Hall Pass

"Do you have to work?" Jill opened the French doors and stepped onto the hotel balcony. The heat took her breath away, but it was a dry heat; she adjusted quickly. Her eyes tracked a dark-skinned windsurfer zigzagging near the fishing boats in Fort-de-France‎ Bay.

Peter's arms enveloped her. "Just three days, my love. We'll have the weekend to ourselves."

She turned to him. He kissed her lips. His fingers touched her bare waist. His touch was electric. She willed him to drag her to the bed and make love to her with the doors open.

Instead, he held her shoulders and looked into her eyes. "I have to leave for my first meeting now. You should visit the spa and go shopping. There's also the beach."

"You know I hate the beach." She pouted and feigned to collapse. "Without you, I'll turn to bones."

His arms caught her. He showered her face with kisses until she giggled. He always knew the things to say and do that made her world blissful. When they were apart, however, her ever-present anxiety drifted back over her like a dark cloud. How could she know—truly know—he would love her forever?

He led her into the bedroom. "I have a gift that may entertain you when I'm working." He reached into his suitcase and produced a piece of gold foil in the shape of a business card. He handed it to her and turned to the mirror to put on his tie.

She squinted at the card. It read:

"In recognition of your awesomeness and goddess-like beauty, and in deference to your needs, by your husband's preeminent authority (JK), this 'Hall Pass' is good for three (3) consecutive days of flirting and sexual activity with whomever you desire."

She snorted and arched her eyebrows. "You'd actually be okay with that?"

"As long as you follow the rules on the back."

She turned over the card and read aloud the fine print:

"Hall Pass expires in three days. Recipient agrees to tell husband every detail. She agrees to practice safety, including, but not limited to safe sex. Under no circumstance may she catch feelings for any third party."

Jill felt lightheaded as she set the card on the nightstand. She attributed her giddiness to the heat or perhaps the two cocktails she drank on the plane. "I appreciate you being deferential to my, um, needs—but I don't think there'll be any flirting or sexual activity, except with you."

"It's yours to use or not, as you choose. There's plenty to do in Martinique—whether you do it alone or with new friends." He faced her and stuffed a file in his briefcase. "Presently, I must extol the benefits of American wind technology."

"Good luck, my love!"

"Thanks. My last presentation ends tonight around eight o'clock. Then we'll have a nice dinner, okay?"

"I'll be waiting for you right here." She flopped onto the bed as the door closed. A single, fat tear rolled down her cheek.

After a few moments, she wiped her face and pulled herself from the bed. She fished a novel from her suitcase and returned to the balcony, where she stretched out on a reclining chair. The sun was blinding. Two lovers strolled by along the strip of sand below the hotel. The couple made Jill's heart ache for Peter. She wished he did not have to work so much. She might like the beach if they could stroll it together, holding hands and gazing lovingly in each other's eyes. She held a hand to her brow and looked out at the bay, searching for the windsurfer, but he was gone. She opened her book and read the first page. She then set the book on its spine atop a table and returned to the room, where she plundered the refrigerator for a miniature bottle of Pino Grigio and a bar of dark chocolate.

The shimmery Hall Pass caught her eye on the way back to the balcony. As far as she was concerned, it amounted to little more than Peter's whim, a fantasy they occasionally played at between the confines of their own sheets—but one she would never actually indulge. She picked it up and brought it out with her to use as a bookmark.

The sun shone on the chair when she returned. She read a few pages. She felt tipsy from the airline cocktails and wine. Within twenty minutes, the blistering sunlight burned her bare thighs to a bright pink. She stuck the Hall Pass in the book and retreated to the room. There, she sat on the bed and considered her options. Three days was too long to be cooped up alone in a hotel room, particularly as the balcony was apparently uninhabitable in the afternoon. Although the island held little sway for her without Peter, for her sanity's sake she would simply have to leave the sanctity of the hotel without him. She might find a quiet café, perhaps one with some local flavor, where she could read in the shade.

She gulped the rest of her wine and changed into a loose-fitting dress. She retouched her makeup. She threw the book in her purse and took the elevator to the lobby. She asked the concierge where she might find a unique spot without tourists and followed his directions to a former garage that had been converted into a quaint, sparsely populated café. She claimed a table in the front where she could watch the street and ordered a carafe of wine.

