Stopover

(Author's note – if you enjoy this story, be sure to read "Suzy's Show and Tell", by Catesby, also on this site. My thanks to Catesby for providing the original inspiration for this recollection, and for his generous agreement to my 'plagiarism'. Q.R.)

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My wife, Carol, sighed in contentment as my limp cock slid out of her very well-lubricated vagina. Her words surprised me, though.

"That was the best fuck we've had for ages," she whispered, then giggled at her own temerity. Carol never used words like 'fuck'. Not ever.

I did, sometimes, if I got a bit carried away, when we were making love – fucking. I got a real rise, talking about her 'tits' and her 'cunt' – sometimes, even, in the context of some other lucky guy having an imaginary feel of them. I sensed that, sometimes, when she was in the right mood, she got a buzz from hearing me talk that way about her, but she never reciprocated.

We married young, had our three kids early, and, since neither of us had much experience of sex before we met, our 'education' was, of necessity, self-taught, in our own bedroom and, from very early on, with children within earshot, just a wall's thickness away. So many inhibitions still remained ......

Twelve years down the line, this was the first time we had been away, on our own, without the kids. The occasion was a wedding, up in Scotland – one of Carol's cousins. When we got the invitation, our first reaction had been, as before, to decline gracefully, and send a present and a card.

But it was my mother who said – 'Why don't you go? The children are old enough to spend the weekend with us, now. Drive up on Friday night – spend the night in one of these 'Lodge' places near the border – and drive on the next day to the wedding. Then you can spend the Saturday night in the hotel where the reception is, and come back South the next day."

And, really there was no reason why not – so we did.

At first, it was strange, being alone with Carol, in the car – we were so used to travelling 'mob-handed' – but, after a while, during which our conversation was a little awkward, and stilted, without the constant chatter of the kids in the back, I began to feel quite good about it.

And, after another little while, I started to get another feeling. At thirty-one, Carol didn't look too different to what she had looked like at nineteen. She was never going to be a model – she wasn't tall enough for that – and she was too round (in all the right places!), but she was always very sexy – very 'womanly', if you know what I mean!

She's about five foot four, with dark hair cut in a 'pageboy' style, with lovely liquid brown eyes and a rich full mouth. Her body is curvy all round – nice fleshy shoulders and arms, full firm 36C breasts, a nice waist, with just a hint of a belly – and a beautiful jutting round bottom you could stack a tea-service on.

The enforced pubic shaving brought about by childbirth means, sadly, that her profuse dark bush has never quite regained its original glory, but, largely at my behest, she has never shaved or trimmed it herself, and her beautiful vaginal lips are framed in what I regard as a superbly enticing forest of dark brown curly hair, which reaches up, in an ever-widening V, halfway to her deep-set round navel.

And, as we sped up the A1(M), not saying much but comfortable in our silence, each of us busy with our own thoughts, the lowering sun of what had been a very hot day crept over my right shoulder, and my mind began to dwell, more and more, on our private room at the Granada Lodge, and my trousers started to feel a bit tight ......

...... and it had been all I had hoped it would be. I think some of my thoughts had transmitted themselves to Carol. I was certainly driving quicker than usual, without bringing forth the customary word of reproof from her, and, as we neared journey's end – well before nine o'clock – our silence felt just a little less comfortable. I was certainly aware of my own anticipation, and hoped that Carol's thoughts were drifting in the same direction ......

Checking in, I was as nervous as I would have been, if it had been 'another woman' at my side, and not my legally married wife of twelve years. I even stammered over identifying ourselves, and the reception girl gave us both a quick look over the top of her glasses as she handed me the key.

The room was at the end of a long corridor, which we paced along, together, in silence. Carol took over when we arrived at the door – my uselessness with keys is legendary – and we entered. It was a featureless room, with a bathroom on the right of the entry door, a shelf with tea and coffee making equipment, and a small television, on the right, one easy chair, a single bed – and a double bed.

I dropped the cases while Carol immediately began an inspection of the bathroom. Acting nonchalant, I turned on the television, to see what cable channels were on offer, then Carol emerged from the bathroom and slipped off her coat, dropping it on the bed.

