tagExhibitionist & VoyeurWhat Happens On The Bus From Vegas

What Happens On The Bus From Vegas

byHaulover©

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

This is part of my Neil And Deb series. Deb and I write our stories together. Her memory is better than mine, and I put the words 'on paper'. This narrative has elements of our real life experiences, occasionally spiced with fantasy. You might be able to guess which is which.

The hottest action is near the end of the story.

All characters are (well) over the age of eighteen.


* * * * *

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

We happened to be in Vegas, we but didn't stay in Vegas...not very much, anyway.

Debbie strode ahead of me up the Turtlehead Peak trail in Red Rock Canyon. I'm a very experienced hiker and an occasional mountaineer and I could feel my pulse rate rising and my legs tiring, and cursed the rivulet of sweat that ran down the small of my back.

Deb was panting and her legs were obviously hurting, but she wouldn't admit it. "We're almost at the top, honey. Probably just another ten minutes-"

"I'm okay!"

"I know," I smiled to myself. She wore un-flattering hiking kit with bulky boots and an ugly floppy hat, yet she still cut an attractive profile. From my position immediately behind her I appreciated her athletic form and the heart-shaped curve of her buttocks.

I carried a day pack with a small digital camera, drinks, snacks and a first aid kit. The binoculars slapped against my side, and I pulled my collar up, yet again, to keep the sun off my neck.

"Think about the first drink you'll order when we get back to the hotel in Vegas!"

"Jesus, Neil, that's cruel," she chuckled, and made way for a couple coming back down the trail. As they passed us I thought about my business colleagues, probably all half drunk, probably in one of the gambling halls or lounging at one of Las Vegas's many pools.

During the week, before coming to Las Vegas, we'd been on an 'executive retreat' in my employer's California offices.

While our spouses shopped or lounged in coffee shops or got massages on the company's nickel, we were dragged through three days of deadly dreary but critically important discussions about the company's medium- and long-term plans. Proposed projects, and new ways to measure their R.O.I. Our approach to the ever-changing federal regulations and how we, as healthcare consultants, could best work them to our corporate advantage. Adapting the corporate marketing strategy to the fast-changing media, including the collapse of printed press, and the rise of digital marketing.

It was boring, intense, and necessary to the company's survival. We were tweaking the company's entire business model to meet rising competition, and a client base that was constantly changing with of merger and acquisition activity.

To an outsider, the facts that our spouses were treated to shopping expeditions, and that we would all be crashing Vegas for the weekend, would surely look like irresponsible executive excesses. But the decisions we made that week would guide corporate strategy for the next five years and guide us through the mire that is modern business. We would keep our shareholders at bay and guarantee ongoing employment for the company's thousand-plus workforce. The extra cost was a drop in the ocean and was a reward for thousands of long and stressful overtime hours we'd all spent in the past year.

The company had agreed to pay for our spouses to join us on the trip, and ferried us all to Vegas on a luxury bus for the Valentine's Day weekend. Deb and I aren't gamblers, so I'd booked day trips to Red Rock Canyon today, and to Hoover Dam tomorrow.

"I think this is it!"

She was right. As we rounded a curve we came to the rocky summit of Turtlehead Peak. It's just a four and a half mile out-and-back hike. It's rated as 'difficult' but the stunning views of Las Vegas in one direction and the Red Rock Canyon mountain skyline in the other direction made it worth the effort.

Deb took the binoculars from me and turned in a slow arc as she surveyed the arid landscape. I came up behind her, put my arms around her waist and rested my hands on her lower abdomen. My fingers rested on the spot where most women have pubic hair, but Debbie was lasered clean several years ago. I slipped my hands into the top of her pants.

"I'm horrible and sweaty," she complained. I leaned down and kissed the back of her neck, and reached in to tease the hood of her clit. She jumped slightly but kept the binoculars to her eyes.

I stepped back and slipped the day-pack from my shoulders "What do you suppose the weather's like at home?"

"I hate to think," she replied. "I bet it's still snowing across the whole of northern Virginia."

"Welcome to Vegas."

There was no hurry. We took turns with the binoculars and the camera, shared a Gatorade, ignored the snacks, and soaked in the February warmth which was so very different from the harsh winter at home.

"It's so quiet up here," she mused. "So isolated! I bet lots of people enjoy a bit of nookie up here. Did you see the couple that passed us on the way down? They looked kind of flushed, and wouldn't meet my eyes when I greeted them."

