Honeymoon Inn Factsheet
- 2 years ago
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O'Stikkit Inn Motel free porn video
My wife likes men. I've always known that about her. When we first started going out, she was still seeing several other guys, but they just sort of fell away and we ended up together. We dated for many months, then finally got married. We've been hitched for 6 years, and to the best of my knowledge she's been faithful to me, and me to her. Well, I did have a couple of visits to a massage parlor, and there was that one business trip in Orlando, and, oh, yeah the time with the bikini contest I emceed in Dallas. I mean, those girls practically jumped me. But other than that, totally faithful. Um, unless I've forgotten something.
Anyway, June is a flirt. At neighborhood parties she's always hanging around with the men; the womens' talk about kids and recipes just bores her. And she loves to dance. I mean LOVES to dance. If my wife had it to do over again, she'd probably make dance a career. That's the one weird thing about our relationship. I don't dance at all. Well, hardly. Maybe a waltz now and then.
So I've gotten used to seeing her dancing with guys (and women) at parties, at company functions, and sometimes when we just go out to a bar. It's great fun, and she loves it. It's innocent. Usually.
I was on a business trip to Boston, and since I had to be there on a Friday, I suggested that she come along, and we'd make a weekend of it. That way we'd only have to pay her airfare; my company would pick up the hotel. My boss was good that way. Since we were staying over a Saturday night, I'd save him almost $500 on the price of my plane ticket. He was glad to pick up the Saturday night hotel room for $125.
Anyway, we arrived on Friday morning, I attended my (boring) conference and she went shopping. My meeting didn't end until practically 6:00, by the time I got back to the hotel and we went out to dinner it was nearly 8:00. The dinner service was slow, but in fairness, the restaurant was busy, and we didn't get done 'til well after 9:00.
Picking up a taxi at the restaurant, I told the driver to take us to our hotel, but as he pulled away, I thought better of it and asked where something was happening. Unfortunately this cabbie was like many and barely spoke the language. We ended up back at the Inn.
According to the literature in the room, the O'Stikkits had immigrated from Ireland in the 1800's. Now maybe once upon a time the O'Stikkit's had run a fine country inn, but it had long since been taken over by a chain, which had added 100 rooms, a swimming pool, a sports bar, and, well, you get the idea. Now the charming wooden house in front masked two one-story brick buildings which fed 4 corridors of rooms.
June and I decided to just hang out at the Inn; we always had tomorrow night to see the town. We went to the sports bar and sat down. The Bulls were on TV that night with a West Coast game. So we sat and watched and drank and watched and drank and watched and drank. Did I mention we drank?
Next door was another bar with music and a dj. In fact the music competed well with the audio from the game; it was loud loud loud. But it all added to the general party atmosphere.
I got up to take a piss, and by the time I got back I found a few things changed. For one, the Bulls had pulled ahead by 10 points. For another, there was a guy standing, talking with June. I walked up and said hi. You could tell he was disappointed; I'm sure he thought she was there alone. But I invited him to join us, anyway.
He declined, probably sensing better opportunities elsewhere. He said he was going back to the other bar to catch a dance or two. As if Groucho Marx had said the secret word, June squealed and said "Dance? Do you dance?"
"Why sure. Love it. One of my favorite things to do," he said.
"Oh, Mike, would you mind?" she asked.
"Not at all," I said. I waved her away. I knew she would have been disappointed if I'd said 'no'. And as I explained, I've long since become used to her dancing with other guys. After all, I don't dance. "By the way, I'm Mike, and as long as you're stealing my wife from me, what's your name?" I asked him.
"Oh. John. John Rogers. Yeah, well, I mean only if this is OK..." he trailed off.
"Don't be silly. She loves to dance. I don't. Simple. On the other hand, I love the Bulls. I've got something to do. Go enjoy yourselves."
They left, actually moving only the 30 or 40 feet into the next bar. I could feel the thump thump thump of the bass in the dance beat music that was playing. I could see into the room as well, although it was much more dimly lit than where I was sitting.
After about 20 minutes, June returned. "Whew," she said. "That guy can dance. What energy!"
"That's nice," I said. "Bulls are down 4."
"Don't worry about it. Michael will handle it," she said.
"I know, I know. Just catching you up," I responded.
We made innocuous conversation for another 10 minutes, when John walked by, apparently heading for the men's room. On the way back, I motioned him over and offered him a beer. This time he accepted.
It was already nearly 1:00AM, the West Coast game was in the 4th quarter, the sports bar was beginning thin out. The dance bar was was still going.
We hit it off. The three of us, I mean. John said we was a comptroller for a division of large company, a Fortune 500. He was well spoken, obviously intelligent, quite charming, and darn it all, handsome as heck. In fact, if he were bald, he would have looked a little like MJ. John, you see, was black. Very.
Even after the Bulls won, we sat in the bar talking for another 45 minutes, yukking it up, playing stupid bar games like trying to balance the salt shaker and stand quarters on edge and that sort of thing. At about 1:40, the bartender shouted over to us that it was last call. I ordered another round, but June suddenly asked him if that meant the other bar was closing, too.