This was the moment to signal my intentions. I hesitated, awkwardly. Christ, this was ridiculous – but I wasn't used to making the first move anywhere but in bed, when we were practically naked, to start with. I took a deep breath and slid my arm round her waist ......

And, praise be, she turned immediately and pulled my mouth down on to hers. I tasted a hint of spearmint as my lips mashed on hers – obviously the complimentary disposable toothbrush and paste had been sampled already! I hadn't been the only one thinking about the potential benefit of a completely private room, all to ourselves, with no danger of a gang of kids bursting through the door ......

And Carol was right – it did turn out to be the best fuck we'd had in ages. It was a long, slow one – we stripped each other, slowly, in the glow of the setting sun sliding through the curtains. My whispered suggestions, as I appreciated the individual parts of her body, gradually, as she replied with more avidity than I could ever recall previously, became more and more outrageous, and louder, as we realised we couldn't be overheard.

And Carol had an orgasm – a loud, intense orgasm which shook me rigid as she spasmed beneath me, impaled on my rigid cock – minutes before I shot my load deep inside her, by which time she was well on the way to a repeat performance ......

"Oh, Jesus," I muttered into her soft shoulder. "Christ, Carol, that was fabulous. It was like, in your bedroom before we were married, when your folks were out. Only – your tits are even better, now!"

"And your hard-on lasts longer," she said, her hand burrowing down and cradling my limp cock and balls. "You're a much better fucker that you were, then."

"Am I?" I leaned back, and smiled down at her, then leaned forward and took one of her thick little nipples into my mouth. The sun was still up and her lush body looked utterly delightful in its soft glow.

She shivered a little as I took her nipple between my teeth, and I felt her hand stray across my thigh. I looked down – her finger was gently rubbing her clitoris. I could feel my cock stiffening again. I couldn't remember Carol ever being like this before. I had never seen her touch her clitoris before. I didn't even know if she masturbated. I realised I would love to watch her do that to herself, and wondered if she'd enjoy watching me ......

"It's only ten to ten," she said, suddenly, squinting over my shoulder at the red digital figures on the TV display and she wriggled out from under me and stood by the bed.

"Let's go for a drink," she said, "then come back here for another ...... one."

"Another what?" I asked, grinning, recognising that her nerve had failed her at the last minute. I'm sure she blushed, but her chin came forward and her voice fell as she said – "Another fuck, you dirty swine!"

"You mean – you want me to stick my big hard cock into your wet juicy cunt again?"

She turned her back on me, displaying her exquisite bottom. "Maybe – if you buy me a drink first," she flung over her shoulder. My cock was already hard, again, and the sexual atmosphere was rising rapidly.

"Only if you go dressed like that," I said, jokingly, but feeling my balls tighten at the outrageousness of my suggestion. Carol turned round, and looked at me, her face serious.

"I will, if you will," she said, and her gaze fell on my rigid cock. She slid a hand between her thighs and I watched her thighs contract, squeezing it against her pussy lips. She sat down on the bed and gently closed her fist round my erection.

"I'll tell you what," she said, in a slightly breathy, trembly voice. "Let's put on just our top clothes – a dress for me and trousers and shirt for you – no underclothes – then find a village pub, and go in, separately. Then you can 'pick me up' and bring me back here for another good fucking."

I was shaking with excitement. I wanted to fuck her again, there and then, but – I had never seen Carol like this. I had to take it further – to see where it went – I might never get the chance again.

"OK," I breathed, and she gave my cock a little squeeze, and let it go. She went over to one of our cases, and opened it. I pulled my shirt back on, and hauled up my trousers, slipping my feet, sockless, into my shoes. It felt strange, with no boxers or socks on, but not particularly sexy. But me not wearing underwear wasn't supposed to be erotic ......

Carol turned and faced me. She was wearing quite a long, print dress with a yellow flowery pattern, which reached down past her knees – it was loose, and I felt a slight twinge of disappointment. But – it had buttons all the way up the front. I stepped forward and put my arms round her. Her soft breasts pressed against my chest. I ran my hand down her back and felt the naked contours of her bottom, pushing my fingers between her cheeks. She rubbed up against my groin and I hoped my trousers were dark enough to conceal the telltale stains, which, even now, must be seeping through the material.

"Come on," she breathed, and led the way from the room.

