Remittance Girl's Kinky States of Mind: An Erotica Writing Challenge
And as a reminder, Da Rules:Have a go at writing the exact same sex act, using nothing but the tone of language and the POV of the narrator to present it as either kinky or vanilla.
Vacation Eyes
By Brewt
April 2012
Beauty, my ass. My allergies assaulted me from the moment we landed; they did not like it here one little bit. This was nothing like the Voluspa candle the Johnsons burned for us when they showed us their slides. The evening was the usual boredom that someone else's vacation show always is, but my husband was so enthused about it, a week later, he announced we were going.
It was hard to get work arranged, and get the cat cared for, and get the house cleaned up enough because who would want to come home to a mess, but we finally got out of bed early on the day, the big day---way too damn early for my taste---to catch the flight. It was horrible. The shuttle stank and it was cold and I spilled my coffee, we were delayed on the tarmac for an eternity, the seats were uncomfortable and hit me wrong and made my back hurt and as we flew I fretted all morning long about about what I had packed and didn't pack until somewhere over the west coast, I realized I didn't have a swimsuit, of all things. Shit.
What kind of a moron goes to the tropics without a swimsuit? At least I would get to shop a little before we went to the beach.
This was just not what the brochures claimed. The airport was stuffy, it was hot, the cab ride was terrifying---I had never been so maniacal-toon-vehicled through any traffic jam like that before, and I never want it to happen again. I'd rather walk. And shit, dinner? Yuck. Nothing I could eat: I hate sushi and seafood in general, and it was all I could do to keep the chicken down that smelled like it had been brined in the ocean for a week before they half-assedly-cooked it over, what did they use, a book of matches? Good god. Never mind the argument over the check.
The room was not clean, and the bathroom was not quite disgusting enough to get me to take a dump over the rail of the balcony instead of risking whatever infectious disease was growing in there, but almost.
So, when my husband was drinking on the balcony at dusk---stupid hotel, facing us this way---while I determined there was nothing on tv, big surprise, I really really was regretting coming here. I wanted to go home. I finally gave up on the boob tube and stepped out to join him. Tried to find a little kindling for some hope. Anything.
My situation did not improve.
"Wh-what are you doing?"
Oh, I could tell what he was doing. His cock was out.
"Quiet." He pointed down.
"I'm pretty sure...oh my god. You disgusting pervert." I krinkled my nose at him.
He was pointing to a room several floors below us in another building that had all the lights on, and the blinds open, and there was a couple on the bed. I did not want to look, shit, how invasive, and I took my glasses off so I at least couldn't see clearly. Didn't want to see. I don't think he noticed.
"That, that is what we came here for. So sit down and watch. Might learn something. Besides, they know. Of course they know. That's why it's open: for all of us to see."
This was insane. It was fucking wrong. "I am not comfortable with this." He muttered and glared at me, and I knew he wasn't going to offer me a choice. I took a deep breath, and sat. I couldn't bear to see him unhappy with me, not even when this sort of thing overtook him, god, he was so judgmental of what went on in our bedroom, comparing me to all the fucking pornstars he made me watch, that I was to the point that I would just give in and lay there while he did his business. I was not seeing much of a difference here; the porn is just further away than the tv is from our bed back home. Great. Just fucking great.
This was not what I wanted on my vacation. I was hoping for a vacation, a vacation from...from...that. I was such a fool.
I couldn't bear to face him, and he had made me watch enough porn that I knew I could at least tolerate this; they were mercifully a little blurry. It's not like so many of the ladies I know back home who would rather fling themselves off the ledge here than suffer watching their way through what I have been made too suffer too often, much too often. I hate the idea that I've become desensitized to it.
"My god; what he's doing to her."
Nearsightedness is my friend sometimes, but there was unfortunately enough definition that I could still understand what was going on in the room below. I didn't have to see. This was just the sort of thing my husband made me watch with him that he would then try to act out on that I have no interest in, that clearly doesn't do anything for me, and why can't he see that?
I know I probably only imagined it this way, yeah yeah, too much fucking porn in my head, but it kinda looked like the woman might have been tied up. And it looked like the man was raping the shit out of her. She thrashed about as he assaulted her, and it terrified me. She couldn't stay still, and her hands didn't move right; this was no casual just-get-through-it rape; he had to be hurting her. No question. I could almost believe that I could hear that she was screaming her lungs out. I was ready to call the police when suddenly it was over.
I was out of breath; I couldn't breathe through my nose, and I know I was noisy. I dared not look away. I knew my husband was watching me watch them right then, and I knew what was going to happen later. Soon. God, it could be any second now. I quivered.
I hated these two. Him for the horrors he was wreaking onto her, and her for letting it happen, for letting herself get into this position. I could just see it: come on, it'll be fun, I won't hurt you, I promise.
Motherfucker.
I know. I should hate my husband instead of strangers we're spying on. Working on that.
Somehow, they switched places. It happened quickly, so maybe it was handcuffs he had her affixed to the bed with. Maybe not. Couldn't tell, didn't want to know.
He yanked her head down onto his crotch, and forced her to do what men have been forcing women to do forever. And she continued to thrash the way I know I do when it happens to me. I wanted to cry. And it went on for-fucking-ever until he finally yanked her head up, holding her where there could be only one thing happening to her. And he held her there long, too long, and she kept flinching and flinching and there was only one thing he could be doing to her to make it go on that long; I wanted to throw up.
I raised my eyes to the sky, not moving my head---wouldn't want to risk getting caught not looking at what my dear heart bastard wanted me to see---and I prayed for the woman in the room across the way who had been cursed with the beauty that led to th---GOD DAMN YOU YOU FUCKING BITCH! Don't do that! No! No! No nodding! Don't cuddle him, don't assure him that whatever the hell he just did to you was alright! Resist! Put up a fight!