I smiled and reached for her hand.

"Uh-uh! I see that look in your eyes. Not now," she teased. Wait until we get back to the hotel.

On the way down we spent a few moments examining the ancient Native American petroglyphs. Deb enjoyed the beautiful wild flowers, and I was interested in the sandstone quarry.

* * * * *

It was dark when we got back. Since we were in the national gambling capital, it seemed mandatory that we take at least a small flutter on the machines. While Debbie was laying out her clothes and getting ready to shower, I stripped off, then picked up the binoculars and scanned the hotels across the street.

"Hey, don't be a peeping Tom!" The curtains were open, but she unclipped her bra and slipped off her panties. "How'd you like someone across there to stare into our room?"

"I wouldn't mind," I chuckled. Then yelled "Whoah, shit!"

"What?" Deb was alarmed. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing wrong. Here, take a look." I handed her the binoculars. "Second story from the top, end window."

"Oh my God," she exclaimed.

Even without the glasses, I could make out the couple in the window of the Flamingo.

She was shapely and naked, and she was pushed up against the floor-to-ceiling window of a room in the Flamingo Hotel, which was diagonally across from our suite in Caesar's Palace. He was also naked and had entered her from behind, his knees bent, shoving upward into her so her tits and her cheek squished against the glass.

Across the road in Las Vegas has a very different meaning to most cities. We were in the eastern wing of Caesar's Palace and there were restaurants and gardens and the triple fountains, then nine traffic lanes of the famous Las Vegas Strip, then the forecourt to the Flamingo. So the windows across the road were several hundred feet away from us, at an oblique angle and I had to squint to make out the action.

"Hey, don't be a peeping Tom!" I mimicked Deb.

"Shush -- I'm watching!" Forgetting her own nakedness, she stepped up to our window to get a better view.

The couple across the road were lost in passion. The guy was pumping harder and faster now. She had one hand up against the glass, and the other snaked down to her unshaved pussy, where she was probably diddling her clit, or possibly running her fingers along the guy's shaft as he moved. I couldn't see from this distance.

"I hope he doesn't push her through that window!"

"Hell of a way to go," I chuckled.

The girl in the window shook, her back arched, her knees bent slightly. It looked like she would have collapsed if her stud wasn't still pumping into her, keeping her upright.

"God, she's coming" whispered Deb, still standing naked and just as exposed as the exhibitionists across the way. "Oh Jesus..." Deb never cusses unless she's in the throes of passion. Like earlier this afternoon, I came up behind her and wrapped my arms around her naked body. My hard-on nestled into her butt-crack and up her back, my fingers went to her clit. She gasped but kept on watching.

"What's happening now?"

"She just had a huge orgasm. He's still going at it." I moved my hands down, felt Debbie's wetness, and rubbed it against her slick clit. "Oooh" she sighed, and bit her bottom lip.

I could see the guy's movements slowing, saw his legs straighten as he practically lifted the girl off her feet. His head went back, then he bent his knees again and gave four or five spasmodic thrusts.

"Oh wow," sighed Deb. I couldn't tell if she was reacting to the scene in the binoculars or to my gently massaging her clit between two fingers.

The guy collapsed against the girl's back for a few seconds, then stepped back. She turned around and wrapped her arms around him, and they kissed deeply.

"Jeez -- and he's huge! That thing looks like a beer can!" reported Deb. "His cum is streaming down her legs." I slipped my fingers into Debbie's pussy, as deep as I could reach from behind. She lowered the binoculars and put her hands on the window ledge. "That's nice, Neil, don't stop."

I had two fingers of one hand pushing into her while the other hand now rubbed circles around the hood of her clit, occasionally making contact with the tiny nub and causing her to start. She spread her feet further apart, but her eyes never left the window across the room.

The couple was still basking in their afterglow, still standing before their window, still embracing and kissing. His hands were on her tits now, and she had a hand between them. Hard to tell from this distance, but it looked like she was massaging his cock.

"Oh, oh, OH!" exclaimed Deb. Her breathing usually changes before she comes, but this time it came on so suddenly that it startled me. She clamped her hands down over mine, shoved them into her labia, and ground herself against them. We'd never connected in exactly this way before. It was a new move for us.