It took just ten minutes or so in the car to find the nearest village, and locate the pub. It was one of those which still performed the basic function of a village pub, but had 'added on' a trendy restaurant in an extension, at the back. There was the usual selection of upmarket silver BMW's and maroon Jags, parked side by side with rusting Fiestas and Mini-Metros – and the place looked busy.

I switched off the engine and looked across at Carol.

"You go first," she said. "See if you can find a seat at the bar, and get a drink. I'll come in after a couple of minutes and stand beside you – but we don't know each other!"

"Are you sure?" I asked, suddenly concerned. She nodded, with a tight little smile.

"Yes – go on. It'll be fun!"

The public bar, in fact, wasn't overly busy, although the restaurant seemed to be packed. There were a couple of games of dominoes in progress in the bar, and it looked as if a darts match had just finished and the players were settling down to some more serious drinking. There must have been about thirty men, of assorted ages, and just two –elderly – women, sitting, glumly, with their equally lugubrious husbands, at a small table by the door.

There was a spare high stool at the end of the bar, facing into the restaurant, and I claimed it, ordering a double Glenfiddich from the dowdy, middle-aged barmaid. I looked around. It was obvious which of the darts teams had won, judging by the triumphal noises issuing from the motley group of players and supporters in the far corner, by the fruit machines.

I glanced into the restaurant. There was a blonde girl, sitting on her own, chair backed against the wall, legs – very shapely, long legs – stretched out in front of her, away from the table. She was a real looker, but there was something a little odd about her demeanour, about the teasing little smile hovering around her lips. I looked at the adjacent table, and the penny dropped. A group of six – three young men and their girlfriends – were enjoying after-dinner drinks, but one of the men was distracted. As the blonde girl slowly raised one leg, and crossed it over the other, I realised why. He was in the perfect position to see right up her very short skirt– and she knew it, hence the little smile.

"Must be something in the air tonight," I mused as the first sip of the Speyside malt dribbled over my tonsils. Then a drop in the hubbub of conversation alerted me, and I turned, to see Carol framed in the doorway of the bar. She had not been totally unoccupied while waiting in the car.

Her dress was now only partially buttoned – the top three or four at the top had gone, and the neck was now open, and the bottom of the dress was now open to mid-thigh. And, somehow, it didn't seem as loose as it had been before.

She looked round the bar, her gaze flickering over me without recognition, then, apparently not seeing anyone she recognised, walked towards the counter. I was aware that several eyes followed her progress, taking in the slight jiggle of her unfettered breasts, and the roll of her hips, under the light material of her dress. My own eyes dwelt on her, appreciatively, and I felt a twinge of nervous excitement.

The barmaid, a slight disapproving scowl on her face, watched Carol as she approached.

"Yes, madam," she practically hissed. "What would you like?" The emphasis, though slight, was on the 'you', rather than the 'like'. Carol faced her down.

"I'll have a Frascati," she said, clearly and confidently, and the barmaid sniffed, unimpressed. I was impressed that the place stocked Frascati – whatever that was – presumably some of the regulars in the restaurant drank gallons of the stuff ......

I slid off my stool.

"May I offer you my seat?" I said, and was rewarded with a brilliant smile. I couldn't believe how my heart leapt at the sight of my wife's smile, and I almost blushed, like a schoolboy.

"Thank you very much," said Carol, and the hum of conversation dwindled again as she mounted the stool, as gracefully as she could, but not without exposing a long stretch of thigh – and, I wondered, what else? But no – surely not?

"May I buy that for you?" I asked, as the barmaid appeared with a wineglass full of some red liquid.

A slight frown crossed Carol's face. "Well ......" she said, hesitantly, then – "oh, well, thank you very much – again."

"My name's Jude, by the way," I said, and her eyebrows shot up into her hair and she nearly broke her cover by collapsing into helpless laughter. She has confessed to having fantasised about Mr Law, and I thought it was a nice touch. She was equal to it, though. Dropping her eyes modestly, and holding out a hand in introduction, she said – "And I'm Nicole!"

I took her hand and moved a little closer – close enough so that even the barmaid, who was, by now, eaten up with curiosity, couldn't overhear.

"Your tits look absolutely gorgeous in that dress, Nicole," I said. "Tell me, are your nipples really as big as that, or are you just pleased to see me?"