Don't you understand, you doormat?
My husband will want that now.
Change of plan. I prayed for myself. Dear God, please spare me from this purgatory now, what have I done to deserve this. Because the ledge is calling my name.
When I felt my husband's hand on my shoulder, I understood my fate and the abandonment of angels, and I called myself a coward under my breath as I stood to submit to it.
###
The wonderful mix of the orchids, plumerias, and the ocean was nothing like the muscari candle our friends had burned for us before we left home; this was much better. Stepping off the plane was like diving into a different world. The arid chill we had left at home was replaced by an immersive environment that felt vaguely like a swimming pool, but wasn't chemical; it was natural. Magic. Dreamworld.
The weather was perfect. And yes, I know, there's nowhere it actually is, at least, not for very long at a time, but the forecast was consistent: 72 degrees all day, every day, high humidity, sure, but that didn't bother me a bit. I could get used to this.
The cab to the hotel was boisterous and exciting, and dinner was fabulous, even if I did forgot my credit card there and had to race back. She gave me all kinds of hell for that.
The only thing that could be deemed a flaw was that our room didn't face the beach. We faced the mountains and all the other hotels faced us; from the seventeenth floor, it was a little dizzying. I did find a silver lining: sunrise would be spectacular.
As the evening slipped by and it was getting darker, I was sitting on the patio, sipping the drink from the minibar, enjoying the view as the sunlight diminished and the artificials of the city all started coming on. The hotels in the tourist district were not packed, but there were lots of rooms that were lit up, and I played connect-the-dots games in my head, making triangles and squares and funny shaped stars.
There was a room across the way in another building that didn't have the blinds closed, several floors below us, and once I could finally focus enough to see in, my first thought was that I shouldn't be looking. The couple were making love, but vacations make for the allowance of at least a little sin---sometimes---and I couldn't look away.
My breath got quieter and I felt some other things start to rummage around inside me as well, and I was finding it hard to blink.
"What are you doing?"
"Shh, shh, shh. Keep it quiet. Down there. See?"
"I'm pretty sure no one can hear us---oh my god. You disgusting pervert." She smiled.
"Yeah, yeah, we're on vacation. And who are you going to report me to? They didn't close their blinds, I didn't open them. I mean look. How can they not know?"
"This is not making me comfortable."
"Come on, sit here with me, would you? We're not hurting anyone, and they're closer to the draw of their room than we are. It'll be okay; enjoy this with me. Please."
My wife hesitantly sat down in the other chair on the balcony just out of reach for me to hold her hand, and tried not to look, but eventually, her own curiosity got the better of her, and she turned to face the east.
"My god; what he's doing to her."
The couple were right at it; there was no question as to what was going on. He was on top and he was fucking her, he was fucking her hard, and she was loving it. Her arms fell off him and then climbed back up onto him, repeatedly. She would reach up to pull him down, egging him on, and he would cover her. There was a passion going on below that was what we came here for. She thrashed. She threw her head back and arched her back, over and over again, and it was beautiful. Two people expressing their love with enthusiasm, hang the rest of us, this is how we feel.
The man was a machine, thrusting, pumping, giving everything he had to the woman, and she accepted it all, drawing him in, and even though we couldn't hear them, I had no question as to what the sounds in the room were like: god, yes, fuck me, I love you, I'm going to cum, grunts, moans, swearing, uh uhh uhhhh uhhhhh. The man stopped moving, looking straight up with his mouth open and had all the tension of the act pour out and into her and it was everywhere.
No question.
My own mouth was open, and the fragrant dense atmosphere was keeping my mouth from becoming dry. I looked over to my beloved, and saw that she looked like me: stiff, erect, wide-eyed, unable to breathe. Her mouth was hanging open, too. I was gratified that she finally succumbed, that she finally gave in and accepted it and couldn't look away. I smiled, and fell in love with my wife again.
When we would sometime try to sneak a porno in at home, the same thing would happen. She'd fuss and fume and carry on about how awful it was, and then she'd come on to me like a tiger, like a freight train, like gangbusters. It was a secret I wasn't supposed to know about her.
I gazed back down, back down to the show, and they had switched places. He was lying down, and the woman was hunched over his stomach. No, wait, a little lower than that. His hand was tangled into the skein of her hair, and her head started slowly moving up and down.
They weren't done yet.
The woman bobbed and rolled her head round, and the man was watching her, and I was watching her, and my wife was watching her, and everyone on this side of the resort had to be watching her and all the men had to have erections like I did which somehow had gotten out and all the women had to be wet like I knew my wife just had to be, and we were all quiet, reverent, inspired, moved.
It was hard to see; I couldn't imagine any man not having the erection of his life he had to have in her mouth, her beautiful mouth, it had to be beautiful, she was so fucking beautiful. Look at her hair, her body, her hands touching him everywhere, her breasts would flash around on occasion and it was erotic as hell. He pet her, he stroked her, and he, like the rest of us, was grateful to her.
She pulled her head back suddenly, and we knew what was happening. This was it. She had done it; she had gotten him to cum again. She was letting him finish on her, on her face, her breasts, shooting toward her mouth. She motioned a few times like she was trying to catch something in the air. Her submission was beautiful. We were watching love. Passion. Rapture. Joy.
I looked over at my own beloved, as I knew all the men were doing right now to their own, and even though I knew that not all of us in the hotel were first-timers like we were, we all had the same idea. I could feel it.
We were all about to make love in paradise. For us, for my wife and I, it would be the first time. This was what we came here for: to reconnect. I put my hand on her shoulder, and she turned to me.
I wished I knew how to thank the man, to thank the angel he had with him, to admire them and extend my appreciation to them for starting off our vacation right. Maybe we'll see them at breakfast. Not that I would know them dressed.
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