Forgotten Weekend Rendezvous

The rain hammered against the windows of the Bayside Hotel, mirroring the frantic pulse thrumming in my veins. A week of relentless deadlines and soul-crushing meetings had finally caught up with me, leaving me a shattered husk desperate for oblivion. As I pulled into the driveway, a flicker of unease prickled my skin – my wife, Sarah, was nowhere to be seen. “Probably just ran out for groceries,” I mumbled, trying to quell the rising tide of anxiety. The house was silent, a stark contrast to the usual chaos of our family life. A small, white envelope lay on the bed, bearing my name in her familiar, elegant script: “Welcome home. Go ahead and take your shower. Your clothes are in the bathroom.” The message was unsettlingly casual, a bizarre prelude to the strangeness that was about to unfold.

I stripped off my damp clothes and stepped into the hot water, the steam clinging to my skin like a second layer. The scent of lavender and sandalwood, one of Sarah's favorite fragrances, filled the air, both comforting and unsettling in its unexpected presence. As I towelled off, I noticed another envelope tucked into the pocket of my grey dress slacks. Inside, a single, typed note: “Kids are at the Johnson’s. I am at the Bayside Hotel, Room 729. Please hurry!” The accompanying hotel card-key felt like a cold, unwelcome intrusion. This wasn’t the Sarah I knew. This was a calculated, perverse game. A perverse game that I found myself inexplicably drawn into.

The elevator ride to the seventh floor felt interminable, each agonizingly slow second amplifying my unease. Room 729 was opulent, bordering on decadent, with plush velvet drapes, a king-sized bed, and a panoramic view of the rain-soaked city. But it wasn’t the room itself that stole my breath; it was the sight awaiting me within. Another envelope lay on the bed, this one crafted from thick, crimson paper. “Now the hunt begins. You won’t have to look far. I promise you will like what you find.” The words dripped with a dark, knowing glee. A frantic search of the room revealed no sign of Sarah, only a growing sense of dread and a strange, burgeoning excitement.

I ventured out into the hotel lobby, desperately scanning the faces of the guests, but she was nowhere to be seen. The pool, the fitness center, even the dimly lit lounge – all yielded no clues. Just as despair threatened to consume me, I spotted a discreet double door leading to the Bayside Lounge, marked with a small, almost imperceptible sign. The air inside was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the murmur of hushed conversations. The room was sparsely populated, the patrons a mix of well-dressed men and women, their faces obscured by shadows. As I moved towards the bar, a familiar voice cut through the din, “Buy you a drink, handsome?”

Turning slowly, I nearly choked on my own astonishment. There she was, my wife, Sarah, radiating an alluring confidence I had rarely witnessed. She wore a vibrant purple silk blouse, unbuttoned low enough to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage, and a daring black leather mini-skirt that clung to her curves like a second skin. Black hose and towering stilettos completed the ensemble, transforming her into a vision of sultry elegance. Her nipples were taut and sensitive, pressing against the silk fabric, and her scent, a potent blend of vanilla and spice, hung heavy in the air. The bartender, a burly man with a knowing smirk, caught a fleeting, appreciative glance in her direction.

I ordered a rum and coke, the ice clinking against the glass as I took a tentative sip. My eyes never left her. The way the light caught her skin, the curve of her hips, the confident sway of her body – it was all breathtaking, captivating, and utterly unsettling. As she stepped up to the bar to place her own order, I felt an uncontrollable surge of desire. Her large, soft breasts bounced gently as she moved, exposing ample cleavage that sent shivers down my spine. Her nipples tightened and flared with each movement, a silent invitation to explore the depths of her pleasure.

She leaned against the bar, her weight pressing lightly against my thigh, a subtle yet insistent gesture that demanded my attention. With a playful smirk, she slid her hand up my leg, her touch sending jolts of electricity through my body. Before I could react, she was rubbing my hard-on through my pants, her fingers teasing and exploring every inch of its sensitive surface. The heat built rapidly, a primal force threatening to overwhelm me. I gripped the edge of the table with both hands, struggling to maintain control as my body throbbed with anticipation. Just as I felt myself nearing the brink, she paused, took another sip of her drink, and licked her lips, savoring the moment before returning her attention to my arousal.

Driven by an irresistible impulse, I reached out and placed my hand on her thigh, mirroring her earlier movement. She responded by spreading her legs slightly, revealing more of her delicate flesh. My fingers brushed against the smooth, warm skin of her inner thigh, and a wave of pleasure washed over me. Soon, my hand moved past the top of the stockings, sliding beneath the hem of her skirt and into her slit. The sensation was both shocking and exhilarating, a forbidden exploration of her most intimate parts. I felt the delicate frill of what appeared to be a miniature thong against my fingertips, its texture both intriguing and slightly unnerving. With deliberate care, I rubbed my finger over the moist material, sending a delicious shiver through her body. She braced herself against the bar, her expression a careful mixture of amusement and apprehension, while I continued my exploration, savoring the exquisite pleasure she offered.

As I stroked her juices over her perky little love button, she closed her eyes, her breathing becoming deeper and faster, her body completely surrendering to the moment. Years of experience allowed me to interpret her reactions perfectly – her tightened nipples, her rapid heartbeat, the subtle tremors that ran through her frame. I knew that she was on the verge of losing control, and the thought sent a thrill of anticipation through my veins. Just as I was about to lose my grip, I eased my finger out of her reach, pausing for a moment to assess the situation before continuing my ministrations.

Looking around the lounge, I noticed that nobody seemed to pay us any attention, their focus entirely on their own conversations and drinks. It was a perfect, secluded setting for this clandestine encounter. She opened her eyes, a playful glint in their depths, and smiled at me, her lips curved in a suggestive invitation. "Are you wearing what I put out for you?" she asked, her voice laced with a seductive challenge.

A long, white tablecloth covered the table between us, effectively concealing our movements from any potential onlookers. As she took another sip of her drink, she placed her other hand on my thigh, continuing to tease and prod, her touch sending shivers down my spine. Before I could fully immerse myself in her pleasure, she leaned in close, pressing her breasts against me and whispering in my ear, "I could suck you under the table and nobody would know…"

The words hung in the air, charged with both promise and danger. My head began to spin, the rum and the sheer intensity of the moment blurring my senses. Every sense was heightened, every nerve ending tingling with anticipation. Everything we had done tonight was far more daring and exciting than we had ever attempted before. "That's true," I admitted, my voice a low murmur, "but we have a room where we can do that and a whole lot more." The elevator ride back to our suite felt shorter than the one up to the room, fueled by the lingering heat of our encounter. We kept our clothes on until we reached our destination, but barely. The rest, as they say, is history.

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