The Disillusioned Man
Copyright© 2016 by harry lime
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - The flavor of life on the edge had pushed him to a jaded shell of a man without anticipation. His take charge attitude had changed to a passive reactive state of mind that accepted things without question.
My head was down and my center of focus was on the scotch neatly sitting in the sparkling clean shot glass from the Hotel Continental. Their logo was distinctly advertised on the side in an obscene display of commercialism that was a far more simplistic way of retaining their inventory, than in drumming up new business.
The hotel bar was sparsely populated at only two in the afternoon.
There was a new bartender. It looked like they were breaking in a female for the position and using the afternoon slack period to give her some breathing room. The service girl was none too happy about the competition; even though it was unlikely any of the bar-flies, including yours truly, were interested in pussy this early in the day. I was there for one reason only and that was sitting in the pretty glass right in front of me.
I hadn’t touched it yet, but there was a reason for that.
Yep! That’s right; I was one of those reformed booze-hounds that had to have it, no matter the time of day or night. Sometimes, I would just order a drink and look at it for a long time, before walking away from it, like I had just won a victory of some uncertain nature.
I recognized the service girl from a previous trip into the war-troubled country. My memory was not as sharp as it used to be, but I remembered that she hadn’t objected to taking it from behind. That put her in my memory book because most of the gorgeous dames that worked in these jobs were looking more for husbands, than for making a quick buck on their back. They mostly steered clear of me, because I exuded that spoor of a disillusioned man with the female gender on my shit-list of people to avoid. It didn’t matter to me, because these days I was more in tune with completing the mission, than in romantic relationships, that never seemed to go anywhere.
The service girl’s name-tag gave her the name of “Miss Phu”, but in my hazy memories that didn’t sound right at all. I seemed to remember her using the name “Belle” and pretending to be of French heritage, despite her lovely Eurasian beauty. I knew she had recognized me, but pretended that I was a perfect stranger in a polite and respectful manner. It was quite a difference than when she was pleading with me to stop spanking her resolutely, whilst I had her stretched in perfect tautness across my knee in the presidential suite.
I didn’t care if she wanted to be a “Miss Phu” or to be the mysterious French filly called “Belle”. My only concern was that she was only a coincidence and not some part of an opposition plan to cause me physical harm on my assignment. It was difficult to assess, because she was being tight-lipped and inscrutable. I never was very good at reading deviousness on the part of females. Because of that fact, I made it SOP (Standard Operating Procedure) to presume all females to be duplicitous and not to be trusted under any circumstances. I know it sounds terribly paranoid, but my checkered past was mute testimony to my lack of resistance to feminine wiles. I tended to fall victim to the urges of my raging libido and shameful ready acceptance of close personal relations without the benefit of proper “vetting”. I knew it was a weakness and a chink in my armor that put me at a disadvantage time and again, but it took painful losses to accept it as a fact no longer to be ignored.
Belle was one of those weak moments, but, at least, she hadn’t managed to bite me in the ass as yet. Lately, I had kept my sporadic trysts to female members of my own unit or other cleared personnel from one of the bases I worked on from time to time. Civilian pussy was out of the question on this assignment, because the mission was one of those high-profile deals that had the high mucky-mucks watching every development with nervous trigger fingers.
My self-described drinking problem was a pain in the ass, but I guess a lot of the people doing my line of business succumbed to the ordeal at some point in their life. Mine had snuck up on me after my crazy marriage to a mixed-blood nurse with an addiction to morphine and a yen for booze that made most men look like a bunch of cunts with no balls.
I realized I sunk down as low as possible, when I woke up in the car with a can of beer in my hand. Shortly after that, I shit-canned my crazy second spouse because she refused to go to rehab with me and get rid of the habit that was destroying the both of us. The last I heard she was living with some black ex-con that was keeping her under control with her morphine supply. It was a sad story but one that I was happy to be out of the picture once and for all.
That was almost five years ago and it seemed almost like yesterday. The past five years were a blur of different women that never lasted more than a weekend and that was just fine with me. I came close to getting serious with a courier from MI-6 in some Godforsaken province on the edge of Sahara desert, but she was put down by a stray bullet from friendly forces. At least, that was according to the after-action report from the official MI-6 party line. Personally, I had my doubts about that, because those pricks were the type that apologized just before they put a third eye in your head on their way to tea and crumpets.
Anyway, here I was in the hotel Continental, sitting at the almost deserted bar, staring at the scotch in the glass and not lifting it to my lips in abject surrender to my former addiction. The pretty bartender looked at me with visible pity in her eyes. She probably had seen it all and knew the torment in my closeness to my downfall. I gave her the once over on the Q-tee taking in the sweeping curves of her nubile buttocks and her cleavage showing lots of skin on the top. Her badge gave her name as “Miss Oh”, bringing a smile to my face, because it brought the thought of anal antics to mind at a time, when I was merely trying to blend in and maintain my cover.
