Angie is a bag of nerves. Her stomach's in her throat. Her hands are trembling. And her heart is pumping madly. She hasn't behaved like this before. Angie always acted faithfully. The thought of what she's about to do sickens her to the core. But she is driven... by a raw animal impulse, a need she has to satisfy.
She lowers her head in shame and strides through the hotel lobby to the bar in the hope that she won't be recognised. He is sitting in a gold upholstered sofa chair in the far corner of the bar sipping an iced cola. When he sees her enter the bar, he places the empty tumbler on the glass-topped coffee table and stands.
She is pleasantly surprised. He looks older than she expected: late-thirties, early-forties, slightly gone to fat, short stiff brown hair greying at the temples, a soft round kind looking face. She's relieved. She chose well on her dating app - from the nine hundred hopeful men who expressed an interest in her.
He appraises her. He's never met a woman like her before. She seems young, pure, tanned, roses-in-her cheeks, melancholy-in-her-eyes, shocks of honey curls kissing her breasts. She has an intensely alluring face: shiny almond eyes, a cute toffee nose, the thickest pouting cherry flesh lips. A beautiful woman of considerable standing and upbringing. A shy woman in search of love. She dressed simply, stunning him in a plain indigo dress, bared arms, bare legs, poppy red stilettoes. There's no need for an introduction. Angie looks fantastic.
He tries to age her: twenties, thirties, forties? It's impossible to tell. He softens in her presence, becomes more loving, caring, than he has ever felt in his life, finds himself apologizing, sitting up straight for her, like her puppy about to be fed.
'I'm sorry, Angie, did you bring the money?'
Clumsily, she unzips the ruddy leather bag and extracts a thick wad of banknotes. She bites her bottom lip. Her stomach churns. She feels a burning sensation in her urethra. Angie needs to pee.
'Mmmn. It's all there. Would you like to count it?'
He shakes his head, feels sorry for her. She told him it's her first time. She must be absolutely petrified.
'Please, no, there's no need. Let's wait until we're safely inside the bedroom, shall we, Angie?'
She is touched by his surprising consideration for her, his warmth towards her. He used her name twice, deliberately. Feeling a warm glow of contentment inside, she permits herself a nervous smile.
'I do need the loo, rather urgently. Can we go, please?'
'Sure, let me carry your bag for you.'
She feels the soft hair on the back of his hand as she passes him her ruddy leather bag, 'Thank you.'
'No problem. If you'd like to follow me. Please.'
She wipes her lips, licks her finger with the tip of her tongue, bites her nails, overwhelming him with her adult innocence, her sensual allure, her natural body scent, 'I'd love to.'
They leave the bar and climb the grand, spiralling, crystal chandeliered, staircase as far as the first floor. He leads her to the bedroom at the far end of the empty corridor, opens the door with his zing card. He lets her in first.
The toilet is on the immediate left. She slips inside slamming the door behind her. Angie squats over the loo, her indigo dress hitched high as her breasts, her beige satin panties rolled down to her knees, asking herself, What am I doing here? What got into me all of a sudden? I should be ashamed of myself for what I'm about to do.
She lets her dress slip, shuts her eyes and clasps her hands in her lap, as if in silent prayer:
For what I am about to receive may somebody, someone, anyone out there who loves me, make me truly thankful.
Prayer recited: Angie sighs a long, deep sigh of relief. The luxury braided Palisades toilet roll hangs off a brass ring on her left. She pulls off a thick wad and wipes herself dry, enjoying the softness of the tissue rubbing against her cleft, the sad, imaginary softness of Michael's fingers rubbing her, tenderly, rhythmically, caressing her body the way she used to love being caressed: to orgasm: the way she loved the most. Michael, who used to make sweet passionate love to her on the sun lounger on the veranda in the half-light of dawn, her favourite, romantic time of day.
She lets her soiled wad fall in the lavatory pan, twists her supple body at the waist, reaches for her tube of lube, squeezes a healthy, gloopy blob onto her fingertips then smears it, deep inside her love-hole.
Forgive me Michael, she says to herself, opening her eyes, imagining his rugged face smiling down at her intimate act from behind the vanity mirror, It's been five long years. I have to move on now, darling.
He's waiting for her next door through the bedroom wall: the man she paid to love, waiting to fuck her.
One last lingering moment of doubt, Not sure I can do this. Of course, you can, Angie-girl. You deserve it after all you went through, caring for Michael.
She shakes herself, pulls up her pants, flushes the toilet, throws the used tube in the bin under the wash hand basin, washes her hands, fluffs her bleached honey hair, and opens the door. She casts her eyes to the right, seeing the brass latch and chain drawn across, securing her inside.
No sign of a Do Not Disturb notice. Must be hanging on the doorknob. She would hate to be found out. How would she explain her illicit tryst to her friends at the Bridge Club, at Aquarobics, Swimming, Zumba, Pilates, at the Tennis Club for that matter? How could she explain? I could never tell them, not in a thousand years. My friends wouldn't understand. Think of all the gossip. The scandal in our village.
She permits herself a wry smile. He's gone so far as to stick blue tack over the spyhole! He isn't taking any chances, is he? Chances, with me. I wonder how many other women he's fucked in this bedroom? Wonder if he'll be kind, gentle, tender with me? I wonder if he'll hurt me?
Her nerves haunt her. Angie finds herself trembling, shuddering, at the idea of his lips kissing hers, his hands caressing her breasts, his proud flesh inside hers.
Blinking her insidious fears aside, she steps into the bedroom. Facing her lies a full-length, glass-fronted wardrobe with its doors closed. Next to that, a polished wooden shelf filled with notepads, the hotel's guide, two menus, a full tray of cups and saucers, selected fine teas, coffees, shortbread, a kettle. At the far end of the shelf, next to the pairs of flutes and Slim Jims, stands an ice bucket filled with plastic bottles: still, sparkling mineral water, a bottle of Moet & Chandon champagne, miniatures of claret. There's a narrow mirror above the shelf, a telephone for room service, a wireless internet connection. Lying next to the ice bucket: a bunch of blood red roses.
She thinks of the cash tucked inside her overnight bag. He left it on the chair for her, considerately, unopened. How much has this cost him? she asks herself, the champagne, wine, flowers, the room, their love bed?' The bed is sheer unadulterated luxury, a layered wedding cake of a bed: an eiderdown, indigo bedspread, fluffy cream pillows. All cosy and snug! Her heart warms.
Angie feels herself relax, Indigo, cream, my favourite colours. A bed in which to curl up with my lover.
He lies on top of their bed. He shaved for her. She likes that. He is naked, slim, fit, pale, neat, trim, short brown hair, slender physique, extremely well hung. Angie can barely bring herself to stare at his cock.
