My guess was a gap of twenty five years between them.
He looked to be in his late sixties, well preserved, possibly even still worked out, unusual for a British guy of that generation, but he could have been former military or played rugby in his youth. She could have passed for forty, but I thought a little older, not a gym bunny, too voluptuous for that, but a great figure, classic hourglass, elegantly dressed in a light grey business suit, complimenting her husband's pinstripe.
If he was her husband, that is.
I thought more likely her employer. It happens all the time. A senior executive checks in with his personal assistant, secretary or subordinate of whatever kind, on a business trip that is more about what goes on between the sheets than between nine to five.
Abbie checked them in, while I watched.
Irish Abbie, whose full breasts push out against her obligatory white blouse, who wears stockings beneath her charcoal skirt, with neither knickers nor panties nor even a g-string covering her untamed auburn bush, because in the warmth of summer, she likes to feel the air circulating, whose cunt is slick and wet and tight, and who fucks like a rabbit and has had every one of the straight, male, hotel employees under the age of forty, including myself, between her milk white thighs.
Abbie, from some no name village outside of Galway, who is a one woman multicultural ambassador for sexual relations, accepting English cock, Scottish cock, Italian cock, Spanish cock, Jamaican cock, and my own New York cock, with no sense of discrimination, flicked back a strand of auburn hair and beamed her angelic, welcoming smile to each of the new arrivals in turn, looking as if butter would not melt in her mouth, the same mouth that had sucked so divinely on my cock head only the night before.
"Welcome to the Brighton Excelsior," she said. "Have you a reservation?
"We have, thank you," the man answered, well spoken, but without the ultra British accent of the landed gentry. "In the name of Smith."
I held back from smiling at the name. The Brits have no imagination. It is always Smith or Jones, almost as if they want you to know that they are not married from the moment they check in.
Meanwhile the wife was not so much checking in, as checking out the guy standing six feet from Abbie, charcoal suit, white shirt, grey tie, tall, well built, looking confidently self contained as befits a duty manager, monitoring the reception desk. That guy was me, and I gave her a brief but appreciative look that told her that I could be interested too.
"Thank you, Mr Smith," Abbie's Irish accent lilted, "so we have a deluxe suite reserved for you on the third floor, facing the sea, for one night."
"That's right," he said.
He was acting the role correctly. You would almost have thought that he had made the reservation himself. All too often it is the supposed wife who confirms the reservation, making it a little too obvious that they had arranged it themselves, as any efficient personal assistant would.
Abbie continued with the check in procedure, taking credit card details, and a signature, and providing a pair of key cards for the suite. She touched a push down bell with a slender finger, the nail perfectly oval and a shade of dark orange selected to match her hair, and one of our bell hops came across to carry the Smith's cases for them, and lead the way to the lift.
Mrs Smith looked back briefly as they followed him, eyes bright with an unspoken question, and I felt my cock stir as I met her gaze.
Of course hotel policy is that you never fuck the guests. Fucking your colleagues is fine. The hotel business is a world of its own, a closed bubble, where half of the staff live on the premises, and those who do not, work late enough or early enough to sleep over regularly in one of the staff rooms, and sharing a room with a fuck buddy happens more often than not.
Some chose to have a regular partner, whether because they get on, or even have a romantic interest, or just because they like what the other person does in bed and the fuck buddy you know is better than taking a chance with someone new. Some, like Abbie and myself, unashamedly enjoy variety. But guests are officially off limits. The overall manager, Chris Edmonton, had made that very clear.
My role takes me around the hotel, ensuring that everything is as it should be, that things are running smoothly, guests are being attended to, and there can be no cause for complaints. I had been at the reception desk for just five minutes, confirming that Abbie and her colleague receptionist, a gay Italian by the name of Marco, were managing the evening check-ins with their usual friendly efficiency. I left, and went through to the dining room.
When you have done a job for long enough, you can work on auto-pilot, and think of other things. I had a brief chat with our head waiter, scanning the restaurant, not yet busy, ensuring that the tables were laid to specification, chairs in, wait staff attending the guests who were eating early, polite, controlled, hands behind backs if not in use, while I mentally undressed Mrs Smith.
She had the kind of long, black hair that bubbled its way down her back to just below the shoulder blades, black eyebrows and lashes, but light blue eyes, set above high cheek bones and full lips that I imagined brushing the tip of my cock as softly as a butterfly's wings.
Her complexion was olive, which perhaps helped her appear five or so years younger that she was, assuming I was right about the age gap. I have nothing against older women. They are more relaxed in bed, know what they want, and are less inhibited about ensuring that both people are fully satisfied. Mrs Smith being around ten years older than myself was not an issue, whereas her being a hotel guest most certainly was.
I amused myself guessing what lay beneath her business suit. Her breasts would be full, and with that complexion, her nipples would almost certainly be dark, but whether they would be cherries, with barely discernible areoles, or have palm width areoles with erasers at their centres, I could only guess at.
