It was supposed to be a sizzling night, but before it could properly begin, Rutger was sitting alone in her house. Still, he has good reason to stay. And that delicious swimming pool turns out to be just the start of the pleasure.
With a calm breaststroke, I swim my laps. Every time I complete ten, I allow myself a short break and hang onto the edge, looking out over the city in the distance. I can’t remember ever seeing such a stunning pool. The walls are made of brushed aluminum, and the water reaches the edge, where it disappears into a narrow gutter with the slightest ripple. I’ve turned off all the lights in the house; only the underwater lighting creates a kaleidoscopic shimmer on the high ceiling of the pool room. The villa sits isolated on a hill, and the pool’s windows stretch down to the floor, giving me a phenomenal view. I enjoy the silence, actually, it’s not even that bad that Pamela suddenly had to leave. What’s meant to be won’t spoil.
Pamela. She’s 47 years old and yet has a body far too toned to be entirely natural. At least, that’s what I think. We haven’t known each other long enough to ask about such intimate details. A few weeks ago, I met her on a dating site. Not one of those dull ones with “kids no problem” and “not afraid of a good conversation.” No, one of those straight-to-the-point ones, if you catch my drift. Her profile featured some artfully photographed details of her body that my cursor crept toward like a cat to a saucer of milk. We started chatting and kept the small talk brief. Within half an hour, we were fantasizing together about what we could do to each other, and an hour later, in an anonymous room on the fifth floor of the Hilton Hotel in Nijmegen, our first fantasies became reality.
Pamela. I had intended her to be a one-night stand, but it turned out differently. That was partly, but not only, because the delicious things we did together were far too good to be a one-time thing. No, it was mostly because I recognized her the first time I opened the hotel room door and she stood there, her head slightly tilted, a challenging smile on her lips. The fact that she didn’t recognize me and had no idea I knew who she was made it all the more thrilling for me.
Pamela. She wore a short black dress that was both provocative and chic, along with black mid-calf boots. Her dark blonde hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and the handbag she placed on the desk by the door, without breaking eye contact, looked like it cost as much as a decent secondhand car. Not that Pamela would ever stoop to something like a used car, but, as I said, she didn’t know that I knew that.
Her lips and tongue tasted slightly sweet
I think, for the sake of our own decency, we briefly talked about the nice weather while I poured two glasses of wine. We toasted to an exciting evening, and when she stood by the window a little later, looking out over the distant city, I stepped behind her and placed my hands on her shoulders. Pamela exhaled slowly, and I breathed in her perfume,probably the same brand as her handbag, or at least in the same price range. She turned her head and smiled at me, her lips slightly parted. When I kissed her, she set her glass on the windowsill and turned to face me. Her lips and tongue tasted slightly sweet.
Thinking back to that night still does something to me, somewhere between my navel and thighs. It’s a good thing I’m all alone, because I’m not wearing swim trunks. After all, I came here earlier tonight to make love to Pamela, not to swim laps in her pool. But as we were just starting a light salad at the kitchen bar, her phone went “ping.” She glanced at the screen, and her face darkened immediately.
“Oh no,” she sighed. “Why now, of all times?” She started typing furiously.
I put down my fork. “Is something wrong?”
Pamela finished her message and hit send. “Monique, my best friend. Her husband just told her he’s seeing someone else.” She sighed again. “I really have to go to her, Rut. I’m sorry. She’s always there for me, too.”
I tried to seem nonchalant. “Shit. But of course I understand. We’ll catch up again soon.”
Pamela shook her head. “Do you like swimming?”
“From time to time.”
“Come on.” She stood up and led me down a hallway.
I followed her, my gaze wandering disappointedly over her body, the white pants I wouldn’t be sliding over her hips tonight, the low-cut back where my hands wouldn’t slip inside to unhook her bra. The hallway seemed endless but ended at a sliding glass door. A faint chlorine scent greeted us as Pamela opened it.
“If you work on your six-pack here for a couple of hours, I’ll try to keep it as short as possible at Monique’s.”
That was about two hours ago, and my hope of getting what I came for tonight has pretty much faded. I cast one last look at the twinkling lights of the skyline, turn around, and push off for my final lap. I’ll dry off, get dressed, and head home. Maybe I can arrange a quick hookup on the app, those who aren’t picky always get laid, or else it’ll be an early night under the covers.
I’m a few meters from the stairs when the underwater lights go out. Darkness descends, almost total. I had turned off all the other lights, it’s a new moon, and since the villa is so isolated, no streetlights filter in. I figure a fuse must have blown. Feeling my way, I find the stairs, climb out of the water cautiously, and shuffle toward where I left my clothes and a towel on a row of lounge chairs. My iPhone is there too, which I can at least use to light my way out of the house.
Suddenly, I feel her hand slide down my waist, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Despite the silence in the house, I didn’t hear her approach.
