Hall Pass

As the bartender let up on some of his weight, she peaked beneath her fingers to find Serge. Her entire body tingled. Her mind floated in a pleasurable fog. A puddle of sweat had pooled in the small of her back. She could not guess whether she had been fucked for five minutes or an hour. Serge was now undressed, which made her remember that he was waiting to have her next. His body looked magnificent, sleek and hung, but she was unsure she could withstand another pounding like the one she just withstood. When the bartender got off the bed, she flopped over onto her back and brushed away some strands of her hair, which had become plastered to her face in the fray.

She looked between her legs, where the bartender stood at the end of the cot, his cock glistening with her juices and the remains of the condom—which had clearly broken—bunched around its base.

"Oh, my God!" She sat up and instinctively threw her hand over her pussy. She was so sopping wet it felt like a suction cup.

"C'est dommage." The bartender wiped his cock on the sheets, while Serge joined her on the cot.

"I can't..." she said, making a move to stand up—but when he kissed her hard, she fell back to the bed and returned the kiss.

In her state of arousal, a warm breeze could have seduced her, but Serge was a force of nature. His hands were immediately—everywhere. They pinched her nipples. They worked in concert with his mouth. He feasted on her lips and devoured her neck. Their limps tangled together. Wherever their skin touched felt like a jolt of dopamine. She knew she had let this go on far too long, that he was going to fuck her, with or without a condom, that she was powerless to say no. Her body moved wherever he wanted it, like one of his windsails, utterly under his command. Her knees turned out like the petals of a flower.

When he lay down on his back and guided her on top of him, she did not hesitate. Sweat dripped from her body. She kneaded his chest like a cat. He pulled her down and sucked her tongue. She lowered herself onto his bare, hard cock, whimpering, inch by delicious inch. It took her breath away. It filled her to the brim, impossibly huge.

"Oh, Serge!" Her eyes rolled to the ceiling.

"Quelle fille facile," came the bartender's voice behind her.

Jill froze. She had assumed the bartender left, but he was apparently standing beside the curtain, watching her ride Serge.

Serge reached up and cupped her chin. "Son cul est en feu," he said.

She took his fingers into her mouth and sucked as the two men spoke in French. She had no idea what they were saying, but she knew they were talking about her—and she loved it more than she could ever admit. In a gesture she hoped was subtle, she pitched her pelvis forward, pressing her clit hard against the base of Serge's cock. Electricity shot through her like a switch. She writhed and sucked rhythmically on Serge's fingers as the murmurs of another earthshaking orgasm welled deep inside her.

"Elle a les miches comme une petite fille," the bartender said.

Serge removed his fingers from her mouth and dragged them down her slippery chest. "J'adore les œufs au plat." He pinched her nipple.

"Oh my God!" she moaned.

"Petite salope américaine." The bartender laughed.

Jill lost her mind. The orgasm seized her with seemingly boundless ecstasy. It dropped her off a cloud. She screamed and called out Serge's name. She trembled and moaned as she soared, wantonly, frenziedly, breathlessly. She rocked her hips and never stopped falling. Serge grabbed her ass and thrust into her again and again. Each powerful thrust destroyed her. Her demure façade shattered, leaving only a naked, trembling whore.

When she thought she could not cum anymore, she collapsed to Serge chest, reeling—but he propped her up by her arms and with his cock. He fucked her like a ragdoll and then tossed her onto her back. The bartender disappeared behind the curtain, leaving them blessedly alone. She barely had time to catch her breath before Serge pinned her to the bed. She held him tight against her chest. He pressed his nose to hers. She took in his scent. She stared into his eyes, lost, euphoric, still falling. She could not get enough of him. They kissed as he fucked her, more passionately now, slow and deep. He made no pretense of pulling out when he came, his cock as far inside her as it could go. She did not protest but clutched his back and held him inside.

They stayed coupled for a long time. They cuddled and kissed. She loved the feeling of his dick losing its rigidity inside her, like they were melting together.

He gazed into her eyes. "Mon petit oiseau."

She stared back unblinkingly. "I should probably go."

He kissed her lips and sat up. She felt suddenly empty and ashamed again without his dick, but she knew she needed to get back to her husband. She looked for her phone so she could check the time. "Oh, no! I left my purse in the booth."

"Don't worry. I'll get it for you." He quickly got dressed and disappeared through the curtain.