"Oohhh DAMN!" Deb shook violently and crushed my right hand still harder against her vulva, and my left against her exposed clit. "Oh, oh, ooooh!" Her pelvis gyrated back and forth against our clasped hands as she drove herself deeper and deeper into an intense orgasm.

I wondered if any peeping Toms in the Flamingo had binoculars trained on us.

"Oohhh," she sighed as she spiraled back to earth, put her hands back on the window ledge and leaned heavily. "Oh God, my legs are like Jello," She straightened up slowly, wrapped her arms around me, and we kissed deeply. We were unconsciously simulating the actions of the other couple, who had now disappeared from view.

* * * * *

We wandered downstairs to the casino. I bought two hundred dollars of chips and we played the dollar slots.

Half a dozen attractive young waitresses circulated the floor taking drink orders. They wore sexy outfits with skimpy skirts, thigh high stockings, deep exposed cleavage, and fake bow ties. Male gamblers flirted with them while their wives scowled. The girls conducted themselves professionally, with broad friendly smiles and well-practiced responses that were designed to neither repel nor encourage their approaches.

I signaled to one of them. She smiled and asked what she could get for us. Her question was directed to me, but her smile was to Debbie. A sort of unwritten body language version of "yes I'm dressed in this sexy get-up but I'm not here to steal your man". A badge was pinned to her costume about an inch above her left nipple, saying "Hi, I'm Mandi".

White Zinfandel for Deb, single malt and water for me. As Mandi walked off to place our order I had to consciously avoid staring at the long legs that culminated in the tight orbs of her ass that peeked beneath at me from her skirt. Dangerously sexy, I thought as I turned my attention to Deb, whose fruit machine was jingling with another small win.

Debbie and I aren't gamblers. My approach is to spend a fixed amount on the tables or in the machines—and after that's gone, I'll walk away with whatever winnings I may have. I don't put my winnings back into the system. So we were half way through our meager budget when sexy young Mandi came back with the drinks. Deb engaged her in small talk while I avoided staring at the waitress's deep cleavage by watching an old blue-hair playing two machines simultaneously. Both seemed to be paying out, but her entire focus was on feeding more and more into the machine.

My two hundred bucks yielded a return of sixty-one. Piss-poor return on investment, I thought as I pocketed the cash and Deb and I headed back to the room. Two couples shared the ride up to the eighth floor with us. The guys were twenty-somethings I'd noticed gambling and drinking alone earlier in the evening. Their partners were well-dressed flirty, thirty-somethings with too much makeup. Deb silently mouthed "hookers", and rolled her eyes.

I smiled. The sexual energy in this town is intense.

* * * * *

We enjoyed a late breakfast the next morning, then caught a bus to Hoover Dam. I was fascinated by the scale of the place, the engineering, the immense power of the water that drove the huge turbines, and the fact that it had been completed more than seven decades ago.

Deb was hot and impatient.

We got back to Caesar's around 4:00 pm and ran into some of my work colleagues and their partners. They were still in party mode, drinking and hanging at the pools by day, drinking and gambling by night. One of the spouses was Debbie's identical twin sister Maureen, whose husband Dave was a co-worker of mine. The fact that my brother-in-law and I worked together was purely coincidental. The company he worked for acquired the company I worked for. He was promoted to Financial Director after a year-long corporate integration, and he and I were colleagues at the same level of management. We agreed to meet them for drinks in twenty minutes.

Deb and I went upstairs and changed, and joined Dave and Maureen and two other couples at the pool. "Hey, sis," yelled Maureen, and sipped at her mojito. 'Sis' came out as 'shish'. This wasn't her first drink.

The temperature was in the high sixties and a dry desert breeze cooled us as it sighed gently around the fake doric columns, and a row of small fountains lent a peaceful sound. The pool wasn't open for swimming, but we could still get drinks at a poolside table.

The chit-chat was mindless. Which machines were paying out. How much they'd all lost at the roulette wheel but how close they'd been to a big payout. This bar made a better rum cocktail than that one. The late night cocktail waitresses were more sexy than those on the day shift. The conversation was loud, the laughter was raucous, and everyone had an opinion and a wealth of knowledge about Sin City.

Deb and I sat quietly together. No one cared that the reward for climbing Turtlehead Peak was a stunning view, or that Hoover Dam was once considered to be one of the modern-day seven wonders of the world. They knew that Debbie and I weren't the typical Vegas party animals and probably viewed us as a bit snobbish.

Maureen ordered her third mojito.