When she opened the book, the Hall Pass stared back at her: "...flirting and sexual activity with whomever you desire."

Would Peter actually be okay with that? she thought.

She would certainly not be okay if the roles were reversed. Just the thought of him having sex with another woman was enough to bring her to tears. She tucked the Hall Pass in the back of the book and looked around to make sure nobody saw it. She glanced up when two Martiniquais sat at the bar and ordered drinks. When the men looked at her, their faces lit up. Jill was used to that look—and it secretly thrilled her—for it reassured her that she was a young, beautiful woman. But the fact that men's attention excited her did not mean she wanted to sleep with every man who looked at her. She smiled politely and returned to her book.

Soon, other patrons, all Black Martiniquais, arrived at the little café, until it was full of men, and some women, chatting merrily in French. She could not understand their words, but she liked the way their French sounded both melodic and guttural in the local dialect. Each time Jill dared look up from her book she caught several men apparently enthralled by her. When she caught them looking, they commented to each other and stared right back at her unabashedly. Every time, she blushed and darted her eyes back to the book. She had to admit that, if she had to be without Peter, being brashly admired by strangers in a café was distracting enough to make her loneliness tolerable. She steadily sipped the wine and kept her eyes glued to the book, but inwardly she pretended the men were waxing about the qualities of some piece of art they were about to steal. The fantasy quickened her heartbeat and made her a little wet. She did not as much read as pretend to read, quickly draining her second and then her third glass of wine.

"Your carafe is empty," said a man standing beside her. "May I buy you a drink?"

She pulled her eyes from the book, prepared to politely decline, but one glance at him made her think twice. She first noticed his adorable knees. Her eyes traveled up his long legs, past a charmingly average torso, to an attractive face brimming with intelligence and mischief.

She hiccupped and covered her mouth. "That's very kind of you, but I've already had way too much to drink."

"Please, my name is Serge."

"Jillian."

He repeated her name in his cute French accent and glanced at her book. She noticed the gold foil bookmark poking out the top and casually slipped the book in her purse.

She shrugged. "Okay, but just one drink."

He held two fingers up to the bartender and sat beside her. "What brings you to Martinique?"

"My husband's work. I'm just—tagging along."

"There is so much to see here. La Fontaine Didier: that's a—how do you say in English? Une chute d'eau? There are many excellent restaurants."

A server placed two shots of rum on the table. She took the one closest to Serge, drank half of it, and blurted out: "Actually, I'm starving!" As soon as the words left her lips, she flinched with guilt.

"Come, I'll show you a place."

"No, I can't! I don't know you—and I'm married!" She finished the shot and stood to leave. The liquor burned her throat, and the room wobbled a little. "Thanks for the drink."

"I'll be a gentleman, I promise. I only want to show you Martinique—the real Martinique—not what most tourists see." He flashed a smile of straight teeth. "The fact you're a beautiful woman who reads alone while her husband is working has nothing to do with it."

She realized she had not eaten anything all day except for the bar of chocolate from the hotel. She took a deep breath. "I'll go to a restaurant with you on the condition you have no amorous expectations."

"Je promets."

She insisted on paying for their drinks and then staggered to the toilet, suddenly conscious of the fact that she was very drunk. When she washed her hands, the sparkle of her wedding ring caught her eye. She slipped it off and dropped it in her purse—to keep it safe, she thought. She could not meet her eyes in the mirror.

She found Serge waiting outside. They walked side by side, continually bumping shoulders, because she could not walk straight. "So, what do you do when you're not hitting on American women?" she asked.

"I teach tourists how to windsurf—but there have not had too many students lately—because of the COVID."

"I think I saw you on the bay earlier!"

He wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "See, we were meant to be."

She swallowed her guilt and leaned into his body as he steered her several blocks to a small restaurant on the beach. He talked about windsurfing, but she hardly heard him. She was too focused on how it felt utterly comfortable beneath this stranger's arm and how this fact wracked her with guilt for betraying Peter. At the restaurant, Serge chatted amiably with the maître d', who led them to a table overlooking the ocean. He ordered in French without asking what she wanted, and in less than ten minutes their table was covered with a smorgasbord of appetizers and a bottle of chilled wine.