She smiled sweetly as she took a sip from her glass, glancing around the bar, casually.

"You bastard!" she murmured. "Anyway, your cum-stains are showing through your trousers!"

"Well, that's not surprising, really," I answered. "After all, I wasn't the only one who got a flash of your pussy as you climbed up on that stool. I should think half the bar has a hard-on, now!"

She looked around, in apparent disinterest, but I could see the flush creeping up her neck.

"Did you, really?" she whispered, anxiously, and I couldn't resist it. This conversation was driving me wild.

"Yes," I said, "and I can see your nipples poking holes in your dress!"

The last bit was true. They were sticking out like organ-stops, and the smile on Carol's face was beginning to waver.

"Jesus, Stephen," she muttered. "I'm beginning to leak on to this bloody stool. Can we go back, now? I really need you to fuck me again."

I sipped my drink again. I didn't want to go back to the room yet. My mouth dried as I had another idea.

"Why don't we just go outside?" I said. "Wouldn't you like a 'stand-up' against the wall – like in the old days?"

"No!" she replied, fiercely, the smile now completely gone. "Take me back to the hotel!"

I smiled at her, and said nothing. I glanced into the restaurant again. The blonde was gone. I wondered if she was driving home, teasing her clit as she recalled her little game with the bloke at the next table. He, I noticed, was all over his girl-friend, now – she looked very happy. I wondered if she'd be so happy if she knew what had flicked his switch ......

"All right," said Carol, suddenly. "All right, but help me down from this bloody stool!"

My cock jerked and, quickly swallowing the last of my whisky, I held out a hand and she managed the descent decently – just! I turned to the barmaid and winked at her as I shepherded my 'pick-up' towards the door, my hand dropping, casually onto Carol's bottom. Once again, eyes followed us – well, Carol – as we made our way through the double swing door, into the warm evening.

I hesitated, wondering which would be the best place to go, but Carol seemed to have it all worked out. She pulled me round the corner of the building, away from the car park. The back of the pub faced empty fields, surrounded by a high hedge. There was only about a yard of rough concrete between the back wall and the hedge. At the very end of the wall stood a couple of dustbins. Carol hurried along the wall and stopped about halfway along, standing with her back against the blank brick wall.

I closed up against her and put my right hand on her left tit, squeezing it hard. Her hand closed round my erection and I kissed her. I could feel her wriggling against me, her hips pistoning back and forth.

I dragged my mouth off hers and rasped – "Is this what you wanted – to get your big tits felt outside the pub, after you flashed your cunt at everybody in the place?"

"Yes," she muttered, hoarsely. "Get them out! Get my tits out of this bloody dress – rip the buttons off, if you have to, but get my tits out and suck my nipples before they burst!"

I had never seen her so turned on – she was almost like a different woman. Her hand was working my cock frantically and I was praying she wouldn't make me come before I actually got it into her. I pushed her hand away, and took a deep breath, then eased her back against the wall and started unbuttoning her dress, starting at the bottom.

I was half-kneeling and, as the buttons parted up to Carol's waist, revealing her hairy pussy, I sank my head between her legs and licked her engorged labia. I was rewarded with a muffled groan, then the pressure of her hands behind my head, pulling it into her quivering groin. I groped blindly above me to reach the rest of her buttons – then there was only one hand behind my head and I slid both hands round to clutch her bare bottom as she finished the unbuttoning job for me.

When I rose, it was to see Carol's spare hand pulling on one of her exposed nipples, her dress wide open, all the way down. I slid my hands inside her dress so that it fell away to either side of her body, and embraced her, passionately, one hand in the small of her back, the other clutching the soft flesh of her bottom, my tongue pushing inside her wide-open mouth and halfway down her throat.

She was clutching at me, desperately, one leg hooked round my thigh, low moans coming from deep in her throat when, suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

My heart leapt, and I whirled round. The face that leered down at me was vaguely familiar – he was one of the 'hangers-on' with the victorious darts team. He was a very tall, very thin man in his late fifties, with a cadaverous, unshaven face with dull, deep-set eyes and a lantern jaw. He was wearing an ill-fitting ancient tweed jacket over a heavy woollen pullover and filthy baggy grey trousers. He was swaying back and forward, and was clearly very drunk.