The Waiter Who Took My Husband Up to the Honeymoon Suite

Hello again. After my previous story, the one about the deserted beach, I was encouraged to tell you this other one that many of you asked me for. It happened on my wedding day, a couple of years ago now, and it’s one of those things you keep to yourself and only dare confess anonymously.

At thirty-one, I met a man who captivated me like no one ever had before. He’s eleven years older than me and, after just over a year of dating, he asked me to marry him. I said yes. During the time we were engaged, I was faithful to him because I truly cared about him, although knowing myself, I was never entirely sure what I might end up doing. The days flew by and, in the end, the wedding day arrived.

We got married in a mountain village, with its beautiful church and all the family gathered around. The celebration was held in an old monastery converted into a five-star hotel, with a spa and gardens that looked straight out of a fairytale. The meal, the dancing, the toasts... and little by little people started going up to their rooms. That’s where what matters begins.

Despite how long the day had been, there I was at six in the morning, in my strapless white wedding dress showing off my cleavage, my stockings with garters and impossible heels, looking for my husband to take him up to the honeymoon suite. It was a two-story room, with a jacuzzi and a balcony with a sauna, an absolute extravagance. The next day we were flying to the Seychelles, so my only plan was to get some sleep.

I found him sprawled on a sofa in the living room, half unconscious, completely drunk. He wouldn’t open his eyes or say a word. At first I was scared, until he let out a snore that made me go from alarmed to angry in a second. I didn’t have the strength to move him and I couldn’t leave him lying there on my wedding day.

I was thinking of going up for my phone and calling my brother-in-law when one of the waiters who had served us all night appeared.

“Do you need help with anything?” he asked.

I explained the situation, embarrassed and grateful at the same time. He was tall, broad-shouldered, about twenty-four years old, and he told me not to worry, that he’d carry him up without a problem. I thanked him a thousand times while he slung my husband over his shoulder and I led the way to the elevator. With every step, my anger and my embarrassment grew.

The suite was split over two floors. Downstairs there was a hall, a huge bathroom, a living room and even a small bar with all kinds of drinks. Upstairs, by a staircase, was the bedroom. The waiter left my husband upstairs in bed and came back down.

“Anything else?” he asked when he reached the living room.

I said no, but before he could turn around, I don’t know where I found the nerve, I offered him a drink to thank him for the favor. He hesitated for a moment and accepted. We went into the living room and I asked him what he wanted to drink.

“A rum and Coke, if you have it.”

I made it for him while he settled into one of the sofas. I opened a bottle of champagne, which is my weakness, and poured myself a glass to keep him company. We sat facing each other, me in my wedding dress and him still in uniform, with the vest, bow tie and black trousers.

We started talking about unimportant things. He told me his name was Adam, that he was from Senegal, that he’d been in Spain for three years and wanted to bring his family over. That people had treated him well here and that he liked the country. We talked about silly things, some of them funny. When I saw he’d finished his glass, I noticed it was after six-thirty and offered him another. He seemed comfortable and accepted.

I’d already had a couple of drinks, plus everything from the celebration. I don’t know how we ended up talking about my bachelorette party and he asked me how it had been.

“Quiet,” I told him. “Vineyards, massages, that sort of thing.”

“No stripper?” he asked with a smile.

I told him no and he laughed. He called my friends boring, and we spent a good while joking that a bachelorette party should include some pleasure. I kept the conversation going. Without realizing it, my anger had faded and I’d completely forgotten about my husband snoring upstairs.

And then, for some reason, I looked at his package. He was sitting with his legs apart and there was a bulge there that was not normal. I looked away immediately, but it was too late. Something inside me had begun to change. The conversation kept getting more and more suggestive and my eyes kept going back to the same place again and again. Besides, I could tell he was looking at my cleavage every time I got up to refill my glass.

The more I looked, the bigger that bulge seemed. I began to feel my underwear getting wet and a heat that had nothing to do with the champagne. I bit my lip without realizing it, and he caught me.

“Found something you like?” he said with a calmness that disarmed me.

I didn’t know what to answer. I stammered while looking at the floor, and when I raised my head he was standing in front of me, undoing his trousers.

“If you want a better look, I’ll show you.”

I was speechless. He pulled his trousers down in a hurry and I discovered he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. My God, what am I getting myself into. It was much more than I had ever had before. If I was already wet, at that moment I felt like I was melting completely. My husband was ordinary, and compared to this, it was another world.

