That Summer at the Hotel Ended in an Orgasmic Orgy
I still think about that summer every time I pass a hotel with a pool. It was Marisa who dragged me there, an old friend I’ve known for years, though “old” had never had anything to do with age, only with trust. She had just gotten divorced, was down in the dumps, and couldn’t stand the idea of going on vacation alone.
We met at the company, she in administration and I as an engineer. We used to cross paths at breakfast and at afternoon coffee, and from sharing a table so often, one thing led to another. She poured her heart out to me, I listened to her, and at the end-of-year dinner that release ended in the worst possible way: fucking against the sink in the restaurant bathrooms.
From then on, we met up whenever she felt like it. Marisa was well upholstered, a curvy woman who in another life lived at the gym and in the pool, until she discovered her husband was cheating on her and let herself go. She wanted me for the gifts I gave her and for the sex, because she knew that, even if I’m nothing special between the legs, I can go longer than most.
She was also the only one who knew my secret. That I’m bisexual, that when I don’t have a woman around I don’t mind finding myself a man, and that this, far from scaring her off, amused her.
—You’re such a fox —she’d laugh—. You really know how to live.
That’s why, when she asked me to go with her, I knew those holidays were not going to be restful at all. She made that clear to me in the car, before we even arrived: she was in the mood to fuck anything that got in her way, and she counted on me not to do it alone.
The hotel was full of foreign tourists. Germans, English, and, above all, a big group of Frenchmen with hardly any women among them. They were almost all men, and Marisa spotted them the moment we crossed the lobby, with that smile I knew too well.
***
The first night we decided not to deny ourselves anything. The hotel’s open bar helped loosen us up, and glass after glass we lost our shame until we left it forgotten in some corner of the bar. Marisa laughed too loudly, squeezed my thigh under the table, and stared without trying to hide it at anyone who passed nearby.
We met a couple who were as wound up as we were. It started with jokes, went on to confessions, and ended with the four of us in a room exchanging what each of us had brought. Me with her, Marisa with him, and then everything mixed together, no rules, until exhaustion won out over desire. It was a wild night, the kind you don’t talk about when you get home.
We got up the next day with a monstrous hangover. After breakfast we went down to the pool; she wearing a sarong over her swimsuit and me in a tight thong I had bought precisely for that trip, one of her private jokes.
I thought the second day would be calmer.
I was dead wrong. Marisa woke up more daring than the day before and, as soon as she lay down in the sun, she started heating up the French group without the slightest shame. She loosened the sarong, stretched out, stroked her thighs shining with sunscreen, and looked at each one of them as if she were choosing from among them.
It didn’t take long to work. One of them, a tall, stocky man, hairy and with a prominent belly, got up from his lounger and walked toward us with a determination that left no doubt. A couple of meters away he simply took off his swimsuit, came over to Marisa, and, without saying a word, offered her what he held in his hand.
She didn’t think twice. She stretched out her arm, grabbed it, took it to her mouth, and started sucking it as if she’d been waiting for it for months. The guy groaned, threw his head back, and with a gesture of his hand called the others over.
It hadn’t even been five minutes when I noticed a shadow standing in front of my lounger. Another Frenchman, about the same height and build as the first, had pulled down his swimsuit and was touching himself while staring fixedly at me.
—No —I told him, raising a hand—. I’m a guy.
He arched one eyebrow, with a pronounced accent and a calm that left me with no arguments.
—I don’t see the problem —he replied.
Marisa took the cock out of her mouth just long enough to drag me into it.
—Come on, Andrés, don’t be such a prude now —she said, laughing—. Nobody knows us here, loosen up. Don’t make me the only one having fun.
I looked at her, then at him. Excitement, the alcohol from the day before still in my blood, and that mix of kinkiness and shamelessness got the better of me. I reached out and started stroking him slowly, taking my time, until I left the lounger and knelt on the hot tile by the pool. I switched my hand for my mouth and kept going.
He must have liked it, because after a few minutes he placed a hand on the back of my neck, not to force me, but to caress my hair while he murmured something in his language that I didn’t understand. I did my thing, running my tongue over him from base to head and back again, unhurriedly.
—Fuck, and after I’m the one encouraging you, you end up with the biggest one —Marisa complained between laughs, not letting go of hers.
***
What happened next blurs together in my memory as one endless scene. While I was still on my knees, the Frenchman ran his hands down my back to my ass, taking advantage of my position, and started groping me and slipping a finger inside me. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Marisa lying on the lounger, with her swimsuit pushed aside, letting another guy eat her pussy while she cursed in pleasure.
—If you tear my swimsuit, I’ll kill you —she panted, with no intention of moving him away.
Two more joined in almost at once. Marisa ended up with one in her mouth and another in her hand, alternating between them, devouring one while she jerked off the other, never stopping the moans from that tongue still working her between the legs. I could feel hands everywhere, fingers going in and out, someone yanking my thong aside until I was naked on the edge of the pool.
No one at the hotel seemed bothered, or maybe we were no longer in any condition to notice. A couple of waiters passed by with their trays pretending not to see a thing, and that, instead of slowing us down, let us go completely. Marisa laughed between gasps, I rested my forehead on the Frenchman’s thigh to catch my breath, and the sun beat down on us as if it wanted to make a record of everything.
One of them knelt in front of me and returned the favor, taking me into his mouth with an eagerness I hadn’t expected. Another spread my legs and, after preparing me patiently, rested them on his shoulders and entered me slowly, giving me just enough time to get used to it before starting to move in earnest.
—Tell me, are you enjoying yourself or not? —Marisa threw at me from her lounger, with a crooked smile.
I didn’t need to answer. By then they had her doggy-style, taking her from behind while another cock stayed in her mouth, and the whole scene seemed more like a movie than something actually happening to us. At one point she ended up in a sandwich: one lying underneath, her on top, another driving into her already flushed ass, and a third offering her his mouth.
I got something similar. One on the lounger with me on top, another behind alternating thrusts, and a third waiting his turn so I wouldn’t stop using my mouth. They started slowly, cautiously, until they got comfortable and sped up, and each slam wrung a cry from me that mixed with hers.
They kept coming and going, taking turns, resting on the loungers to recover their strength and coming back for more. I lost count of how many there were over the course of the afternoon. Some came inside, others on top, and all of it went on well into the night, when the last of them dressed and said goodbye as if nothing had happened, with a polite gesture, like someone leaving after a long dinner.
***
What I hadn’t expected was that Marisa, after a day like that, would still want me. But none of the remaining nights let me rest in peace. She’d slip into my bed in the middle of the night, fumble for my cock and take her fill however she pleased, as if what had happened during the day didn’t count.
And then came her little revenge against everything masculine. She’d take a harness with a dildo out of her suitcase, put me in whatever position she wanted, and slide it into me slowly, enjoying my face more than anything else, ramming me with cruel calm.
—Enjoy it, that’s what you wanted —she whispered in my ear with each push, biting my shoulder.
And the truth was she was right. Every time she said it, I’d close my eyes and stop pretending I didn’t like it, because by then there was nothing left to hide between us. She knew it, used it to her advantage, and I thanked her in silence while biting the pillow.
We came back from that trip exhausted, without telling anyone what had happened, with the feeling of having shaken off a mountain of things we hadn’t known we were carrying. Marisa got her smile back, I made my peace with who I am, and we both learned that sometimes you need to go very far away, to a hotel full of strangers, to feel like yourself again.
We still meet up now and then, whenever she feels like it. We’ve never repeated anything like that summer, but we both know that if she ever proposed it again, she wouldn’t have to insist very much.