She sampled the oysters and gougères, the savory crepes and escargots, practically melting into her seat with every delicious bite. Against her better judgment, she drank the wine, letting Serge refill her glass again and again. He told her about growing up immensely poor on the small island and how his father, a fisherman, drowned at sea when he was just ten. The story brought tears to her eyes. She told him some things about her life too, how she grew up in Ohio but moved to New York for Peter's job, how she dabbled in acrylics and belonged to a book club. Throughout the meal he looked directly in her eyes. She was drunk, and so she stared back. When he touched her hand, she turned it up and let their fingers brush.

Serge called her "mon petit oiseau," which he explained means "my little bird." Whenever she mentioned her husband, he smiled and said, "Your husband's not here," causing her to blush.

By the time her steak Diane arrived, Jill was too full to finish it. The sun hung low on the horizon, lighting the sky with a deep orange hue. She glanced at her phone and realized with a start that it was almost seven o'clock. "I have to leave!" she said.

He waved for the check but did not object when she handed the server her credit card. "Come, mon petit oiseau, I'd like to show you a discotheque. It's very close, and it will be empty this early."

"I don't know..." She glanced toward the exit and thought of Peter. The prospect of disappointing him made her want to crawl under the table.

He stood and held out his hand. "Please, just one dance. Then you can go back to your husband."

Her thoughts drifted to the Hall Pass in her purse. Although she was undeniably attracted to Serge and had enjoyed his company, she was unsure if she could really go through with it. She loved Peter with all her heart. The mere thought of losing him was enough to send her into a deep panic. Part of her believed that, by giving her the Hall Pass, Peter was merely testing her love, that by using the gift she would "fail" his test.

But what if the test, in fact, worked oppositely? she thought. What if flirting with Serge was her means of testing Peter's love?

"Okay—but just a dance." She accepted Serge's hand and let him lead her to the street.

The discotheque was on the next block, with a nondescript front painted black. Outside, a bouncer wearing a bowler hat raised his eyebrows at her and waved them inside. Tribal house music rattled her bones when they entered. The club consisted of a single bar and a dance floor streaked with strobe lights and surrounded by several dark booths. Besides the bartender, who wore dreadlocks down to his shoulders, the place was completely empty. The atmosphere was surreal, completely foreign to anywhere she had been in the United States, but she liked that they were alone, that there were no witnesses to see her with Serge.

Serge began to dance, initially at some distance from her, but then closer. She caught a whiff of him. He smelled like manliness and the ocean. At first, she just watched his body move, because she felt so out of place, but when he playfully ran his fingers down her arms, she began to dance, furtively, and then with more confidence. His hands brushed her hips and pulled her close. She lost herself in the music and to Serge's touches. She dragged a hand down his chest. Their bodies writhed in sync. Where their skin touched felt like fire. He was soon caressing her openly. She glanced at the bartender, who was watching them with a big grin on his face. There was nobody else there to judge her. When Serge's hands flitted under the hem of her dress, she realized she was drenched in sweat and pumping moisture between her legs.

"I need a break!" she panted, traipsing to one of the back booths. She sat down and fanned her face with a hand.

Serge scooted in beside her and instantly put his hand on her bare knee. In that moment, Peter was the farthest thing from her mind. Her thoughts were only of Serge, who had done such a masterful job of seducing her. She locked eyes with him and subtly parted her legs. The music pounded in her ears. The strobe lights flashed. She held her breath as his hand disappeared up her dress. He grabbed her panties and tugged them down. She knew she was letting it go too far, but she was beyond drunk and wanted desperately to be touched. She lifted her butt to make it easier. He dragged the panties to her knees and let them drop down to her ankles.

She kicked her panties free onto the floor. "Whoops!" she said with a giggle.

He leaned in and claimed her mouth. He sucked on her neck. He slipped his hand back up her dress. She bit her lip, on the verge of an orgasm from just the anticipation. On the precipice of ecstasy, she knew she had passed the point of no return. Up until when his hand reached her pussy, she might have pulled herself away and ran back to the hotel, her self-respect mostly intact. But the instant his fingers found her clit, she knew there was no turning back. She threw back her head and wantonly rocked against his hand, letting the waves of pleasure reduce her to a puddle.

