I thought about asking Barb if she wanted to ride the Bronco the next afternoon, but she volunteered that she and her husband were getting a couples’ massage and then heading out on a sunset dinner cruise. I can’t say I was all that disappointed. That buckaroo stuff had gotten pretty old.

The next day at work was uneventful. The crew finished planting the back property line and headed to the front after lunch. I didn’t see much talent around the pool. The boys and I ate lunch in a dingy side alley. Apparently we were deemed undesirable by the resort front desk.

Three hours later we had cut down and disposed of three dead palmetto palms and trimmed back a hedge of cold-stunted bougainvillea. We were whipped. As soon as I thought about that, Barb came to mind. I snorted out a laugh and slapped my quads.

“A good one?” Joaquin asked.

The crew boarded the pickup and pulled out of the alley. I looked at my bike leaning against the dumpster. I thought about just peddling home, taking a hot shower, and cracking a cold frosty one; but then I thought about Trish.

Would she be waiting at the poolside bar next door? Would she want to fuck? If so, would she be any good?

I decided to go for it.

I grabbed my bike and walked it out to the street and then back down the service entrance of the Holiday Inn. I locked the bike at the edge of the employee parking lot and walked toward the beach. My plan was to skirt the pool, avoid the security staff, and find a shower. Two days before I’d seen several stone shower grottos at the edge of the sand and the turf.

I avoided eye contact and walked directly down a shady dirt path to the sand. Not more than twenty feet away were three stone enclosures, camouflaged by plantings of bougainvillea. A portly sunburned gentleman exited the closest shower, a towel draped over his shoulders and his water shoes in his hands.

I said hello and ducked into the grotto. I pulled off my Danners and heavy socks, setting them out on the sand. I figured it was now or never. I pulled my muscle shirt over my head and undid my cargo shorts. I stuck my head out for a last check. There seemed to be no one in sight.

I placed my tee and shorts on the top of my boots. Because I had gone commando, my pale white ass and junk were there for all to see.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but there was only a single faucet. I turned on the water and got the shock of my life. The water was freezing. I could feel my scrotum retract and my manhood shrink to the size of a small toad.

I chanced a peek around the corner. I’m not vain, but I didn’t want anyone seeing me at a “disadvantage”. I turned back toward the stream to wash my face.

Then I heard an “uh-hum”.

I looked over my shoulder and spied two blushing grandma sorts. One smiled and queried, “Need a towel?”

I stowed my work clothes, wrapped the large towel around my waist and headed to the poolside bar. I was maybe ten minutes early. There sitting on a barstool was Trish, sipping what appeared to be rum punch. She smiled, “Modelo Especial, right?”

The cute barmaid added, “Coming right up.”

I took it as a good omen that she had arrived early. Perhaps she was as big a horn dog as I was. I put my left arm around her tiny waist and gave her a kiss on the cheek. The skin over her low back felt almost creamy to touch. She smelled like vanilla. I was in sensory overload.

Trish’s polka-dotted, fawn-colored coverup accentuated her tan. I couldn’t help but wonder whether she was tan from top to bottom (pun intended) or whether there were milky white areas around each nipple and at her mons. I hoped for the latter.

Trish’s long brunette hair was in loose pigtails. A dozen freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. A set of braces and she’d pass for an eighteen-year-old cheerleader.

I carefully side-scooted onto the adjacent stool. I must have looked awkward, but there was no way I wanted my towel to shift akimbo.

Trish wasted no time, seemingly taking the bull by the horns. She leaned toward me and whispered in her southern twang, “Aaaa’m so glad you came. Oh maaaa, you look good enough to eat.”

She placed her hand on my left thigh; pausing only momentarily, before running it up and under the towel. She looked me in the eye and drawled, “Waaaa, you’re a naughty boy. Aren’t you?”

We both chugged our respective beverages. Trish signed the tab and slid off her stool. She grabbed my left hand. “Well, what are y’all waitin’ for?”

We walked hand in hand around the pool and into the back lobby of the hotel. The air conditioning hit me like a bucket of ice water. I developed goose flesh, my nips turning into BBs. I looked down at Trish’s tits. Two gumdrops were trying to perforate her coverup.

Trish led me to a bank of elevators just off the lobby. She pressed the up button and a car door opened almost instantaneously. She led us in and used a pass card to activate and illuminate the button for the penthouse. I thought, “La-di-da”.

