IT’S COOLER TONIGHT, and I can smell rain in the distance. Still, I dive into the pool, the cold water stinging my skin and paralyzing my joints. I swim through it, feeling my bones and muscles awaken. It’s easier now that the heaviness in my gut isn’t weighing me down. I can be mindless here. I can let the water drown the shame and wash away their scent. I know I have no reason to feel bad; I did nothing wrong or out of character. I did what any 29-year-old man would do with two exotic dancers in his home. I did what I’ve done before.
Candi and Jewel have been associates of mine for years. The three of us hooked up during some of my more formidable years and kept in touch. When it came time to enlist help with the program, I knew they were the ones for the job.
I should have cut off all physical association then, and I had, for the most part. But every so often, we’d have a few too many glasses of champagne, and we’d fall back into that familiar pattern—them f*ck
ing me, me f*ck
ing them and them f*ck
ing each other while I watch, dick in hand.
Don’t look so surprised. Yeah, I sleep with strippers. Big deal. What do you expect me to do with them? Play pinochle?
See, the great thing about Candi and Jewel is that business never blurred into pleasure. They’d do their job, we’d have a drink after, and most times, they’d leave unsexed and well paid for their professional services.
This was not one of those times.
They did as I had asked, teaching the women their signature moves before dismissing them for the evening. Then they were at my door with a chilled bottle of Dom and twin wicked gleams burning in their eyes.
“You look tense,” Candi said, stepping inside. She eased my suit jacket from my shoulders and began to knead. Jewel popped the cork without spilling a single drop.
“I saw it too. You seem…different. Not as focused,” she chimed in.
“Frustrated,” Candi added.
Jewel returned to our sides with glasses of champagne. I downed mine in two gulps. “Shut up. And take off your clothes.”
There was no prelude required between us three. I didn’t even expect them to do their usual song and dance to get me hot. They know what turns me on just as I know how to get them off.
And that’s what I did.
There, in the middle of my living room, I bent Candi over the arm of the couch and took her from behind while finger-f*ck
ing Jewel. Candi came quick, like always. Just a stroke of her clit while giving it to her deep and fast, and she shattered beneath me in minutes. Jewel wanted to play. She straddled my lap, my latex-sheathed dick still glistening with Candi’s sugary wetness, and mounted me. She moaned loudly, feeling her hypersensitive mound creating friction against my pubic bone. Candi sucked her friend’s bouncing tits and played with her ass until I felt her insides tighten and shiver. Then she was screaming, crying my name so loudly I had to cover her mouth with one hand, while I wrapped the other around her waist and bounced her hard, up and down on me, prolonging her orgasm.
When her cries quieted to whines, she dismounted and pulled off the condom. Then she and Candi took turns sucking me off, moaning against my dick, as they tasted themselves in the trickles that had slid down to my balls.
And that was it. No romance. No cuddling. Not even any flirty conversation. Just direct, to-the-point sex. We shared a laugh when Candi accidently put on Jewel’s panties in her hazy afterglow. We made plans for next season’s session. Then they were gone. Just like everyone else in the revolving door of my life.
And now…now I’m conflicted about it. Like I’ve been unfaithful or disloyal to someone. But to who? Myself? Shit, if anything, I’m pretty damn pleased with myself. And feel a helluva lot better physically. Yet, something deep inside me aches with regret. I can feel the loneliness closing in, squeezing my chest. I pant and wheeze with every stroke, but I don’t stop. I don’t give in to the water. I won’t let it defeat me.
“YOU’RE WET.”
I keep my eyes to the sky. “Yeah.”
“But it’s chilly out here. You have to be freezing.”
“I’m fine.” For the most part, I am. I’ve gotten used to swimming long after sundown, since many of the women like to sunbathe during the day. Plus, I’m too damn frustrated to feel anything else.
I hear the shuffling of Allison’s sandals moving closer to me. And before I can lift my head to see what she’s doing, she lays a sweater over my damp body. Her scent surrounds me, digging its way into my skin and hair… into me. She’s not only affecting me, she’s infecting me.
I want to brush off her sweater, but I know it’d hurt her feelings. She’s been rejected enough, and she doesn’t need me pouring salt in the wound. And it’s not her fault that I’m one rub-and-tug away from being downright infatuated with her.
“You left early today,” she says, sitting in the lounger beside mine.
“Had to take care of something.” I still don’t look at her. I don’t even thank her for the sweater. So damn conflicted by my feelings for her. Yet, so frustrated with myself for harboring this sickness—this affliction—that forces me to be a somewhat decent human being and do the right thing. I don’t want to hurt her, but I know I will eventually. There is no other option.
“Interesting class today.”
“Yeah.”
I feel her turn towards me. “Are you ok?”
“Yeah.”
“Did I…did I do something wrong?”