Between Miss Oh and Miss Phu, I was getting that old familiar feeling and decided it would be a good time to wander out to the pool and cool off without actually getting into the clear blue water. It was a lot more crowded at the pool and the service girls were flitting around like a bunch of little honey bees’, bringing treats and drinks to the esteemed guests. They were all wearing the skimpiest of bikinis, but there was no objection to the expanse of female flesh from the paying customers. I was sucking down a lemonade poolside with an English language newspaper on my lap when a mature woman with skin darker than any momentary tan sat down next to me and ordered a double martini. The fact that she did it in English with a distinctive “posh” accent was not lost on me and I did my best to check her out without being obvious.
I estimated her to be over forty, but I was uncertain how far over that magic number. She was most likely wealthy, because the staff was overly respectful of her and bowed with unusual grace and sincerity.
She was definitely not my type.
“May I borrow your newspaper when you are finished with it, young man?”
I tried to hide my smile, because I was not used to being called “young man” by any woman, other than my Aunt Maggie. My Aunt Maggie was a rough and tumble sort of female and she was without a doubt a far better shot than I with almost every caliber firearm.
“Certainly, my name is Mark Knight and I must tell you not to believe a single word in this paper, because it is all opinionated trash from editors with their own agenda.”
She pushed her dark glasses down on the bridge of her long pointed nose and gave me one of those looks that make you think you are on an auction block put up at minimum bid.
I was disappointed that she was wearing one of the hotel long robes distributed to the patrons that feared the rays of the sun as a cancer-producing agent. Of course, the younger crowd of bikini and speedo covered bottoms gloried in the direct sunlight like cult followers blinded by instant gratification.
In my case, I used a heavy lathering of sun-block even though my skin cancer horse was already out of the barn and on the loose. It gave me a sense of “doing something” about the situation and I felt a lot more in control than reality warranted.
She must have liked what she saw on the chaise lounge inside my tight swimming trunks because I saw her pretty pink pointed tongue shoot out like a gecko on speed and moisten her overly puffed lips with seductive slowness. Her voice cut through my layers of resistance like a samurai sword though a block of butter.
“Thank you, young man, or should I say, Dear Mark? I am the Duchess of Lancaster, when I am at home, but here, I am just another bored housewife with an absentee husband. This lemonade is nothing in comparison to my home-grown variety up in my suite. This is such a boring afternoon, do you not agree? Would you care to join me in a game of backgammon and you can tell me all about these dreadful editors on this rag of a newspaper?”
Actually, it was her sultry voice and her lack of pressure that convinced me she was sincere in her offer. I had nothing better to do and I had no intention of getting involved with any of the young chicks floating around the lobby and the pool area like trained sharks ready to pounce on any gullible tourist.
I followed her into the tiny elevator and inhaled the rich scent of her French perfume. It was the real thing straight from Paris and I was certain it had cost her husband a fortune, if he was the one that paid for it. I still hadn’t seen her figure under the hotel robe so I didn’t know if I was feeling the anticipation of promising sex or just a good game of backgammon with a pleasant conversationalist.
Her petite Cantonese maid poured the wonderful raspberry flavored lemonade and we sat on the screened veranda overlooking the pool on full length padded lounge chairs with half covers on top to ward off any stray rays of nasty sunshine. I guess she was as hot on that subject as I had become in recent years due to my own problems in that area. When I saw her sexy body minus the shielding robe, I marveled at how young she looked for her supposed age. She had already insinuated to me that she was old enough to be my mother, but I sincerely doubted that after seeing her magnificent perky breasts. They were firm and taut in the afternoon light and the faint impression of her impressive nipples stood out proud and defined under the thin swim suit material.
Her crowning glory was her long, delicately curved legs that marched up to her soft welcoming center with visible camel-toe nestled in the cradle of her pubic mound. I did my best not to ogle her womanhood, but I was able to quickly discern that she was fully shaven down below and I found that to be of erotic appeal to my personal preferences.
The Duchess won the game and she told me that I would have to now pay my debt of fulfilling her wish. I had thought she was joking when we made the wager, but she was without a smile when she demanded payment.
“Young man, you will have to get down on your knees, it is not going to lick itself, you know.”
I had to chuckle at her forthright attitude and figured what was good for the goose was good for the gander. Besides, the combination of the French perfume and the hairless area of operation made for easy work in a pleasant environment. Soon, the Duchess was panting like a common tramp and I was playing with her smooth flanks with complete abandon without any objections from her genteel nature. It was beginning to look like the start of an interesting friendship. I was sure it would be based on down to earth attitudes and none of the phony hidden agendas that turned me off completely.
Perhaps, it was time to slow down and smell the roses.