Just when I thought we were about to zoom up to the penthouse for some nasty nasty; a disembodied voice pleaded, “Hold the door, please.”

Six or seven pale vacationers, each with a roller board, crowded into the Otis. Four additional floor buttons were pressed. Trish and I were squeezed into a back corner.

I heard one portly woman tell presumably her husband that we were a cute couple. The “ehhhhh?” at the end of her statement identified them as Canadian.

Within seconds of the doors closing, Trish slid her left hand between the fanny pack of the human sardine standing in front of me and the front of my towel. After a moment of fumbling, she found the overlap of terrycloth. She fisted Mr. Wiggly.

I was enjoying the ultra-slow jacking; but was also thinking of anything and everything (asparagus, tire irons, TV antennas, mulch) to keep from sprouting a full-blown chubby. It didn’t help that the Canadian housewife had inched her hand to the right and was kneading my left ass cheek.

I’m not sure what I expected, but the penthouse suite was over the top. The elevator opened directly into a foyer. The entry floor was black and white twenty-four-inch marble tiles. The space was illuminated by an oversized chandelier. Modern art covered the walls.

The living space spanned most of the tenth floor. Was this really a Holiday Inn?

I must have been in a trance, perhaps slack-jawed, as Trish touched my cheek and added, “Earth to Tate.”

Trish grabbed my hand and led me in a non-direct path toward double French doors. She pointed to the carefully vacuumed, peach-colored plush rug in the center of the room; adding, “Your footprints would be hard to explain.”

Trish got to work once we crossed the threshold of the bedroom. She pivoted to my front and cupped the top of my towel with both hands. She stood up on her tiptoes and initiated our first kiss. Before bringing her mouth to mine, she teased my lips with the tip of her tongue. I extended mine to meet hers. I could taste the Meyers and bitters of the rum punch she had chugged a few minutes earlier.

Trish sucked my tongue into her mouth. Her full lips met mine. I closed my eyes and nearly swooned. She was that kinda hot.

She obviously wanted me naked. While still in mid-kiss, she released the overlapped beach towel, allowing it to fall to the wood-planked floor. While still in her clinch, I scooted and kicked it away from my feet. The last thing I wanted was to trip and fracture my favorite bone.

Trish switched her hands to my pecs. She teased, then lightly pinched each nipple. I took a deep breath. She looked up and briefly smiled. She lowered her mouth to my hardened nipples, sucking and biting each in turn.

I was in full hard-on mode, my meat compressed between my belly and her chest. It needed some basting, STAT.

I put both hands on the top of her head and applied slight downward pressure. She got the message. While dipping downward; she kissed and licked and bit her way to my cock.

Trish was on her knees, my cock at her eye level. She fisted my meat with both hands. I noticed her tiny fingers could not approximate around its veiny girth.

She looked up with an innocent prom-date expression on her face. “Tell me what you want.”

“Trish, lick my balls and cock. Then I want you to beg me to allow you to suck it. I want you to look me in the eye as you deep-throat my dick.”

Trish was a quick study. She adjusted her hands; the left hand sliding up the shaft to just below the head and the right, grabbing my left ass cheek. While pulling my cock up toward my navel, she leaned down slightly and began licking just behind my scrotum. I pulled a nearby side chair closer and hiked my right foot up onto its seat. This gave Trish near unobstructed access to my stones and schlong.

My little slut began licking well into my taint and then to my surprise, started to rim my pucker with the very tip of her tongue.

I enjoyed the attention she paid to my sensitive taint and anus; but I needed to cum, the sooner the better. I grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her mouth to the base of my cock. “Lick it. Suck it.”

Trish took over. She sloppily licked and munched the underside of my ear of corn, starting at the base and progressing to the head. She pulled my cock to the horizontal, looked up briefly, then slipped my velvety plum between her lips.

I really liked Trish’s technique. My first thought was that her husband was some kinda lucky guy. I suppose I’m a bad person; but I took perverse pleasure in seeing his engagement and wedding rings on the hand that was servicing my dick. As Popeye would say, “I yam what I yam.”

Trish used both of her little hands to jack my shaft up and down; plus, she employed the wring-out-the-dush-rag method. Her greatest skills, however, resided in her mouth.

She didn’t allow much of my sausage to penetrate her mouth, but she did give the plum a real work over. She bobbed her head and sucked. She slurped and made satisfied “mmmm, mmmm” sounds.