"Sure," he said. "Liquor law; everything closes at 2:00AM."
"Holy jeez," she said. "How about another dance or two?" I knew she wasn't talking to me.
"Absolutely," he said. They both jumped up from the table, and as they were walking to the dance floor, John turned to me and said "You OK?"
"Of course," I said. "You guys go play in there, I'll just stay here and play with myself." I laughed at my joke, and both of them did too.
The bump bump bump of the percussion still reverberated through the bar, and I knew June was having a good time. I thought some of the men in there might be too, since she was well dressed for the occasion. June had on a top that should have been called a "scoop neck." That meant it was square cut low across the front. June has a great set of tits, a natural C cup, firm and high, and, well, just fabulous. Take it from one who's dived in there many times. Her skirt was above the knee, nothing obscene, but nice. June is also what I would call an "aggressive" dancer. I mean she really goes at it, bouncing all around. I like to watch her. I sometimes watch other men watch her. She's something to look at.
At about 1:50AM, the DJ announced a "slow dance," and I watched as both of them hesitated for a moment, then melted together on the dance floor. I could almost feel the heat all the way back in my booth. If you've ever slow danced with June, you know she has a way of pressing herself against you so that her tits fairly bore a hole in your chest. But more than that, she has a way of wrapping her legs around one of yours and rubbing herself against you. And she was doing it 10 years before anybody ever heard of the Lambada. I used to tell her it was no fair using my thigh as a rubbing board, she should go back to the room and get out her vibrator like every other woman in America.
Anyway, it was evident to me that John liked having this woman rub her cunt against his leg, and he tried to maneuver her to one of the darker corners of the dance floor. In fact he did just that, and I even thought I saw him try to cop a feel, but June put a quick stop to that.
After 8 or 9 minutes of ballads the music ended; the dj apologized, and shut down. They came back to the table. I had thoughtfully ordered another beer each at last call, and while they might be a little warm by now, they were at still drinkable. We chugged them.
John started saying his goodbyes, and June started saying how much she had enjoyed meeting him, when I piped in, "Hey, the party's just starting. Come on back to the room for a nightcap. There's a mini-bar fridge; I'm sure there's a few more drinks in there." June looked at me as though to say "What the hell are you doing?" but I ignored her.
"Sure, OK, why not?" John said. "I've got nothing to do but catch a plane back to Atlanta tomorrow. It's not until afternoon, anyway. Let's party."
We grabbed our remaining beers and found our way down the corridors. We were more than a little tipsy, apparently, cause June stumbled and crashed into one of the room doors. If anyone had been asleep in there before, they weren't after that. We tried to "play straight," but it only made us giggle harder. We finally got to our room.
I had forgotten how small it was. There were two chairs, a small table, and the bed. The TV was in an armoire that also served as a chest of drawers. I sat on the bed. June and John took the chairs. I got a couple of beers from the fridge and poured 3 glasses. We talked, and laughed, and talked some more for another 20 minutes.
"Now what?" John said to no one in particular.
"Well," I said, "I was thinking of going swimming." We all cracked up.
"Oh yeah?" June shot back, it might be a little late, don'cha think?"
"Of course. That's why I want to do it. The pool's just up the hall, you know."
John sat silently, watching the words fly.
June realized I was half-serious. She protested, "It's probably not even open. And if it is, it's probably dark. And if it's not, I don't have my bathing suit with me." Well. That was that, apparently.
Now it was my turn. "Well, I just happen to know that it is open, cause I yanked on the door handle as we walked by. It opened a crack. Nyahh Nyahh. And yeah, it's probably dark, but have you ever heard of a light switch? Nyahh Nyahh. And as for the suit, well, you got me there." I paused. "Of course we could go skinny dipping..."
June shrieked. I hoped nobody was trying to sleep in the next room.
"You're crazy. Nothing personal, but John, I hardly know you, and I'm not, well, you know..."
"Perfectly understandable, June." He was so gallant. "Of course I wouldn't mind if you were game, but..."
"Hey, hey, I was just kidding," I said. "But you know, we could just strip to our underwear. I mean, my jockey shorts cover more of me than that silly spandex suit you bought for me. And you prance around in a thong at the beach in front of people you don't even know, now, don't you?" I asked.
"Well, that's different," she said, not totally convincingly. "I mean it's a bathing suit. That makes it different."
"Sounds perfectly logical to me," John said, grinning at her discomfort. "Woman logic, I mean."
"Now come on, guys." She could see that we were ganging up on her.
"Anyway, it'll be dark. You said so yourself." I was winning. "Tell you what. You wear the robe from the room, I'll take a towel, John can do whatever he wants. Fair?"
Well, we were drunk enough and giddy enough that she bought it. June stepped into the bathroom to disrobe. John and I stood up and took off our shirts and threw them on the bed. Then we dropped our pants. June returned with a couple of towels. She had wrapped herself tightly in the robe.
"Oh, boxer shorts, I see," she said to John. "I thought so."
