Piers has gone to try the steam room. I’m laid out on a plush deckchair, sipping from a glass of Prosecco, reading my magazine. A middle-aged man comes and climbs down the ladder into the pool next to me. He flinches as he submerges his calves into the water.
“That’s freezing,” he says to me with a laugh.
I glance over at him. “I know, that’s the coldest pool here, I think. The other one is warmer,” I say, gesturing towards the hydrotherapy pool. A ponytailed woman in a navy swimsuit walks over, shoots me a filthy look and steps in front of the ladder, blocking my view of who I presume to be her husband.
He talked to me first, lady, I think to myself. Anyway, she’s welcome to him. I only have eyes for one man here.
Piers is walking over to me now, handsome and tanned in his black swimming shorts. I love how his stomach chisels into a ‘V’ shape at the bottom. Makes me want to pull the top of his shorts down a little and see where it ends.
“The steam room is great,” he says to me. “It’s completely deserted; I had it to myself.”
I know what that means. I let him lead me to an empty part of the indoor spa, where there’s a sauna, a steam room and a splash pool. We step into the steam room and close the door behind us. The heat is oppressive. It makes you feel like you can’t swallow.
Piers sits on one of the wooden slatted seats and pulls me onto his lap, kissing me. He takes his dick out of his shorts, pulls my bikini bottoms to the side and enters me.
“I’ll keep an eye out,” he says. He’s facing the glass door; I have my back to it. I trust him. I start grinding on him, enjoying the sensation of having him inside of me. He’s gripping hard onto my ass cheeks, giving them little spanks and urging me to go faster. I lean back and showcase my body as I ride him. My hair is dripping with sweat, my chest is mottled with it. I can imagine it looks hot, seeing me wet like this.
“Baby, I’m gonna cum,” he says, and he grips my hips and pushes me down suddenly. “Don’t move.”
He holds me down on him as he gives several final thrusts inside me, then he lets out a groan and I feel him filling me up. The cum is dripping back out of me, bouncing onto the wooden seat below us.
“Oopsie,” I say, giggling. He grins, tucking his cock back into his shorts.
“I’m fucking boiling now,” he says. “Come on, let’s jump into that pool and cool down.”
We dive into the deserted pool beside the steam room and swim around each other, chatting, splashing, playing around. He lifts me up and carries me around, pushing me against the side of the pool and kissing me. I feel ridiculously happy.
After an extremely relaxing day in the spa we go up to our suite to get ready for dinner. I put my hair in a chignon and pull on a low-cut wine-coloured dress. He looks incredible in a slim line white shirt and dark blue tailored trousers. When we get to the dinner table, he toasts me with his champagne glass.
“To your birthday,” he says. “How does it feel being twenty-four?”
“Amazing,” I say, with a beaming smile. “My favourite birthday so far.”
“You’re sweet, darling,” he says. His hand slides under the table and snakes under the hemline of my dress, stroking my upper thigh. We eat scallops for starter and duck for main, then he feeds me spoonfuls of his Tiramisu for dessert, making me giggle.
When we get back to our suite he gently, slowly strips me of my dress, exposing my sheer pink balconette bra and g string. He lays me down on the bed and slides my thong down, then he uses his fingers and tongue to bring me to orgasm. Once I’m satisfied he slides his cock inside me and fucks me in missionary, my legs on his shoulders, then just before he cums he pulls out and sprays it all over my stomach and tits. I playfully dip my finger in the fluid and dab it on my tongue. He laughs.
“Good girl,” he says.
When we go to bed I lay my head on his bare chest and stroke small circles on his skin with my fingertip.
“Being here with you makes me think what it would be like if it was just the two of us, all the time,” I say before I can stop myself. The words tumble out before I can assess how they’ll be received.
He gives a little pause. “I know,” he says finally.
‘I know’. What does that mean? Is it simply a statement of fact? Or is it ‘I know, I wish it was like this all the time, too’?
I regret saying it, but I know I meant it. This weekend has made me yearn for this to be my life, forever. Just me and him, exploring, playing, fucking, having fun. There’s just one thing stopping us, and every time it catches the light on the second finger of his left hand I’m reminded of it.
Sunday 9th September
4.01pm
The Stables
Piers had just arrived home after dropping Emilia off. He felt light, free. He had driven with the roof of his Jag down, enjoying the sensation of the sun spilling over his skin.
Unusually for him, he felt completely sexually satisfied. Emilia was like a living, breathing sex doll; so compliant to his wishes. He hadn’t felt like this for a long time; manly, confident, authoritative. He wished the weekend could have lasted longer.
As he walked through the front door he noted that the house seemed unusually quiet. He couldn’t hear the TV or the radio. No sounds of cooking, or the kettle boiling. He dumped his suitcase and swung a left into their living room. There Aoife sat, curled up on the mink-coloured sofa, a box of Kleenex next to her. Her mascara had run beneath her eyes, giving her an atypically unkempt look. Aoife always looked perfectly put-together, without fail. Even when she had what she called a ‘lazy day’ at home, she would wear soft, tasteful cream loungewear.
“Aoife, what is it?” Piers asked her. He was a little concerned for himself. He thought he had covered his tracks pretty well (paying for the suite with cash, falsifying details of a merchant’s conference he had to attend) but Aoife was, unfortunately, whip-smart. She could have picked up on holes in his story.
“Gran-Gran,” Aoife sobbed, plucking another tissue from the box and holding it to her face. Piers was momentarily confused. Then he realised what she meant. After a long bout of illness, Aoife’s aristocratic grandmother had finally succumbed.
“Oh darling, I’m sorry,” Piers said, putting his arms around her. As she sobbed into his chest, his mind raced. Aoife’s grandmother, the family matriarch. Aoife had been one of her favourite grandchildren (picking favourites was a toxic trait that her family had seemingly never seen the harm in). His wife would surely be in a good position to inherit.
And what an estate to inherit from! Paula had owned several London townhouses, a country manor. Their family nobility dated all the way back to the Normans.
He could expand the business. Maybe Aoife would be gifted the manor, and they would move to the countryside. Perhaps with enough weekend hunts and candlelit dinner parties he could be happy.
Aoife offered him a chance to progress his life beyond his wildest dreams. Amidst the dalliance with Emilia he had forgotten that somehow. She was gorgeous and hot, young and submissive. He loved fucking her. But realistically, what would she have in her bank? A few thousand, ten thousand tops? It wasn’t enough for him to live the life of his dreams. But Aoife?
With Aoife he could build a legacy.
I don’t understand what’s happened. Ever since we got back from our mini break things have changed. Piers has pulled away from me. There are no more invitations to his office, no more little gifts. On the infrequent occasions he speaks to me he is straight-to-the-point and professional. Any innuendo or flirtation has vanished into non-existence.
I’m confused, aghast. It had all been going so well. I go back over the weekend in my head. Was it something I’d done? Had I been too needy, too clingy? I’d always taken pride in my ability to emotionally distance myself from men, to avoid falling for them, but the past weekend I’d allowed myself to be a little more vulnerable, to let my guard down just slightly. I regretted it.
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