I was damn near ready to cum.

Trish had a sixth sense. She paused her sucking, wiped spittle off her mouth with the back of her hand, and queried, “Will you fuck me?”

Who was I to say no?

I reached down with both hands under her arm's pits and brought her to a standing position. Without my asking, she pulled one shoulder of her shift down and then the other. The garment fell to the floor.

Trish was beyond cute, almost elf-like. She was braless but was wearing a lacy brown thong. The small front triangle of fabric just barely covered her mons and labia.

Her breasts were creamy white compared to her dark tan elsewhere. Each tit was no bigger than half a Valencia orange. Her Hershey kiss aureolae and nipples were perched at an impossible upward angle. They telegraphed a clear message: “Suck me.”

I bent forward and kissed the left side of her neck and then her clavicle area. She place a hand on my head, encouraging me to move downward to her hardening nipple. She sighed as I licked, then drew it between my lips.

Trish whispered in my ear, “I said fuck me. It’s now or never,”

I didn’t argue. I caught on that time might be an issue. Trish clearly was watching the clock.

Taking care not to break Mr. Johnson, I hoisted all ninety pounds of her up, her legs circling my waist. Carrying her to the turned-down bed was no challenge.

I set Trish down with her ass just barely on the edge of the mattress. I dropped to my knees and pulled off her thong. Her camel toes and the tiny triangle just above were as white as her tits. And yes, the carpet matched the drapes. She had a small, black landing strip, no more than a quarter inch wide extending upward from a tiny pink clitoris.

Trish placed her feet down on the mattress, her toes just curling over the edge. She let her legs relax, spraddling as a clear come-to-dinner invitation.

I figured if time was of the essence, I’d better get cracking. I leaned forward with my face just above her pussy and inhaled deeply through my nose. That wonderful briney, musky aroma stimulated something deep and primeval in my brain.

I pressed my open mouth onto her pussy and began to lick. Trish exclaimed, “Oh, yeah; that’s it. That’s it, Baby!”

I placed my hands on her lower belly, my fingers pointing upward on either side of her camel toes. I spread her labia with my thumbs, giving me unfettered access to her vaginal opening and clit. I licked up and down her shaft and sucked on her clitoral helmet.

Trish rose up on her elbows and forearms, instructing me, “Harder, faster.”

I stood up for better leverage. With my left hand, I applied pressure just above her pubis. I slid my right social finger into her amazingly wet vaginal and curled the tip against her G-spot. With the thumb, I made small circles up and down her clit.

I watched her body language and facial expressions.

She began to mouth breathe, her chest and small breasts heaving up and down. Trish closed her eyes, opened them briefly, then held them tightly closed. She bit her lower lip.

Trish used her elbows to raise her upper body farther into a partial crunch. I could clearly see her abs contracting.

Then all movement ceased. She held her breath for one, two, three seconds. I knew she was close, very close.

And then she came.

Trish loudly exhaled an unintelligible growling “ugh” sound that exploded from her mouth. She heaved farther upright, almost sitting. She squeezed her thighs tightly together, trapping my right long finger in her spasming vagina.

Trish held this frozen position for a few seconds; then whispered, “Don’t move, too sensitive.” I left my finger buried in her cunt, but stopped diddling her G-spot. I leaned forward and kissed her. There was drool leaking down her left chin.

Her orgasm abating, Trish relaxed. She leaned backward, once again with her back on the mattress. She sighed, then smiled. “That was so good, but I need you to fuck me. Give me a little room.”

I eased my long finger out of her hoochie and stepped back. She grabbed a pillow and to my surprise, slid down off the bed and assumed the doggy position. She stood with her legs spread, her sweet little ass stuck out proudly. She leaned forward on the mattress with her face and arms on the pillow.

I assumed the position. I placed my left hand on her pelvic wing. I spit into my right palm and added the saliva to my precum-dripping cock head for added lubrication.

I fisted my sausage and began running its tip up and down her taint, finally pausing at the entrance to her vagina. I began to apply pressure.

Trish abruptly stiffened, throwing her right hand back around her hip to my fisted meat.

She whispered, “Tate, I want it; but not there. I won’t cheat on my husband.”

“Huh?” I asked.

Trish answered the question nonverbally by redirecting the tip of my cock to her pink rosebud.