She got up and found her bra and dress wadded up in the corner. She got dressed and cracked the curtain. The club was crowded now, with dozens of Martiniquais on the dance floor. Serge and the bartender were standing beside the cash register. As she watched, the bartender reached into the drawer and withdrew a wad of cash, which he handed it to Serge. The men laughed as Serge counted the money and stuffed it into his pocket. The men then turned and caught her spying on them.

Jill stepped out and smiled thinly, pretending she did not notice the exchange of money. It was too much to process—the realization that she had literally been prostituted.

She walked to Serge, vividly aware that the entire club was gawking at her. He caught her arm. He grabbed her ass and kissed her hard. She wanted to hate him, but she could not. She kissed him back. She let him lift her dress and flash everyone her bare ass. She kissed him once last time and pulled herself away only with great difficulty, before retrieving her purse and starting the long walk of shame back to the hotel.

Outside, she glanced at her phone and realized with horror that it was almost ten o'clock. She left her underwear at the club. The streets were now dark, and it took her some time to get her bearings. Her pussy's soreness forced her to walk with a stiff gait. Her tender nipples burned against the fabric of her bra. Groups of men leered at her on almost every corner. She ignored them. As she walked down the meandering, sandy streets, it dawned on her that she had just utterly betrayed Peter. She ran the last two blocks to the hotel as tears streamed down her face.

She was grateful to find a different concierge on duty at the hotel. She walked briskly past him, avoiding his eyes. She pressed the elevator button and glanced at a mirror in the lobby. Her mascara was smeared. The area around her lips was chaffed from Serge's beard. She stared, mortified, at a bright red hickey on her neck. A wave of deep regret washed over her, making her cheeks glow a hot pink. She could smell Serge on her skin, as well as the scent of her own pussy. Her only hope was that Peter was already asleep. The elevator doors opened with a ding. As if on cue, a glob of cum dribbled onto the floor between her legs.

Unfortunately, she found Peter sitting on the bed in the dark. He shot to his feet. "Where have you been? I've been worried sick about you! I thought of calling the police."

"I'm sorry..." She stared at a spot on the floor illuminated by a patch of moonlight from the open French doors. She could not meet his eyes.

He picked up her hand and traced the spot where her wedding ring was supposed to be. She had foolishly left it in her purse. Her heat stopped.

He pulled her close. "What was his name?"

She let out a sob and trembled against his chest. "Serge," she said, her voice barely audible.

"And what did you do with Serge?" He reached down and slipped his hand beneath her dress.

She tried to close her knees, to hide the fact that she wasn't wearing any underwear, but he was too strong. His fingers found her bare and sopping wet. Her knees buckled from Peter's touch. She clung to his arms. "We had dinner," she said.

"Just dinner?"

"He also took me to a discotheque."

"And what happened there?"

She let her body go limp and tried to drop to her knees. She wanted to suck Peter's dick so she would not have to answer his questions. Instead, he tossed her onto the bed, where she bounced onto her back.

"Well?" he asked, as he took off his clothes.

She bit her lip, which she hoped he could not see in the dark. "We just danced," she said, her voice shaky.

He hitched her dress up to her hips and climbed between her legs. "Did he fuck you?"

She shook her head. Images flooded her mind—of riding Serge as the men humiliated her, how much she had loved every moment of it. "I thought about it, but I didn't have a condom."

"Poor Jill." She felt a stab of pain as Peter entered her. "You're so wet, I can tell you wanted it."

"You're the only man I want," she said. Her pussy was so engorged and sore that her husband's cock felt like bittersweet torture. She was mostly just relieved that he still loved her. As they fucked, she felt his dick churning the cum inside her like a milkshake. She moaned and bucked to his thrusts, feigning an orgasm that she hoped would allow her to finally clean up and go to sleep.

He came within minutes and rolled over. She immediately retreated to the bathroom, where she brushed her teeth and took a quick, hot shower. The evidence of her infidelity mostly removed, she returned to the room and slipped beneath the sheets, where Peter, already falling asleep, folded her into his arms.

"I love you," he said. "I don't mind that you danced with a stranger."

She kissed his lips and rested a hand on his chest. "I love you, too." They lay in silence for a long time. The thought of Serge and what they had done made her heart pound. The secret felt like it might burst from her chest. There was no way she could sleep, and she fought the urge to cry.

When she heard Peter begin snoring softly, she screwed her eyes shut tight and whispered, "I might take a windsailing lesson tomorrow."

She was relieved when, in response, Peter merely kept snoring.