A good kind of hurt

There is a brief struggle, but his wife goes limp, as if she’s given up. I watch the room waiter remove his clothes piece by piece. And I watch when he has his way with her. I become uncomfortable at my erection.

“Is that enough?” Her voice has gained a huskiness. The hand, limp, is now slowly tearing at my robe. Her lips are at my neck.

“Oh God, yes.” I say and assault that maddening butterfly’s pressure against my thyroid with my lips, then my tongue. By the time we finished, the sleepy calm of the sunrise had given away to the steely gaze of mid-morning.

My phone rings. It’s my wife. “How was it?” she asks. Room service enters, bearing mugs of steaming coffee . The woman thanks him and gives me a mug.

“It was unbelievable,” I say, sipping. Honesty is the best policy.

“I know! Where did you find these guys?”

“You’d be surprised. The usual.”

“Craigslist swingers list?”


“Well, I am surprised. I gotta go, honey. We’re not done here.”

I smile. Neither were we.

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