Author's Note:
This story doesn't fit neatly into a single category. The narrative touches upon various topics, including: exhibitionism, humiliation, power/control, coercion, and gay sex.
I stood in the hotel bathroom looking at my reflection in the large mirror. My heart was racing with a mixture of excitement and dread. I was trying to psych myself up. The words
'You can do it!'
were playing on a loop in my head. A stoic façade stared back at me; it was reassuring to know that others wouldn't be able to see my anxiety.
At twenty-seven years old, I looked really good for my age. It was one of the perks of not having any children. All my friends had developed beer bellies as they'd settled into domestic bliss and stopped caring about their appearances. I still had the time and energy to go to the gym each day after work.
I had just finished styling my hair. I used a product that made my blond locks look spiky and wet with dew. I wanted it to appear as if I had just finished showering. I focused on my hazel eyes, noticing how the outer perimeters were honey-hued while the centers were forest green.
I didn't shave that day, since I thought I looked the most attractive when I had some stubble. Along with my wide, square jaw, it gave my face a rugged, masculine quality. I smiled, as if practicing how I would disarm any tension that would likely arise over the next hour. I even shrugged a little to ensure that my body language came across as genuine.
At six-foot-three, I knew that my height was both an asset and a liability. It made it so that people found me more attractive, and it made it so I couldn't exactly disappear into the background. My frame was packed with muscle; I had tried to maintain the same habits that had allowed me to thrive as the quarterback on my college's football team.
My biceps were large enough that they appeared as though they were always flexing at least a little. My pecs bugled out in front of me; if someone looked closely, they could tell that I shaved my chest hair off. I ran my fingers across my six-pack. I was incredibly proud of my abs. It had taken countless crunches to keep them well-defined, so I didn't feel vain. I'd done the work and deserved the reward.
My dick hung down between my firm thighs. At seven inches soft, I was the quintessential 'show-er.' In college, I was the guy who got playfully teased for my larger-than-average size. I kept my blond pubic hair trimmed into a small patch above my dick's girthy root. My balls looked well-proportioned to my cock, even if they were a bit pendulous.
I rotated so my back was facing the mirror, and I turned my neck to look behind me. My firm, muscular ass stared back at me. It had taken me a while to like my backside. In college, I hadn't appreciated it. I had always thought it didn't match the rest of my physique since it was what I'd later learned people described as a 'bubble-butt'. With time, I'd learned to love it. I bounced up and down on my heels; it gently jiggled in response to my movements.
Tap, tap, tap!
The door started to open as my wife, Chloe, entered. Unlike myself, my wife was fully clothed; she was wearing tight jeans and a low-cut blouse. Standing next to one another, we always looked a bit silly. She was five feet tall and very petite; she weighed half of what I did. Just as I religiously went to the gym each day, she practiced yoga with the same level of commitment.
She positioned herself by my side and wrapped her arm around my waist. She looked into my eyes and smiled; hers were large, blue, and doe-like. I leaned over to smell the top of her voluminous, red quaff. The products she used on it made it smell like honey.
"You look really good," she said. "How are you feeling?"
My heart sped up as soon as I started to reflect on my emotions. My mouth became dry as I tried to find my words. I felt her squeeze me more tightly; she could sense how nervous I was.
"You don't have to do this for me," she said.
"I don't feel like I 'have' to do this," I replied. "It's a choice I'm making. And it's for both of us."
Chloe and I had been together for five years. We had met during our last year at college. Things had been amazing at first; everything had felt so new and invigorating. In the past year, things had started to get worse. It felt like we were pulling away from one another.
It had reached the breaking point when Chloe had revealed to me that she had kissed a male co-worker at her company's Christmas party. A few days after that, she'd opened my laptop to discover a browser I hadn't closed. A quick search of its history had informed her about some of my unique sexual interests.
In therapy, it had all gotten tossed into the open. Chloe felt resentful of how I never put her needs first, especially when it came to sex. She talked about how she had been trying to hint at some of her fantasies for years, but I hadn't picked up on the clues. Specifically, she fantasized about taking control of me.
My kinks were more extreme - more specific, perhaps. Somehow, I had been wired to get off on the idea of public embarrassment and exhibitionism. At the low point in our marriage, I hadn't even bothered trying to have sex since it had been easier to just jerk off to porn of women catching men naked in various settings.
