Friday

I dropped the towel I'd used to dry my hair to the balcony floor, opened a beer and sat back inhaling the salty evening breeze. A vacation was long overdue, or at least so I'd been told, but there was that old restless resentment bunched up in a corner of my mind, just waiting for me to relax to swallow me up.

"Fuck off," I muttered at it.

I've never been to the seaside before. The hotel room was a little pricey but as of late, I could afford it and it overlooked a beautiful sandy beach close enough to spit on. I was determined to enjoy it if it killed me. Maybe that little towel girl would do. She sure blushed like someone having a lot of naughty thoughts. She knocked at the door every day around noon and if I opened shirtless, her eyes widened and she'd almost whisper, "Clean bathroom? Towels?" At least I think that was what she was trying to say. Five star hotel and not even the concierge could manage more than three words of any foreign language. I guessed when they hired her they thought she'd do well enough with body language only—and she did.

Shadows grew longer across the sand dunes but it wasn't until the light came on in the room to my right that I realized I'd just been sitting there for over an hour. I had to throw on some clothes or I was going to miss the dinner hours. My neighbor for the past couple of days, a willowy blonde with chocolate brown eyes, about a decade older than me, came out of her room and leaned against the railing, unaware of me in the dark. Light from behind her treated me to a supreme view of her well-sculpted ass in a leather mini skirt. The cream-colored angora sweater didn't seem to match the skirt, not until she turned; the fact that the thing was two sizes too big for her and hanging so low on one shoulder it looked like it was about to slide off to the floor made the combination seem more harmonious. More slutty too. The low V-neckline drew my eyes. Mmmm. I might miss the dinner after all. The view had certainly improved.

I took a swig of beer and she gave a start, her hand flying to her chest, but then she laughed.

"Oh. I hadn't seen you there."

"Mmmhhmm."

During the past few days, we'd exchanged a couple of nods and polite questions about the temperature of the sea and location of the gym. That was it. She had mischief in her eyes and a nice throaty laugh that tickled a man's spine, but she also had a ring on her hand and a husband. Even I drew a line there. She had no business eyeing me as she was.

"I love your evening attire," she said. My evening attire consisted of a single towel wrapped around my hips, if you didn't count the one on the floor.

"Hate Fridays," I muttered. "Didn't feel like getting dressed."

She looked at me for two more seconds, but my mood had registered and she turned away, leaning on the railing again. Between us and the bay couple of flags fluttered cheerfully. The wind occasionally brought sounds of music and laughter; at the other end of the hotel, someone was having fun. I do hate Fridays.

My neighbor folded her forearms on the railing and stepped back, bending over and pushing her chest down as if trying to stretch the muscles in her back. The only thing I saw stretching was the leather across her ass; her sweater hung below her chest and as she moved slowly back and forth I realized that what had looked like a strange bra when she'd been upright, were in fact two little nipple clamps. At least I thought that's what they were. I'd seen things like that in stores. Never used them. Certainly never seen a woman rub her breasts against the railing with those bastards biting into her nipples. Sighing and shuddering, she seemed to enjoy it. I sure did. My imagination ran wild. The slow pulsing in my crotch was not far behind. She turned, stepped to the shoulder-high blue glass division between our sections of the balcony and plastered her palms and breasts against it, her eyes holding mine. A chill tickled my shoulders and up the back of my neck. My neighbor was a slut and showing it off with a purpose.

She stilled for a while, looking me over brazenly. "You're a good looking young man," she said with that twinkle in her eye. Good-looking is a matter of taste, I guess; I wasn't likely to model for one of those girly fashion mags, but I was tall and muscular enough for most women to notice me. Came in handy.

"You're much too young to be sitting there sulking. You should be out there," she waved toward the center of the peninsula where most of the clubs were, "making some lucky snot moan and scream."

"You're a good looking wife who should be in there," I jerked my thumb toward their room, "making your husband moan."

She laughed, her head tilting back, making me wonder whether she'd stop if I sank my teeth into her throat. She opened her mouth to say something witty no doubt, then her eyes shifted toward the room and she smiled again. There was a sound of a door opening and closing.

