Kwinky-Dink

Later that morning, as we got dressed, I quietly observed, "Well, it has been quite the introduction to adultery--for me, in any case." I looked at Charles. He was studiously tying his shoe. "Doesn't sound too bad if you say it fast," I added to lighten things up. "And," I thought to myself, "I have become a bonafide adulteress; although I suppose the woke philosophy would say: adulterer, there being no need to indicate gender."

After a long, contemplative silence, I, more or less, started thinking aloud. "Next time...,"

Charles interrupted, sounding more amused than surprised. "I thought this was going to be a one-off! Is there going to be next time?"

Caught off-guard, I sputtered, "Uh...er, No... er, maybe... Uh, I don't know."

"Well, my vote is for yes. If only to see if we can attain the same level of sexual arousal--the same erotic intensity, as this time."

"But, not," I interjected, "in a downtown hotel. It feels too much like we're trying to legitimize our transgression--dress up our adultery in fine duds to disguise it. Doing this in this hotel room is far too pretentious--too grand, considering our lewd, trashy, lascivious behaviour, which is, "A little too sordid for an expensive hotel room!"

Charles laughed. "Why don't you tell us how you really feel!"

"If there is a next time, it'll be somewhere on motel-row, up-river in a cheap, probably tawdry motel. It's got to be. That'd be the right atmosphere." I smiled, suddenly finding it all wryly amusing.

"Also, of course, it'd leave less of a paper trail; as well as less chance of being recognized, hence, less chance of getting caught. That would certainly spoil things. I mean, getting busted for indecent exposure in posh hotel could be socially disastrous; not to mention what it would do to our marriages and careers. It's just not worth it!"

And here, all these months later, I silently ask myself, once again, "So why do we--do I take the risk?" Who knows? I certainly don't know why I continue to cheat on my husband. Granted I have suspected, for some time now, that he is cheating on me. But this is not about 'tit for tat'. It is more about the spice of variety. I like things spicy: spicy food, spicy entertainment, spicy clothes, indeed, spicy life--and spicy sex

I've blocked out any feelings of guilt, deluding myself that they don't, somehow, apply in this case. Otherwise, how could I continue? For, of course, there was a next time, just as delightfully thrilling as the first. And another and another.

In my exuberance and titillation I needed to keep in mind that this was all just fucking, not making love. Bright and flashy, fucking was--is--carnal, as opposed to ephemeral. Wild animal-sex--that is beastly sex, not bestiality, heaven forbid--doesn't even compare to love-sex. But, I fear, it may be more addictive.

Notwithstanding, I met, once again, with my lover, Charles, at a cheap motel for a 'long lunch.' "Oh, you adulterous whore, you!" Still, both of us have the flexibility at work of taking long lunches with clients, and do so often enough that the odd assignation with my lover raised no eyebrows--needed no explanations.

We got together every three or four weeks--once or twice a month. And pretty much every time, we met at a different seedy motel on motel-row. Although we couldn't get that high-window, public-sex opportunity that we had downtown, we did get a bit of exhibitionist spark, from time to time. Given the right circumstances, we--I--sometimes left the curtains open a little more than just a crack, so that fellow guests, passing by might get more than an eyeful when we're active on the bed. In fact, if the layout allowed, we'd occasionally fuck right in the window,

So, here we are, just taking a breather--a break from a hot, active session of fornication. Yep, Charles and I are still melding bodies; still impersonating the beast with two backs; and twisting and tangling into various other creatures in rut. Granted, we usually undress more calmly--much less urgently--than we did in those early days. We often begin with a bit of oral stimulation--sometimes fellatio; sometimes cunnilingus; sometimes sixty-nine--a little of both. And our first fuck is generally in, believe it or not, missionary position--oh, so slow and gentle--as a warm-up, as it were, before getting into any sexual athletics. It's still good. Not necessarily great, but dependably good.

Anyway, we're sipping wine, taking a break. The deep thumping that, earlier, came from next door, has stopped, and now, we hear muffled voices seeping through paper-thin walls. I'm almost ashamed to admit I held extra still, in order to quietly eavesdrop--almost ashamed, but not quite. In hushed tones we idly discuss the voices, and surmise the situation. Very likely, it being the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, they're fellow adulterers, other indulgers (indulgents: can I use that word that way?) sharing a long, late lunch in an economy motel. I vaguely wonder what their story is, but get distracted by Charles' recovered erection, bouncing between his legs; beckoning me to join him.