Her hips were wide, and her thighs would be soft, the caramel skin warm and smooth. Her natural copse would be jet black, at least as curled as the mane that flowed from her head, but her pubic mound might have been shaved or waxed smooth, baring her slit, which might be just a slit, or have protruding lips, my personal preference, especially when giving oral, inhaling their succulence, licking and sucking on the malleable flesh that guards the heaven that is beyond.
Some thoughts have to be shut out. A duty manager with an obvious hard on is not what guests or senior management expect. I could only envy Mr Smith, to have Mrs Smith all to himself in one of our most luxurious suites.
Later that evening the Smiths ate dinner in our restaurant. He still wore his pinstripe suit. She had changed. Her dress was rose pink, backless, the front rising to encase her breasts, tied under her mane of hair behind her neck, the neckline plunging to reveal olive skinned fullness.
I passed between tables close enough to theirs to detect the outline of her nipple stubs, biteable beneath the silken fabric of her dress. Her hands were on the table, olive against white linen, his left hand over her right, strong and possessive, her left hand bearing three rings, one on the index finger with a red stone set in gold, and a diamond cluster and a wedding band together on her ring finger.
Mrs Smith was someone's wife. I wondered if her husband knew that she would be sleeping with the executive that she worked for, that her role as personal assistant was as intimately personal as it can get.
She saw me pass by, and raised her fuck me eyes. Mine answered back, that I would love to oblige, as I walked on.
I nodded to several other guests, watched one of our wait staff serve a couple with their mains, and went through to the kitchen.
There was none of the legendary shouting and swearing in sweat and heat. The sous-chefs were all working calmly, supervised with minimal interventions by Richard, whose name was pronounced with a softly spoken French accent. All was well. I chatted with Richard for a few minutes, then went back into the restaurant and made my way between tables once again.
She saw me. Her light blue eyes met mine again. This time she raised her hand, just a few inches, but enough to summon me. I changed my trajectory.
They had only just begun their main course. Mrs Smith had chosen breast of duck a l'orange with green beans, while Mr Smith had peppered sirloin steak with pan-fried mushrooms and thin cut fries. Mrs Smith's glass still held most of the white wine that she was drinking. Mr Smith's glass of red required topping up.
"Sir, Madam, I hope that you are enjoying your meal, and that everything is to your satisfaction." I said.
"Excellent, thank you," Mr Smith replied.
"I just wanted to ask," Mrs Smith began," if you could tell me what time the pool is open to. It's always nice to have a quiet swim late in the evening."
I kept my left hand behind my back, flat, palm outwards, just above my buttocks. I used my right hand to replenish Mr Smith's wine glass, one third full exactly, and replaced the bottle on the table, a St Emilion.
"The pool is available to guests throughout the night, madam," I said. "It will not be supervised after twelve, but guests who wish to use it are welcome to do so, although they may find themselves alone."
She beamed.
"How wonderful! A midnight swim! That sounds divine!"
Her voice sounded divine.
"Madam," I said, giving the slightest of bows as I left their table, and exiting the restaurant.
Close up, the valley between her breasts had been sublime, and from the side of the table where I had been standing, the view of her right breast had been more intimate. Only the very edge of her areole had been visible, the rose pink silk of her dress bunched just enough to reveal that the areole was indeed smooth, chocolate brown, and given the distance to the moulded nipple stub, it was a full saucer of areole that was covered by the silk. Mr Smith had exquisite taste in personal assistants.
I busied myself, touring the corridors, checking a few unoccupied rooms to ensure that cleaning had prepared them fully to our standard, going down to the pool area, ensuring that the supply of guest towels was adequate and well presented, floors clean, poolside loungers correctly arranged, sauna and steam room immaculate, and then back to reception, quiet now that most guests had arrived and had been checked in, and into the back office, where I spent a while, helping to prepare the invoices for those guests departing in the morning.
A midnight swim would be wonderful. So Mrs Smith had said.
An image kept recurring, of her diving into the pool, starting with her toes curled at the tiled edge, arms by her sides, butt naked, not caring who was there, bouncing on the balls of her feet, arms rising, legs bending only to straighten and start her into a flowing, graceful curve of a dive, cutting through the water, hardly a splash, pulling herself beneath the surface with her arms while kicking wide and then together with her legs, surfacing, brushing her hair back, and swimming steadily to the far end of the pool.
That single stroke, after the dive and before she surfaced, her legs wide, her olive skin turned white by the blue of the water, revealed her cunt, and in my mind it was devoid of hair, and protruding labia were exposed, and my head had to be shaken back to the task in hand, to bring my focus back to entering onto our system the bar, restaurant and room service slips signed off by this guest or the other, so that the correct total for everything consumed would be generated and printed out, ready to be presented when that guest came to the desk to check out before their scheduled departure.