She nodded. "There he is now. We'll ask him where he wants me." She studied me curiously, but I refused to move, not quite sure what game she was playing. She wasn't the first woman older than me who'd thought I might be fun to play with. When a woman calls you a young man and says you should go bang some snot, what she wants to hear is that she doesn't look all that old and that you'd rather bang her. The trouble was, with this one it wouldn't be a lie.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"My name's not important," I mumbled.

"Ah. Well, Mr. Znot Important, meet my husband, Mr. Green." Not his real name. I noticed them signing in the other day. Well, I noticed her. She had a nice smile and a spark in her. I like that in a woman.

I nodded to her husband. He nodded back with a crooked half-smile. "Mr. Important seems to like you, Danielle," he said, letting the woman ease back into his embrace with a happy sigh. Yeah. That's the trouble with towels; they don't hide well the effects of watching a woman with nipple clamps on her tits.

"Hey, man, I was just sitting here enjoying the view." I raised my arms in what pretended to be a defensive gesture but displayed my ability to break his neck if he didn't accept the apology. His eyes did take in my size, but his legs didn't take a step back as most men's would, glass division between us or not. I hoped he wouldn't start a fight. Not much pleasure in fighting a man twice my age and about half my size for his own—if somewhat flirty—wife.

He didn't start a fight. He shrugged off both my apology and my threat. "No problem. Danielle likes to meet new friends, and people often like her." She smiled and twisted to give him a look of complete devotion that'd be the last thing you'd expect under the circumstances. His head turned to his left. We were in a hotel wing separated from other rooms by an elevator. Three rooms, three balconies, only two occupied. Mr. Green's hands slid under the angora sweater and whatever happened there next made Mrs. Green gasp, blush and take a few ragged breaths.

"She also likes," he continued in a perfectly flat tone, "to have a beer with a friend now and then. You don't happen to have another one of those lying around?"

I must admit I was staring at the man with more than a few doubts. I think I would have felt more comfortable taking Danielle behind his back than accepting her on his offer—if he was offering. You know, I wasn't the kind of guy teen aged girls usually held hands with; my appetites appealed to ladies with a few years on me. The result was slight jadedness, and on a bad day, bitterness. For a guy who was about to celebrate his twenty-fifth birthday the following winter, I'd been called a sick bastard more often than necessary, but this—this was something else. I guessed I had a few outdated ideas about marriage. But hell, I also had a monster of a hard-on.

"Sure." I motioned toward my room only to realize the sun had set a while ago and they couldn't see a thing back there. "Got lots. I was hoping to get wasted enough to get an early night."

"He hates Fridays," Mrs. Green informed her husband with mock severity.

He nodded. It wasn't until his hand retreated that I realized it had been between her legs. "Go see if you can pull Mr. Important out of that foul mood. I'll stay here a while." She ran off. He wiped his hand on his hip, leaned on the railing and sighed. "Fine night. I think I'll enjoy the view."

"Yeah." Can you believe this guy? "Sure." I got up to open the door for Danielle. She walked past me with a naughty smile, turned on one of the bedside lamps and proceeded to the balcony with no more than a glance at the pile of beer and liquor bottles by the bed. I followed, picking up two beers on my way. Mr. Green took the one I handed him over the division. Mrs. Green looked at hers hesitantly for a moment and finally shook her head no. I shrugged and sat back in my chair, going back to my drink, curious to see what would happen next. Danielle's knees folded in a smooth practiced move, her palms coming to rest on my knees but without absorbing any of her weight, until she was kneeling between my legs. I watched her slim fingers slowly trace the muscles in my thigh. She looked thoughtful, dreamy almost, but then she sighed and straightened her spine, as if pulling herself together. Suddenly all businesslike, starting on a plan I didn't help make, her hands slid up purposefully. On an impulse, instead of letting her reach for my cock, I leaned forward to smell her hair and she rubbed her cheek against mine, her hands stilling at the edge of the towel.

"Sorry about the beer, sir." Hmm. Smelled good. Something flowery and fancy. "My husband doesn't let me drink like that unless we're in public." Her voice was so low I doubted even her husband could make out what she'd said. Not the kind of thing she wanted overheard by just anybody, I guessed.