Some weeks ago, Charles had insisted we try anal intercourse. I didn't really want to. Garett and I had tried it years ago, and I didn't like it--it hurt too much; hence, I was very reluctant. But Charles whined and coaxed--"It'll be something just ours--ours alone," he kept saying. I finally relented.

Well, I guess I'm literally not as tight-assed as I used to be--lol--for it didn't really, seriously hurt--really, that first most recent time, hardly at all. Still, my sphincter has always resisted the initial intrusion, clenching tight at the first touch of anything knocking there, at the rear door. This time, though, a couple of friendly nudges was all it took to relax my dear little intimate rosebud and allow the visitor in. In fact, even that very first time with Charles, the pain, fairly quickly, morphed into a curiously novel delight! Surprisingly, I liked it right away; so much so that anal sex has become a not infrequent part of our repertoire. Charles is ever-titillated that he is getting something Garett isn't--and he often reiterates that.

Anyway, we had just finished a rousing up-the-poop-chute doggie-style screw. We still use a bit of lube to ease the initial breach, but I always thrill to the anticipatory arousal, and never fail to climax--often more than once! Charles usually holds my hips and just pounds rhythmically, slapping hard against my buttocks, and that's really all he needs to do to get me wound up; though, sometimes he reaches around to strum my clitoris, and/or catch a swinging boob by the nipple, and pinch and twist, wringing out an extra shot of arousal. This afternoon he had done both, spiking my excitement and bringing on a rapid-release orgasm that showed none of the signs of becoming old and tired. Not only still good, but in some ways, still improving. So, in that way, we had just finished our second round of the day. The banging against the wall that had resumed while we were busy, has, again, abruptly stopped.

Having finished our tumble, we take turns to freshen up in the tiny bathroom. As we dress, my asshole still thrums and glows--but in a good way. It also oozes semen, in a not-so-good way, but I had learned, long ago, to carry a pad to deal with such an eventuality. Once again, we take time for the proverbial 'cigarette', although neither of us smoke; just enjoying the denouement, taking a moment to chat, share a bit of small talk; end our current tryst.

The activity next door has quieted, too. In the same way as us, they are apparently drawing their stolen time to a close, quiet, now, except for a murmur of soft, unhurried conversation. Meanwhile, we finally rouse ourselves. It's time to get back to our respective offices--our respective realities. However, just as we're leaving, the door to the next room opens and the neighboring couple steps out. The buzz of the city can't quite swallow the hushed gasps all around--as each one of us recognizes our own spouse. Coincidentally, the fellow indulgents are none other than Charles's wife Lenore and my husband, Garrett.

After a stretched, sputtering silence, I am the first to recover. I step up, closing the gap. "My, my!" I gush, looking them up and down, appraisingly. "What a kwinky-dink!"

Abject distress has washed the colour from Lenore's face. In a voice thickened by emotion and confusion, she mutters, "Wha-at?"

"You know," I explain with a light-hearted laugh. "Kwinky-dink! Coincidence! What a marvelous coincidence! Imagine that; we all meeting here like this!"

I'm not exactly sure how, but I have worked it all out instantly. And I am absolutely certain. "I'm Marcie, Garrett's wife!" I sing in a voice completely empty of rancor. Taking Lenore's hand and giving it a meaningful shake, I confirm, "You must be Charles' wife, Lenore!" Lenore's tentative nod confirms her identity. While everyone else stands around stunned, I take Lenore's arm on my one side, and my own husband's, Garrett's on the other, gesturing for Charles, to join us. He vacantly takes his wife's free arm. I don't know why, but I seem to be the only one who sees the humour in all this. The other three moved about dazed, as if they are shell-shocked, which, in a way, I guess they are.

"Come along, darlings," I purr, and, arms linked, the four of us begin walking down the sidewalk--I'm sashaying; the others shuffle mechanically, trying to keep up. In a gay voice--that's the old-fashioned meaning of the word 'gay'--I observe, unrestrainedly, "We-e-ell, I'm glad that's all out in the open." I laugh; the others are still rather dazed. "Now, fuck work! Let's, the four of us, go get a drink! Whaddya say?" I look around for a response, but, seeing none, I go on. "We have lots to talk about, I'm sure!" Smiling brightly, I add, "I'll just bet that every one of us has things they want to explain, rationalize, confess." Casting my eyes to either side, I give each arm a meaningful squeeze. "I certainly know I do!"

I have a, perhaps unwarranted, confidence that this is will all work out in the end. "Maybe next time we can save on a room, eh?" I suggest, facetiously--or semi-facetiously. "One room, two queen beds!"

"Won't that be fun?!"