Chapter 2: The bar's low lighting catches the outline of Bob's monstrous cock straining against his slacks as he 'trips', pressing it against Jane's arm - her sharp intake of breath and flushed cheeks tell Will everything he needs to know.
The bar was a cave of amber light and low ceilings. Jane smoothed her dress, a simple black thing Will had said made her look dangerous, as they settled into a booth. Will’s hand was warm on her thigh, possessive.
“Business trip,” he’d said. “Might be dull. But we’ll make our own fun later.” His wink was a familiar promise.
She’d smiled, thinking of the camera waiting back in their suite, the thrilling weight of its unblinking eye. She’d replayed their last session in her mind all afternoon, the memory of her own gasped instructions—“Lower, baby, get it lower…”—making her shift in her seat.
A man approached the bar beside their booth, ordering a bourbon. He was older, solidly built, with a worn leather jacket and close-cropped grey hair. Will noticed him first.
“Evening,” the man said, his voice a gravelly rumble. He gave a curt nod that encompassed them both. His eyes, pale and assessing, lingered on Jane for a fraction of a second too long.
“Evening,” Will returned, easy, conversational. “Waiting for someone?”
“Just me, myself, and I,” the man said. “Bob.”
“Will. This is my wife, Jane.”
“A pleasure,” Bob said, and his smile was genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He didn’t try to shake hands. He just stood there, leaning against the polished wood, a picture of relaxed solitude. He asked about the city, about their stay, his questions peppered with dry wit. He was a good talker. Charming, in a rugged, no-nonsense way. Will engaged him, and Jane listened, sipping her martini, enjoying the harmless buzz of a stranger’s attention.
When her glass was empty, Bob gestured to the bartender. “Let me get you another. For the company.”
“Oh, you don’t have to,” Jane said, but Will gave her thigh a squeeze.
“Be rude to refuse, sweetheart.”
Bob slid onto the stool at the end of their booth, turning to face them, one booted foot planted on the floor. As he shifted, the well-worn denim of his jeans pulled taut across his thigh. And there, unmistakable, was a heavy, thick line of flesh resting against the inner seam, tracing a staggering path down towards his knee. It wasn’t an aggressive bulging. It was a casual, indifferent display of sheer mass, a lazy serpent sleeping in its den.
Jane’s gaze, drifting downward during a lull in the conversation, snagged on it. Her breath hitched. She blinked. She tried to look away, at the painting of a ship on the wall, at the ice in her new drink, but her eyes kept being dragged back. It was impossible. It was obscene. A flush of heat, sudden and profound, swept up her neck and into her cheeks. Her mouth went dry.
“You alright, Jane?” Will asked, his voice laced with mild concern.
“Hmm? Yes. Fine. Just… warm.” She brought her glass to her lips, her hand not quite steady. Her mind was scrambling. It had to be a trick of the light, a shadow. But no. As Bob leaned forward to place his own glass down, the denim tightened further, outlining the blunt, thick head, the prominent veins. It was real. It was… monumental.
A vivid, unwelcome image flashed in her mind: the feel of that in her hand, the weight of it. The stretch. A bolt of pure, electric lust, sharp and shameful, stabbed through her core, so intense it made her clench her thighs together under the table. Her own fingers, as if with a will of their own, began a slow, subtle rub against the black silk of her dress, right over her mound. She was grateful for the table hiding her treasonous body.
Bob’s eyes flickered to hers. He hadn’t missed her staring. A knowing, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He didn’t adjust himself. He didn’t hide. He just let it be seen, this incredible, silent fact of him.
“So, you two in town for long?” Bob asked, his tone still casual, but his pale eyes held Jane’s now with a new, disquieting intensity.
“Just the weekend,” Will answered. Jane could only nod, her throat tight.
“Sometimes a weekend is all you need,” Bob said. His gaze dropped pointedly to where her hand was still subtly moving under the table, then back to her face. “For things to get interesting.”
The implication hung in the smoky air between them. Jane felt dizzy. This was wrong. This was a stranger. And Will was right here. But the heat between her legs was a throbbing counterargument, fed by the secret she was keeping from her own husband just a foot away. The memory of the camera, of her own performative moans for Will, clashed violently with this raw, silent craving for something she’d never seen, never imagined wanting.
“I should…” she started, her voice a husk. “The ladies’ room.”
She slid out of the booth, her legs unsteady. She didn’t look at Bob as she passed, but she felt the heat of his gaze on her back, like a physical touch. In the cool, tiled sanctuary of the restroom, she braced her hands on the sink, staring at her flushed reflection. Her pupils were huge, dark pools of want.
What are you doing? she asked the wild-eyed woman in the mirror. She thought of Will’s thick, familiar cock, the one that filled her so perfectly. Then her mind treacherously supplied an image of Bob’s, that impossible thickness, the insane length, pushing against her, into her. A shuddering moan escaped her lips. Her fingers, now damp from the sink, trailed down over her stomach, slipping under the waistband of her panties. She was soaked. Absolutely fucking drenched. Two fingers slid through her slick folds, and she gasped, her hips jerking forward. She pictured him. Bob. In a room. Just them. Him kneeling before her, that monstrous thing in his hand, watching her as she touched herself for him. The fantasy was vivid, paralyzing.
She came in less than a minute, a sharp, silent orgasm that buckled her knees, her forehead pressed against the cool glass of the mirror. Guilt flooded in instantly, cold and nauseating. She had just gotten herself off thinking about another man’s cock while her husband, who had given her this entire world of pleasure, sat unsuspecting in the bar.
She fixed her dress, reapplied her lipstick with a trembling hand, and walked back out, the aftermath of her secret climax a liquid ache between her legs.
They were still talking. Will looked up, smiling. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” she said, forcing brightness into her tone. She slipped back into the booth, careful to keep a respectful distance from Bob’s side.
Bob finished his drink. He stood, the formidable outline in his jeans now at her eye level. He placed a card on the table. Not a business card. A plain, white key card for the hotel.
“It was a genuine pleasure,” he said, his eyes boring into Jane’s. “I’m in room 814. Until ten tomorrow, if anyone wants a nightcap.” His gaze flicked to Will, then back to her. “No expectations. Just an open door.”
He walked away, the heavy, deliberate sound of his boots fading. Jane stared at the key card as if it were a live wire. Will picked it up, turning it over in his fingers.
“Interesting guy,” Will said, his voice carefully neutral.
“Will, I… that was…” Jane couldn’t find the words.
“I saw,” Will said softly. He reached over and took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “I saw you looking. I saw how wet your lips got. How your breathing changed.”
She flinched. “I didn’t mean…”
“Shhh.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “It’s just looking, sweetheart. It’s just a… fantasy. It doesn’t mean anything.” But his eyes were dark, watchful. Excited. “Unless,” he said, his thumb stroking her palm, “you want it to mean something.”
He let the words hang. He let the key card sit between them on the table. The laptop was upstairs. The camera was upstairs. The sanctuary of their bedroom, with its gold and crimson hues, waited. But now, superimposed over it, was the image of a plain white door. Room 814.
Jane looked from her husband’s knowing, encouraging face to the key card. The throbbing between her legs, momentarily sated, began anew, a deep, insistent pulse. It wasn’t just a fantasy anymore. It was a choice, sitting right there on the polished wood. And she had no idea, as the low music of the bar swirled around them, which one of them she was more afraid of disappointing.