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by Mike Logan (paladin_svcs@yahoo.com)


It was a clear and bitingly frosty night in the early days of autumn. He lay on his back atop the hill watching the stars. The Milky Way split the dome of the dark blue sky in half. The moon was new, rendering the heavens especially vivid. Once in a while, a meteor streaked across the sky, a speck of dust or pebble done with its ride through space, blazing silently through the Earth's atmosphere on its self-destructive path to extermination.

He felt like one of those meteors that night. Once again, an evening with blazing erotic promise had ended in an unspectacular fizzle and disappointing burn out. What was wrong? Was it a physical problem? Had he fallen out of love and tumbled out of passion? Was he tired? Maybe, he posited more analytically, the idea of leaving the big city to open this damned bed and breakfast together was the slayer of their passion. Each day ended in fatigue, frayed nerves and, inevitably a polar bedtime. The bottom line was that his cock had betrayed him for the eighth time in less than a month.

Maybe, he reasoned to himself, once the place was established, then it would be as they'd hoped it would. Bliss. Wendy had left the governor's office, sick to death about writing lies for a hopeless sleazeball and a salary nearing six digits. Greg had left the joys of managing La Maison d'Alouette and filling in for its drunken sot of a cook, Jean-Pierre, whenever the Frenchman felt like polishing off a case of the restaurant's pinot noire.

They'd been together as a couple for a few months more than a year, growing closer and closer to commitment as they each wandered in disillusion further and further from their respective careers.

One lovely weekend in October, they decided to leave the city and their onerous occupations behind for a long Columbus Day weekend in New England. The foliage was at its glorious peak. Armed with a paperback guide to bed and breakfasts, they packed leftovers from the restaurant and headed north. God! The sexual tension on that trip north. They listened to romantic tunes and kept the car warm running the heater on low. Once they entered Connecticut, they couldn't keep their hands off of one another.

At one point, not far from the Maine border, Wendy, all giggles, put her feet up on the dashboard and taunted Greg with a view of her shaved pussy. She didn't seem to care that truck drivers were vying for position, trying to get a look at the erotic sight. It was probably because Wendy kept her eyes on the growing bulge and spreading stain of wetness in Greg's crotch that she paid them no mind at all. But Greg noticed. He left the interstate and swerved onto a local highway. "A little jealous, are we?" Wendy taunted.

"Well, yeah. Sure I am, but this is our turnoff, " he replied with a little bit of a blush.

"Good. You must think I'm a slut. You don't find me a turnoff, do you?"

"Shit, no! But I'm glad these seats are treated cause I might pop at any minute."

"If the sight of my pussy is making you so hot, what do you think would happen if I put a few fingers inside?"

"I think anyone else on the road would be in grave danger and uh I ... uh ... think you'd have to lick up the mess you caused." She'd hoped for but hadn't quite expected that answer. She looked at him. Was he serious? The thought of making him cum by putting on a show for him turned her on more than a little and she could feel her juices trickling steadily down her thigh and ass cheek. She reached under her denim jumper and, making sure he was watching, teased her clit.

With her left hand, she darted a finger inside slowly and to the first knuckle, then deeper until her index finger was completely buried. She withdrew her finger and seductively placed it in her mouth, sucking her nectar gently from the digit. God was she ever wet. She'd come soon, she knew, if she kept this up. Greg, who had been stealing not-too-furtive glances at Wendy while watching his odometer, would have come soon as well with but a mere touch of the woman (or himself).

"There it is! Better close up shop," he shouted. At the entrance to the property, a painted wooden sign announced that they'd reached the bed and breakfast. Even from the dirt road, it was a lovely place, overlooking a quiet, dark pond. A huge old colonial, it had been booked up weeks in advance. The only reason they'd gotten a room at all was only because of the death of one of the establishment's "regulars."

Columbus Day weekend in New England is a hot ticket, with country fairs and fall foliage at their peaks and they'd all but resigned themselves to staying in some seedy motel on the interstate. This place was a bit pricey, even for them, but they were grateful that they wouldn't have to sleep on lumpy mattresses while being serenaded by the roar of trucks all night long. Besides, the guide they'd brought with them gave Sandy Shores four out of five stars, so it was a price they'd gladly paid.

