction and yearning. He repeated his question as well as his hand movements, his voice as much a challenge as it was a threat. I felt vulnerable and completely bending to his will. Then my legs squeezed together, every muscle in my body contorting and I tried to muffle my voice, realizing that I was in public. Still, a high pitched whimper escaped my pressed lips as a flood of pleasure overwhelmed me.

After I came, his long, black finger withdrew from my wet pussy and remained sitting on the back of my legs. His hands returned to rubbing my back, the people around me thinking this man was simply spending a lot of time applying sun block to my body. More so than before, I felt the giant monster being held captive inside this black man's swimming trunks, waiting to be unleashed. Seconds ago I actually considered the notion of letting another man fuck me but now it seemed sinful and immoral. I felt dirty.

"Please stop. Get off me."

He moved to one knee and looked at me after I sat up erect. I averted his stare, feeling ashamed of what had just transpired. I've just cheated on my husband, I thought, as the realization of what happened sunk into my consciousness.

"Let's go upstairs to my room," he suggested.

"This should never have happened."

"Why you wearing that then? You wanted it, don't deny it," he said.

"I've got to go," I said, not wanting to discuss what occurred. I just wanted to ignore it, forget that it ever happened. Grabbing my towel, not even bothering to shake off the sand, I wrapped it around me. The sand clung to the sweat, caking my skin, soiling my body. Dirty, I lowered my head, avoiding eye contact with every person. Did anyone actually see what happened? I thought, afraid that someone I knew saw the black stranger's hand between my legs. Fear caused me to think the worst and it pushed my legs toward the resort.

"Don't go," a deep voice said behind me. This time I did not turn back. I ran to the stairs and charged up six flights, trying to escape the lust the followed me. Once back to my room, I tore the little red bikini from my body but not before seeing it on me in the mirror's reflection. I look like a slut and a whore, I thought. Turning on the cold water, I jumped into the shower and let the water act as an ablution. The water washed away the dirt and sweat, but it could not remove what had happened. Sitting down on the tub, my blonde hair soaking up the cold water, I buried my head into my hands.