"Like what?" I asked, my voice equally soft. Her answer was no more than staring into my eyes. I must have missed something. Even if coming over for a beer was just a pretext, she would have taken it. Maybe she wanted a glass, although why her husband would forbid drinking straight out of the bottle unless in public, I didn't know. I'd seen how they wash those things once; maybe he has seen it too. That'd be enough to make a man drink straight out of the bottle. I stood up to get a glass anyway. Good manners never hurt, or so I've been told. When I got back from the bathroom, one look at Danielle told me I'd taken a wrong step. She tried to hide it, but there was obvious disappointment on her face. Crap. I'd never had all that many social skills. Well, nothing to do but press forward and see what happens. I poured the beer. For some reason, Mr. Green snickered. Danielle turned to glance at him with what seemed to be annoyance, and he went into their room to turn off the light.

"Out of your hand," she whispered as soon as he was out of sight. I opened my mouth to blurt "What?" but he was back and I had a distinct feeling her words had been for my ears only. Apparently, I was caught in the middle of some private game between them and, if she didn't want him to hear her, she must have been cheating. She was watching me through her eyelashes in a rather transparent attempt at modesty. Her hands were somewhere behind her back and her lips parted as if she was waiting to see the end of a game she'd laid a lot of money on.

Oh... I get it. I think.

Yeah. That clicked in just right. Well, well, what do you know. My friends had been right; a vacation was just the thing I needed.

"Come here, Danielle." I held the glass for her and she half drank, half lapped at the beer, her hands still behind her back. I couldn't see Mr. Green well with the lights in their room off, but I got a nice smile out of his wife. I would have bet my right arm he'd felt more threatened by this last exchange than he had been by me flaunting my muscle.

"I knew you would win me a bet," she murmured smugly as I removed the glass from her lips. I believed that. Women can smell how you feel about them. The stupidest thing you can do is actually admit you find them beautiful and sexy and that you can't live without them. Give her only every tenth compliment that comes to your mind and each and every degrading thing you can come up with, and she'll adore you. She will. Most women will take any abuse—ask for it, complain about it later and expect you to ignore the complaints—but let your guard down and she'll laugh in your face. I'd learned to keep my fists in front of my nose. They could smell it, the hard edge of rage, and they loved it. Ridiculous creatures.

The sad part was, I was even more ridiculous, adoring them right back.

I just sat there for a while, sharing a beer with Danielle; I needed time to adjust to the situation. We sat even after I had adjusted, because she seemed to be blushing and shifting her thighs. I'd known someone once who used to enjoy waiting. I tried to push the memories away but for some reason, it seemed harder than it had been for the last couple of years. It was this damn vacation. Too much time to think. One thing was for sure; if I had a woman like this, you wouldn't find me on a dark balcony waiting for her to be fucked by some other guy. Then again, what the hell did I know? He had her; I was borrowing. Story of my life.

I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees. No one could see us, but sounds carry far down facades. Danielle had settled by my legs, sitting on her heels and looking at the floor ahead of her. She tensed slightly when I moved.

"He doesn't mind?" I asked her.

Her eyes flicked up, then fell back down in an obvious effort to appear docile. "He likes it." Uh-huh. I'd gathered that much from a tent in his suit pants. Her voice went even lower, and husky. "I'll be punished later of course." She shivered and snuck another glance at me. She must have seen my hunger because she smiled to herself. "It can get pretty bad if... if I get fucked really good."

"Want me to fuck you good, Danielle?"

"Yes." She seemed breathless. "Yes, please."

"What about him? What does he do?" I wasn't about to touch him. It must have showed in my face.

"Oh, no, nothing like that. He'll just watch."

"What else do you do, Danielle?"

"Sir?"

Was that a smile again? Amusing her, was I? "Have some more beer, Danielle." She bent her head to the glass. I jerked it up. It clicked hard against her teeth. She yelped, her eyes darting up in surprise. She wasn't smiling her little secretive smile any more. Beer poured into her open mouth and I growled, "Drink, slut," so she tried, but most of it went down her chin and onto her thighs.

So I slapped her face. It had been a deliberate decision but the sound made me flinch a bit. Her head swung to the side violently. She turned back, wiping the silky strands of hair off her wet, astonished face. At least none of the liquid there was red. I just waited. If I'd ruined it, I'd ruined it. Wouldn't be the first time. You win some, you lose some; I'd spent enough time nursing boxing glove imprints in my face to know that. Danielle's forehead lowered to my knee and she sighed. If she was still smug, at least she hid it well. Mr. Green hadn't moved the entire time. I'd kept an eye on him but he might as well have been made of stone.

