I’m Isabelle, 25 then, married a year to Eric. 1.73m tall, 63kg, brunette. Only fucked him. No real blowjobs, no anal dreams, though he’d begged. Honeymoon trip to Thailand with him and our best friends. Days touring temples, beaches. Then Bangkok free afternoon. Guys crave Thai massages. We debate, cave. Cab from our airport hotel—suitcases zipped in room, keycard in my purse, runway lights blinking outside window, jet roars echoing. Anonymity hits: no one knows us here. Tomorrow’s flight home.
Parlor entrance buzzes. Soft option. One-way glass: pick masseuses. Mine’s young, gentle. Lockers: bikini bottoms, thin robe. All four in one room. Tables with three guys getting rubbed, eyes devour me. Regret bites. Her hands melt tension. Oils slick skin, thumbs dig knots. Pure bliss. Guys grin, hard-ons tented towels. I get it now.
The Stopover Arrival
Session ends. ‘Relaxation room?’ Steamy hammam, dark corners, misty air. 30 bodies: couples groping, lone women, packs of men. Keep two girls. Our nook shadowed, safe-ish. Robes loose. Eric pulls me close, tongues tangle. His girl strokes chest, thighs. Soft turns hot. She kisses down torso, robe parts, hand dives into bottoms, yanks cock free. Lips wrap it. Slow suck. He kisses me harder, ignores.
I grip his shaft, help her rhythm. Odd thrill. ‘Like it, love?’ ‘Fuck yes. You?’ ‘Kinda.’ ‘Suck me.’ Heart races. I slide down. She yields. Cock throbs in mouth—first deep try. Awkward, but he moans. He gropes her naked tits, French kisses. Ten minutes alternating. Eyes shut, he floats.
Side-lying, legs tucked, head on belly, sucking. Hand grazes thigh. Surge. Not Eric. Not her. Freeze. Brain screams slap. Body betrays. Fingers creep robe, claim ass. She passes cock. I bend, suck hungry. Hand pries thighs. Panic. Pussy exposed.
She spots shadow-man, takes over. Eric blind. Stranger pushes. I kneel, ass up, devouring husband. Fingers invade pussy, pinch tits. Robe hikes. Cockhead nudges slit—slides in. Thrusts pound. New high. Suck fierce, eyes lock Eric’s shock.
He sees: shy wife railed by ghost. I wink, take him deep. Stranger rubs ass, probes. Lube? No. Pushes anus. Burn rips. Virgin ass. Agony flips pleasure. He lifts, cock stays buried. Eric stares, hostess swallows his load. Fingers my clit, confirms anal truth.
The Steamy Transit
I cum hard. Side-lay, stranger in ass. Legs splay. Eric slides pussy. Double stuffed. Worlds collide. Explosions sync. Four orgasms mine, two his. Exhausted. Stranger rigid.
‘I love you.’ ‘Me too.’ Pause. ‘He ain’t cum?’ ‘Nope. I handle?’ ‘Ok.’ Flip. Impale on him. Kiss frantic. He wants tits out. Robe falls. Exposed. Eyes everywhere? Close mine. Arch. Fondle balls. Rhythm builds. Another hand—new guy strokes tits, jerks. Cum sprays face, chest. Push away.
Stranger holds. Kiss trail: neck, chest, belly. Gobble cock. Two hours edging. Balls tight. Deepthroat pro. Swells. Groan. Pull off—rope hits face. Grabs head, forces. Gags flood throat. Swallow. Rear guy rams ass raw. Cum again. Push him off.
Rise. Robe clings, cum-streaked. Men circle, stroking. Eyes burn. Spot Eric with friends. Later: they jerked watching, mutual rubs, orgasms. Vestiaire dash. Shower quick. Hotel cab. Keycard beeps door. Suitcases wait. Flight dawn.
Five years on, replays nightly. Hottest ever. Jealous of partner’s pleasure? Don’t. Unlocked doors for us. Still love him wilder.