She suddenly realized what she had said, and looked at me. I knew it could only mean she had felt his dick pushing against her when they were slow dancing, but I pretended that I had no idea what she was talking about.
"And jockeys for you, my dear husband. Here, towels for both of you."
We wrapped the towels around ourselves. I grabbed the remaining beers from the fridge, a bag of pretzels from the mini-bar, and a pocket transistor radio from my overnight bag. The three of us careened down the hall to the pool. It was in the other wing, but our room was close to the split, and we were only 5 or 6 doors away.
We burst in like a bunch of teen-age kids sneaking into the gym after dark. As we entered we discovered there was a bell hanging on the inside door handle, like a customer bell in a store. ding-CLANG-ding, it went. "Oh shit," I said. "Careful, here. The swimming pool police are nearby." ding-CLANG-ding, the bell announced as the door slammed closed. We all howled.
There was actually plenty of light trickling in from the hallway overheads; I'd say it was about like early dusk. I flicked on the inside florescents, but they were sooo bright that I snapped them back off again. At this time of night, we didn't need to put ourselves on display for any passers-by. There was enough light to see the vacant customer service desk at the front, the towel racks behind it, and around the corner, the pool. You couldn't see straight into the pool from the hall because of the desk and the towel racks; that was fine with me. We weren't looking to advertise.
We went in and pulled some chairs and chaise-lounges together. After another 10 minutes, and some more beer, I decided to go in.
"Taa-daa. The great unveiling," I announced. I stood up and dropped my towel. I made a Mr. Atlas pose. I looked ridiculous. "Your turn, John." He stood and did the same. Dropped the towel, I mean. "Now you, June."
"Oh, I don't know..." she said.
"For god sakes, it's no big thing. Come on. Let's go in." She stood, and opened the robe. It was true that the pieces of clothing she had on covered more than her skimpy bathing suit, at least in the number of square inches. The difference was that her bra and panties were made of thinner material, and left less to the imagination, even in the dimmer light of the room.
John whistled, and grinned. June grinned back. "OK boys, you got what you wanted. Now grow up. In fact..." She made a dash for the water. "Last one in is a big dick!"
She was already in the air on her way to the water as she said it. SPLASH! John and I looked at each other. We rose more lazily from our chairs. In fact I reached down and took another swig of beer. Then we ambled over to the pool, and jumped in.
The three of us splashed around and floated and swam for several minutes before we all ended up standing in the shallow end. We were up to our hips, but that left June's top half on display. And what a display it was. Her bra clung tightly to her breasts, the thin material outlining every goose-bump and curve. John couldn't help but stare, and frankly, neither could I. Finally she said, "Hey, whoa. Guys. Come on, get a life. Jeez. You're going to make me so self-conscious I'll have to leave."
John and I immediately looked up at her. We all bust out laughing again, and I said, "What, and stop having all this fun?" We really were. We played some more water games, like swimming through each others legs, and I could see that June's wet panties had turned just as transparent as her top. This was getting me plenty excited.
In fact, I felt the beginnings of an erection, and rather than call attention to myself, I waded over to the side and jumped out of the pool. I figured I'd sit down for a minute or so and then rejoin the party. I was sitting on my chair, lazily drinking my beer, when I remembered the radio. It was just a pocket-sized job, but I managed to find a station playing some decent music, and turned it up. It wasn't loud, but it was listenable.
John and June continued to play in the water. From my vantage point, I could see he was using every opportunity to stare at her tits. She pretended not to notice, or maybe she was just so loose she didn't care. Anyway, even I couldn't take my eyes off her chest. She really has a nice set of knockers, and the effect of the thin wet material made them even sexier as they played peek-a-boobie behind the soaked brassiere.
Just then a Donna Summer song came on the radio. "Oooo," June squealed. "One of my favorite dance songs of all time! Come on. Let's dance!" They were both standing in hip-deep water. They looked stupid trying to dance, fighting with the water to move their bodies in time with the music.
Finally June waded over to the side and jumped out of the pool. She stood at the edge and began to dance. I sat back and watched. "Come on up!," she hissed at John. He shook his head. I guessed he didn't want to climb out of the water because he was sporting an erection. I didn't really know, but it seemed a reasonable conclusion.
June stayed at the edge of the pool, dancing. John waded over in front of her. Of course she was elevated, with her feet at about his hip level. That put his eyes even with her cunt. It was starting to get interesting.
Now some 60's dances were named after the movements of the dance. Like the "mashed potato", where you, uh, mash potatoes with your feet. Or the "jerk" when you jerk with your arms. If June's dance had a name, it would have been the "thigh-master" in honor of the Suzanne Sommers' machine that women used to flex their knees together, then open wide, then back together.
I was looking at her from the back. John had the front view as she squatted, flexed her knees, then stood, then repeated the series of motions. I knew that her panties were dripping wet, and had to be sticking to her pussy like a coat of paint. And her dance movements were not exactly modest. In fact, I had never seen her dance like this before, but it was late and we'd all had a lot to drink.
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