We were joined by two other couples, and our dozen or so companions all appeared to be frequent visitors to the area and took pride in the amount they'd already gambled away this weekend. Dave was about three thousand down, and his weekend was just starting.

As the drinks flowed the conversation became more raucous and, par for the course in Las Vegas, more risqué.

There are about a dozen adult-only pools in Vegas and someone had heard the Venus Pool right here at Caesar's was the best in town. But dammit, why did it only open so late in the year! The best strip club was the Palomino, but Maureen vociferously pointed out that the only strip club for the women was upstairs at the Olympic Gardens, where the male strippers were there for the ladies' pleasure.

"You've been there?" asked Angela, the CFO, who might have been the only other sober person in the group.

"Lash night," laughed Maureen. "Sexy place! They have private dances too. In private rooms. An' those hunks can get very physical!" She cackled, as she suggestively massaged Dave's upper thigh. Not for the first time, I wondered about the differences between the twins. My wife's class and elegance were such a contrast to her sister's unfiltered approach to life. They looked identical, but they were so different.

Debbie put her hand over mine and gave a quick double-squeeze, our signal for 'time to go'.

We said our goodbyes. Debbie and Maureen hugged. Maureen waved us off with a "See y'all back in Virginia, shish". We were going back to L.A. tonight, and I'd booked seats on the luxury bus service for 1:00 am. The rest of the team was staying on for another two days and would return on Sunday night before half of them flew home to the D.C. area on Monday.

I didn't tell anyone that Deb and I planned to drive south to the San Diego area and spend time at the all-nude Black's Beach. The fact that we were closet nudists was not information one shared with one's boardroom colleagues, or even with one's twin sister.

We'd been to several nude beaches in the past. Baker Beach in San Francisco has a beautiful view of the Golden Gate bridge but it's cold and isolated. Gunnison Nude Beach in New Jersey is nice on weekdays but weekends turn it into a nudist version of a fashion parade, where muscle-bound guys parade, showing off their hot young girlfriends. Haulover Nude Beach in North Miami has always been our 'happy-place'. We'd been there many times and loved it. Black's would be a new adventure for us.

We wandered over to the casino. I'd booked tickets for a 9:30 show, which gave us a few hours, so I bought another hundred dollars in chips. Twenty-five bucks at the roulette table won me sixteen. Then we wandered back to the dollar-machines, where Debbie flagged down the sexy young Mandi. We ordered drinks, and again it took a concentrated effort to keep my eyes off her. Damn, she was sexy. Deb chatted with her and established that Mandi was a part-time student who worked the floors on alternative weeks, then went home to L.A. where she shared an apartment with a friend and continued her studies.

Debbie fed the remaining seventy-five bucks into various fruit machines. Seventy-nine dollars in winnings this time. Not too bad. We were batting around 500 for the weekend. We ordered more drinks from the delectable Mandi, browsed the blackjack tables and watched a few games of craps, then went upstairs to change and pack.

The show was in a different hotel, so we left our bags with Caesar's reception and took the shuttle. She wore a dark dress made with a silky fabric, cut a few inches above the knee, and a white open blouse with matching white belt and bracelets. Old fashioned yet sexy, and casually elegant enough to be plucked from the pages of Vogue.

"What's this show we're seeing?"

I smiled. It's just a song-and-dance thing," I said. "It's put on by Cirque du Soleil, so it should be good."

"But you hate musicals."

"I heard this one is a bit different," I smiled again. In fact, I'd researched the show intensely. Deb was going to love it.

The shuttle pulled into New York New York, and we followed the signs for "Zumanity". I showed the usher my tickets and we were led to the very front of the theater. The seats are arranged in a horseshoe shape, and on the inside, close to the stage, were four plush red love seats on either side of the center aisle. They were made for two, had reasonably high armrests to provide a separation from the next love seat over, and had a small drinks table at each end.

"Nice seats," exclaimed Deb.

"Happy Valentine's Day," I replied.

The seats had cost me a small fortune, plus an extra two hundred for the concierge to relay the message that the couple in the duo sofas in section 003 did not want to be included in any audience participation. I rationalized the cost with myself—if Dave and the rest of the executive team could each piss away thousands in the casino, then just under a thousand in gambling, day trips, and these tickets was a good investment in Valentine's romance. Debbie hadn't complained once when I put in countless late nights and worked at least a dozen weekends in the last six months. She deserved a bit of pampering.

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