"Do you have a condom?" she breathed.

"I'll ask the bartender."

She almost whimpered when Serge removed his hand and walked to the bar. She looked at her phone. It was half past seven. She was running out of time. Serge and the bartender waved their arms at each other and gestured toward her. She thought of walking out the door, but instead she stood, smoothed out her skirt, and met Serge at the bar. She pressed her body against him. The bartender held up a condom in a gold foil wrapper and grinned from ear to ear.

"Can we do it?" she whispered in Serge's ear.

"He has une capote, but he says he'll only let me use it if we share it—and if he gets to have you first."

Jill felt a stab of disappointment. "But I only want you!" She pressed her mons pubis against Serge's thigh. The subtle pressure was almost enough to make her cum. "Tell him I'll pay for it."

Serge cupped her ass. In so doing, he lifted the back of her dress just a little. "I tried—but he's insistent."

She writhed on his leg. "Would that even work, sharing a condom?"

"He says we can roll it back up."

Jill pictured the two men trying to roll a cum-filled condom. The image made her laugh. She forced herself to pull away from Serge and straightened her dress. She had had a wonderful little tryst, but it was time to return to reality. Peter would soon be expecting her back at the hotel.

She was about to thank Serge for a wonderful time when the bartender clutched her arm and tugged her toward a curtained doorway behind the bar. She reached for Serge's hand. She expected him to keep her away from the bartender, to protect her. Instead, he kissed the hand, smiled sweetly, and let her go. The bartender tugged her away. She resisted, but not too much, dragging her feet like an obstinate child. Her eyes pleaded with Serge until the bartender pulled her through the curtain.

Beyond the curtain was a room not much bigger than a closet. It contained a wall of shelves and a small cot with white sheets. The bartender stooped and pulled up her dress. She raised her arms. He tossed her dress in a corner and then wrenched her bra over her head without even bothering to undue the clasp. He shoved her onto the cot, where she landed on her back.

She rose to her knees and used her hands in a futile attempt to cover herself as he undressed. Her naked body was still slippery from the dancing. She could not believe she was about to do this. She felt a romantic connection with Serge, but this man was a complete stranger.

The bartender looked down at her hungrily and rolled the condom over the biggest cock she had ever seen. He then grabbed her ankles and turned her legs like a steering wheel, twisting her around face down on the cot with one of her arms pinned beneath her body. He climbed between her legs from the rear. She covered her pussy with the hand that was trapped beneath her, but it was a perfunctory resistance. He brushed the hand away. He nudged the tip of his cock into her opening.

"Serge!" she called.

She then gripped the bartender's dick with her fingers and guided it into her pussy.

The gesture made her feel deeply ashamed, like a betrayal to both her husband and Serge. First, while her husband had playfully given her the Hall Pass, she felt sure there were limits to what she was permitted to do. Fucking a complete stranger on a cot in the back of a discotheque seemed too slutty for even Peter's wildest fantasies. Second, Serge had arguably earned her affection with his charm. Although they had only met a few hours ago, she felt a twinge of romantic feelings for him. The thought that Serge might assume she would just fuck any Black man triggered a debilitating wave of white guilt. She screwed her eyes tight and trembled with shame.

As these thoughts played in Jill's mind, the bartender pushed his cock all the way inside her. It fit as snuggly as a hydraulic piston. He crushed her into the cot with the weight of his body. Her guilt was smushed from her mind like a toothpaste tube pressed flat with a steamroller. The air forced from her lungs came out in an outrageously whorish moan.

She opened her eyes to find Serge standing by the door, a smirk on his lips. She extended her free hand to him, then thought better of it and covered her face as the bartender began fucking her, first with slow, deliberate strokes, then pounding her with abandon. It was all too much: her fullness from dinner, the man's weight, the enormous dick skewering her to the cot, so huge its entire length brushed inexorably against her clit, Serge watching her with a smug smile. The orgasms seized her suddenly and came in wave after blissful wave. The brutal fuck obliterated all her anxiety and inhibition. It was not until after the man pounded into her one last time, shuddering, his cock buried to the hilt, that she realized she had been screaming in ecstasy.