The therapist had encouraged us to see if we could find a way to meet in the middle. We'd gone to a nudist retreat two times, but that hadn't really done it for me. Everyone had felt so comfortable; part of what I needed was for the nudity to be risky and unexpected. Likewise, we'd experimented with her tying me up at home, but she hadn't enjoyed it. She'd said she needed "more control" and "higher stakes."
One evening, I'd told her that my favorite porn video was about a guy who gets locked out of his hotel room naked. She'd tried to understand the appeal by asking me questions. I'd told her about how the guy's female friends refused to let him back in the room unless he followed their orders, like doing jumping jacks or running down to the ice machine. Chloe had started to become more interested, and that was the first step in getting us to this hotel a week later.
We both walked out into the living room of the hotel suite. Chloe sat on the bed while I stood in front of her. Light was flooding in through the large windows on the opposite wall. We had chosen this hotel because it catered towards adults; we hadn't seen any children when we'd arrived.
"Are you ready to hear the rules?" she asked.
I nodded. I had been dreaming about something like this for years, but now that it was about to happen, I was second-guessing myself. I pushed my worrisome thoughts to the edge of my mind. I had already been through them all before. I knew that I would just chicken out if I thought about them again.
"I'm going to tell you what I want you to do, and you are going to follow my orders," she said. "If I ask you to walk across the street to the gas station completely naked, you will make that trip. I'll watch from the window. If you quit, you will be punished. Maybe I'll take everything and leave you here to figure things out on your own. If you try and fail, I will support you completely."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing; was she really going to ask me to leave the hotel naked? We had never discussed anything that extreme. I tried to tell myself that she was merely offering up an example, but I worried that we weren't on the same page. I just wanted to get my feet wet; she seemed to desire to dive into the deep end - or chuck me into it while she watched from relative safety. I remembered the therapist's advice, that had also sounded like a warning: we had to compromise if we wanted to make things work. If I asked to pull things back, she likely wouldn't get any of her needs met. I knew that the dominance she exercised in her fantasies did not involve negotiation.
"Go get us some ice," she said with a smirk. "I want to have something from the mini-bar to keep myself refreshed."
I paused for a second. I was a bit relieved while still feeling incredibly nervous. It was as though this thing that should have been mortifying felt less scary since I knew it could be worse.
"One more general rule first," she said. "Be as helpful and cooperative as you can to anyone who approaches you. If someone tells you to leave, do it. Find somewhere to hide until they are gone. Conversely, if a drunken bachelorette party asks you to pose for pictures for them, do it. I'm going to follow you at various points, so pretend like I'm always watching."
I had planned on going with the flow anyway, so that didn't seem like too big of a deal. It wasn't like I was going to stalk someone if they caught me naked in a hotel hallway and yelled at me to leave.
"Yes, I understand."
She handed me the silver ice bucket. I could see my warped, naked body reflected back at me in its surface.
"You can cover yourself with the bucket in whatever way you desire. If someone asks what happened, tell them that you got locked out naked when you opened the door to get an ice bucket that had been left at our door."
I looked down at the ice bucket. I used both hands to hold it directly in front of my crotch. Luckily, it was big enough to cover everything critical. I thought about whether to try to use one hand to cover my backside, but I preferred that extra protection in the front to ensure I didn't drop the bucket if I was startled.
I slowly walked over to the door, and Chloe followed me. She didn't say a single word. I paused, listening for any sounds in the hallway; it was dinnertime, so I was praying that most people were out at a restaurant. I wanted to look out the peephole, but I refrained. I didn't want Chloe to think I was wussing out.
Once I was certain the coast was clear, I opened the door and slid through the small gap I had created. I felt the handle pull away from my hand as Chloe yanked it shut. I frantically placed my hand back on the ice bucket.
I froze for a moment.
Holy shit, holy shit,
a voice screamed in my head. Feeling panicked, I looked to my left and my right to scan the corridor. There were about ten doors on either side of our room, and I became acutely aware of the fact that one of them could open at any time. I consoled myself with the thought that the elevator didn't open directly into the hallway. If I heard its telltale chime, I would have time to prepare.
I knew where the ice machine was located; I had guessed that this very scenario might arise, so I had made sure to create a mental map of our floor when we'd arrived. It was to my right, heading away from the connecting corridor leading to the elevator, at the end of the hall.
