Something for the weekend. Chapter 1 - Sex Stories

Something for the weekend. Chapter 1

... She pulled her phone from the front of her bag and plugged in her earpiece, that way should her husband start to complain loudly then it wouldn't be audible to those around her. He would have to feed, bathe and put the twins to bed tonight without her help and his plans for golfing tomorrow morning would have to be put on hold unless he could get the neighbours to come in and sit with the twins, all of which would really piss him off, especially if he had endured a another bad day at work. She was right. He'd had a crap day in the factory judging by the tone of his voice when he answered the phone and was now royally pissed off that her flight was cancelled and he was letting her know it when she was jostled by someone squeezing past. "I'm sorry, excuse me," apologised the man. She raised her eyes and gave him an acknowledging look as he passed. It was the guy from the front of the queue, although he was slightly older than she had guessed when she first saw him standing laughing with the desk clerk. She imagined someone in their late twenties judging by his attire, skinny black jeans, black vans, white tee and black waistcoat so it was a bit of a surprise to find that he was probably about forty, the same age as her. She noticed the pierced eyebrow as he passed, Nothing like trying to hang on to your youth she thought with a smile. She gave him a backwards glance as he moved away. Nice bum too. A fleeting thought that he might be in the same hotel as her tonight passed as ...

... quickly as it entered her head, only to be replaced by the realisation that her husband had asked her a question twice and she still hadn't answered. "Sorry, sweetie," she tried to pacify him. "I got distracted for a second, what did you say?" *** He grinned to himself as he took a long pull on the bottle of cold beer he'd ordered to go with his evening meal that night, 'a succulent rack of ribs cooked over an open flame in a traditional southern style sticky BBQ sauce,' was how the menu had described it. The remains on his plate were definitely more boil in the bag than open flame cooked and he correctly guessed the furthest south the sticky sauce made it was Birmingham, West Midlands and not Birmingham, Alabama. This wasn't how his fantasy of being a seasoned traveller was supposed to pan out. He wanted to be the man in a linen suit alighting the Rome bound express from Venice, his soft brown leather holdall cut from the same hide as his shoes, his Wayfarer sunglasses allowing him to pass anonymously through the crowd, heading to the capital for a weekend break before he carried on down the Amalfi coast to his villa perched high on the side of the hills giving him a stunning view of the glistening waters of the Mediterranean. The reality on this Good Friday evening was a creased shirt pulled from the bottom of his carry on bag and pressed on the trouser press in his room to smarten it up before heading, not to some shaded café off St Mark's square to sip cappuccino but, to an ...