He came closer and stopped at face level with me. I looked him in the eyes, took him in my hand and started to suck him slowly, enjoying every inch. He was surprised when I made him disappear completely, because deep throating is one of my specialties. I could barely breathe, but the feeling was brutal. I could feel the pleasure running through him and soaking my underwear through and through.

After a good while, I took him out of my mouth. He grabbed my face, lifted me up and took me to the bar. He turned me around and bent me against it.

“Take my dress off,” I asked him.

“The first one I’m doing like this, with you dressed,” he replied.

That drove me crazy. I felt him lifting the fabric from behind, pushing my underwear aside and positioning himself against me.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered in my ear.

I thought I was melting completely. Then he thrust into me in one go, all the way to the hilt, and started moving with a force I had never felt before. He was pounding into me relentlessly. A few minutes later I had an orgasm that made my legs give way, but he didn’t stop. I could feel it going in and out, driving me wild. A second orgasm left me almost weak, clutching the edge of the bar.

After a good while, I felt him speeding up. He drove in deep and emptied himself inside me while I reached a third orgasm that left me trembling. When he pulled out, I had to hold onto the sofa so I wouldn’t fall. My husband hadn’t made me feel anything like that in a long time.

“Now yes,” he said, and slowly lowered my dress. “Let me look at you properly.”

He moved back a little and asked me to turn around. And there I was, in heels, with white stockings and garters, letting a stranger who had just given me the best fucking in years look at me. When I finished turning, I saw him sitting on the sofa, ready again.

“Don’t move,” I told him.

I walked toward him as slowly as I could and straddled him. I pushed my underwear aside again and lowered myself little by little, filling myself inch by inch. I started to move, first slowly and then faster and faster. I wanted to show him I could set the pace too, and he let me do it. I was moaning like a madwoman and, when I hit the edge, I stayed impaled on him while he kept moving, stretching out my orgasm as far as it could go.

***

When I finished, he pulled me away and put me on all fours on the sofa. He went back in all at once. The thrusts were hard, deep, one after another. I could feel little orgasms chaining together until a huge one came and left me trembling face down while he emptied himself over my back. We’d been at it for almost an hour.

I lay there for several minutes, catching my breath. When I managed to sit up, I could barely walk. It was nearly nine-thirty already and I realized that at that hour anyone could start moving around the hallways.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I told him. “If you want to rest before you go, stay, but watch out in the room — my husband’s up there.”

I went down to the huge bathroom on the lower floor, took off my heels, stockings and everything else, and stepped into the shower, which was almost a room. I turned on the hot water and started to relax. Then I heard the screen open. It was Adam, ready again, with a smile that said everything. I looked at him in surprise — blessed twenty-four years old — and he picked me up in his arms.

He started rubbing against me slowly, letting the water and the heat do their part, until he entered me again. His hands held me steady, my legs wrapped around his back. The rhythm gradually picked up.

“Like that, hard, the way you know how,” I begged him between gasps.

He didn’t think twice. Between the steam, the accumulated exhaustion and my lack of practice, I got a little dizzy, but the pleasure was indescribable. When I felt him close to finishing, I asked him to lower me right after my last orgasm. He understood immediately. He set me down on my knees on the floor and I finished the only way I knew would seal the deal. After that I sat on the floor, exhausted, while he rinsed off.

He came out of the bathroom and got dressed. I showered calmly, and when I came out wrapped in a towel, I found him on the sofa, once again immaculate in his uniform.

“Thanks for tonight,” he said.

He checked that there was no one in the hallway and left. It was almost midnight. I couldn’t believe how time had gotten away from me.

I went up to the room not knowing what I was going to find. My husband was still exactly the same, snoring, oblivious to everything. I was exhausted, but not sleepy, sore everywhere and certain I’d be aching the next day. I partly remade the bed, got dressed and left him a note saying I was having breakfast in the hotel café.

When I got there, I saw my old friends, who called out to me with little giggles. I sat down with them and immediately got nervous.

“My God, you really kept that quiet,” one of them said. “What a stud, what a night your husband gave you.”

It turned out their rooms were on the same hallway as the suite, and they’d heard everything. I played the surprised newlywed, and let them think whatever they wanted. Since then they’ve been convinced my husband is a prodigy.

He woke up a few hours later, looking terrible, and spent days trying to find a way to apologize. I brushed it off. As for my soreness, I told him it was from the dancing and all the running around at the celebration. And he believed it.

If you liked this as much as the previous one, I’ll keep telling my experiences. Many kisses.

Marina.