"Thank you, sir," his wife said quietly against my leg, her voice quivering with emotion I couldn't identify. "I needed that."

"Yeah you did." I sat back. "I'm no toy, Danielle, and you've caught me on a bad day."

"No, sir. Yes, sir."

I grabbed her by the nape, pulling her up to whisper in her ear. "I can't believe my fucking eyes, Danielle. You're so dirty. You're the worst slut I've ever met. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" She shivered. I've never met a woman who could resist a bit of warm dirty breath in her ear. "I can't quite get my head around this, slut. When I fuck you, will you enjoy it? If you cry out in pleasure, will he pull you away?"

"No, sir. I'm yours until you come. Or at least, until you try to." She caught herself just in time and suppressed a smile. "Ah. Um. If I don't please you, if I don't get you to come in me or at least on me..." She looked into my eyes. "I really need to please you."

Amazing. I had little more than fantasies to prepare me for Danielle, but it seemed to do the job. I grinned. "So far, you're more fun than a dozen beers. What about you? What do you get out of this?"

"I'll enjoy it." Her eyes slid down my body appreciatively. "I think I really will. I am supposed to. The more I enjoy it, the angrier he gets." She made it sound like a good thing.

"Nice," I murmured and tilted her head farther back. Her body arched until I thought her spine might snap. I held her there to see if she'd complain about the uncomfortable position, but she just breathed noisily and tried to look at me over the curves of her cheekbones. Really nice. She had a cute mouth and a string of pretty, remarkably white teeth. Her chest was thrust out and I traced a finger over one of the clamps. Something gurgled in her chest and she writhed, only white showing under her eyelashes for a moment. I slapped her on the cheek, really softly this time.

"Hold still, whore." She settled down and when my curious fingers returned to her breasts, she just clenched her mouth and shivered under my touch. "How does that feel?"

"Ahhh driving me... driving me crazy, sir."

I snorted. "I suppose just about anything would. Now. Get serious and answer the question."

"But I-"

"How-"—I jerked her hair—"does—"—jerk—"it feel?" One more jerk, just in case. And I twisted her clamp a little. Her body rigid, tiny tremors shaking it at every word or move from me, she felt absolutely delicious in my hands. Her eyes darted left and right, trying to figure out what was expected from her. She'd thrown in the towel; she was soft as a kitten and, for the moment, all mine to play with.

"What I want is to know how it feels," I whispered into her ear, knocking on the clamp with my nail, "here. Right here. What your nipple feels."

"Numb and hot," she whispered back quickly. "Burning, sir."

"Mmhhmm. Good. Better. See? You can be a good girl."

She smiled happily. I slapped her. A few hard slaps and a few that hurt nothing but her dignity. With a little nipple teasing interspersed, it really looked like it was driving her nuts. It was difficult to say if she was going to have an orgasm or a stroke, but I didn't feel like stopping and no one was asking me to. Her eyes were closed and she took docilely both pain and pleasure. It was when one changed to the other she let out sweet little moans that spurred me on.

I did stop when I realized I'd gotten sucked in. I froze. I needed a moment. She'd opened a well of rage I'd carefully kept to myself for years. Somehow, my thumb had slipped from the back of her neck to the front and dangerously close to her windpipe; my other hand that was supposed to be holding her upper arm was going to leave a bruise. My cock was throbbing, I was breathing hard, I was out of control—and it had come too fast for me to see it coming.

I let her go. She slumped, a heap before my feet. I watched her, both of us out of breath and out of inhibitions. Did she know what she'd almost unleashed? You had to be twisted as hell to draw upon yourself paying off someone else's debt. I waited, but her eyes stayed down. She just pressed her forehead to my shin and she murmured something. It sounded like a 'thank you', although that made no sense, not to me.

"Well then? You never told me what you'd do. Or what you'd say no to."

She glanced to her husband again. "What would you need me to do, sir?"

That was no answer to my question, but at least we'd established I wasn't a funny guy. I reached over to pull her skirt up. She raised her ass to accommodate me. She had no underwear on; the sweater, mini skirt and white sandals, that was it. Sweet.