“Shit, Pam,” I say, my voice trembling slightly. “You scared the hell out of me. Where’d you come from all of a sudden?”
Her hand brushes over my stomach and teasingly dips lower, stopping just above my pubic hair.
“Shhh,” she hisses softly. It echoes eerily through the dark pool hall. “Shhh.” Her fingertips tickle my groin. I’ve recovered from the shock, but my heart rate keeps climbing. I still can’t see a thing, but who needs eyes with a woman like Pamela within reach? My hands search for her body, I finally want to pull those white pants down. But she must have already done that herself; my hands find nothing but skin. The dip of her lower back, the curves of her hips and buttocks. Warm, soft, and naked. She must have crept up on me naked; otherwise, I’d have heard her clothes rustling.
I should probably ask how things went with Monique, but I figure tomorrow morning is soon enough for pleasantries. I reach for her breast, find her nipple, and circle it with my fingertip.
“Hmmmm.” She inhales deeply and exhales. A faint scent of red wine. She must have been drinking with Monique. As far as I know Pamela, she only drinks white. Her fingertips move back up to my stomach, just missing my rapidly growing erection. On its way up, my tip brushes her belly for a split second. A shiver runs through me.
“Pamela, I want you,” I whisper, almost solemnly. My hand grips her buttock and pulls her against my erection.
“Hm-hm,” she hisses, then guides me with a soft but firm push toward the lounge chair. I find it by feel and start to sit, but Pamela stops me.
“Uh-uh.” That’s when I hear her sit down herself. Her fingers glide over my thighs, grasp my erection, and begin massaging it.
With gentle motions, she slides her closed hands up and down my shaft, pulling my foreskin back a little further each time. Suddenly, I feel something too warm and soft to be a hand at the tip of my erection. My knees buckle, and it takes everything I have not to finish in her face. To keep the fun from ending too soon, I pull my erection from her hands. She giggles softly, and I find it both adorable and insanely hot.
Her hand finds my shoulder, and again that gentle, commanding push. I let myself fall back and lie on my back. Pamela moves forward, her feet on either side of the chair, and plants her knees just above my head. Somewhere, she’s grabbed a pillow, which she slides under my head. It brings me close enough to smell her salty intimacy. I stroke the soles of her feet and let my fingertips glide over her calves and thighs, heading for her buttocks. I tickle the strip of skin between her anus and vagina, and Pamela groans lustfully, lowering her pelvis slightly.
It’s the tip of my nose that first brushes her labia. It smells divine and, as my tongue discovers, tastes even better. From the other side, I massage the skin around her lips, occasionally slipping my middle finger inside, a little deeper each time. She must be wound tight, because she feels tighter than before. I swirl the tip of my tongue around her clitoris while massaging her lips with my thumb and stroking her anus with the now-slippery middle finger of the same hand. Her breathing quickens, with occasional shaky moans.
I’m so caught up in her pleasure that it doesn’t immediately register that it’s impossible for her mouth to close around my erection again. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness by now, and I can just make out that Pamela is still straddling my face, leaning forward on her hands above me, her head bowed, her hair draped like a curtain over the head of the chair. I should be shocked, but my ecstasy is too overwhelming to think straight. Vaguely, I figure she must have brought Monique home, and this is her revenge on her cheating husband. I don’t care—she’s doing it just right. Her fingers massage the base of my erection while her lips slide over the edge of my tip, her tongue swirling around the top. All while I’m inhaling and tasting Pamela’s arousal, my face wet with her juices. I won’t last much longer; I’m about to finish in the mouth of a woman I’ve never even seen.
Luckily, Pamela’s losing control too. She throws her head back and screams. The acoustics of the pool amplify her orgasm even more. Her pelvis jerks, her trembling vagina slapping against my mouth a few times. That’s my final push. All the tension in me releases through my erection. Monique must sense it, because she picks up the pace with smacking sounds, taking me deeper into her mouth, and then I release into her throat with a few divine thrusts.
Pamela’s screams still echo through the pool hall when, out of nowhere, bright ceiling spotlights flare on. One shines directly into my eyes, blinding me for a moment. A second or two later, I can see again, it’s not Pamela towering above me. I’m staring into the sweaty face of a much younger woman, barely in her early twenties. I recognize her from a photo Pamela showed me a few days ago, but I can hardly believe this is real. I prop myself up a bit to look behind her and see that it’s Pamela whose mouth I finished in. But they don’t see me; she’s turned around, her hands still on my thighs. She looks frozen, and I get why. In the doorway, hand on the light switch, stands the man of the house. He seems rooted to the spot, and I get that too. The poor bastard must have come home and heard his daughter screaming. She’s now straddling my face, while his wife stares at him in a daze, my semen around her mouth—the man he fired without hesitation last year.
This seems like a good moment to leave the family alone and head home.