They'd each carried a small suitcase as the gravel driveway crunched beneath their feet, competing with the silence of the forest and pond and an occasional crow's squawk. From a bay window, the owner, a fortysomething widow watched them. The innkeeper, Mrs. Lattimer, was a tall, slender, attractive lady in a tweedy kind of way. She wore her long and thick dark hair in a French braid and was quite a contrast with the short, slim-hipped athletic-looking blonde woman walking up the path.

Mrs. Lattimer was so stricken by the appearance of the woman that she'd not noticed the man. When at last she did, her heart rose up into her mouth. He could have been a twin of Jack, her late husband, with his broad shoulders and dark intense face. She smiled as she noticed the dark blotch in the man's chinos. That was like Jack also. How she missed that big fat cock of his!

Wendy rapped the iron lion's head knocker twice, joking to Greg that she hoped that Marley's ghost would not appear. Greg laughed lamely at her literary joke and Emily Lattimer opened the door.

"You must be the New York couple," she stated smilingly, extending her hand to Wendy, who grasped it, noticing immediately the hand's smooth warmth. Mrs. Lattimer was obviously a woman who took care of her body. Momentarily, she fretted that she'd held onto the innkeeper's hand for too long.

Was it her imagination, or had the woman and she been looking into each other's eyes for a few seconds. Wendy could not deny the eroticism of the moment. Nor, for that matter could Greg, who had his hand extended for the innkeeper to shake. She shook his hand and abruptly let go of it, almost as though the hand she'd taken into her own was a hot iron poker. Yes. The resemblance to the late Mr. Lattimer was shocking.

They signed in, presented their plastic, and were shown to their room that, they were told, was the finest one the inn had to offer. Sandy Shores was a trove of antiques. It smelled of rich, maple wood smoke, as each room had its own woodstove along with a supply of split and seasoned wood to keep away the cold of autumn New England nights. The floors were dark, polished oak, affixed to the foundation with dowels. The wide wooden boards were covered here and there with oriental rugs of deep claret color and intricate design.

To offset the dark of the wooden floors, the walls were papered in a bright yet subdued, beige and gray-striped pattern and punctuated by lighted brass wall sconces. In all, both Wendy and Greg felt transported to a day and age so far removed from the rumble and chaos of their complicated lives that they could, with each step, each feel their stress shedding off and floating into oblivion.

Their room was all that the guidebook had advertised to be. In actuality, it was a suite rather than a single room and was composed of a full bathroom, dressing and sitting area and the bed/living area. A large bay window looked out onto the dark lake that already was carpeted with a flotilla of gold and scarlet leaves. A fire was already lighted in the woodstove, which had a glass window through which they could see the fire flicking and throbbing within.

The stove was directly opposite a queen-sized fourposter and, upon seeing it, both Greg and Wendy got their respective mental fantasy machines going. On either side of the bed and in front of it were luxurious oriental rugs. The three were, for all intents and purposes, a matched set. To the right of the bed was a long dresser, on top of which, affixed to the wall, was an ornate, gilded mirror.

As she showed the couple their lodgings for the long weekend, Emily Lattimer informed them that that mirror had supposedly belonged to Napoleon Bonaparte at one time and that it had been her husband's prized possession.

He'd bought it at an estate auction and he'd installed it there himself. Greg and Wendy exchanged glances. Each, by the knowing look they exchanged, knew that the other was thinking, "I'll bet he put it there himself and I'll bet the two of them really enjoyed having it there. And I'll bet we'll enjoy having it there, too." She showed them the dressing room with the chaise lounge and vanity and the bathroom with its brass fixtures, its huge, claw foot tub and black marble floor. "Just like my apartment, " Greg joked, "minus the roaches, of course."

Emily withdrew a velvet-covered menu from the nightstand, told them the hours dinner would be served and, wishing them a good stay, she left.

As soon at the innkeeper left, they kissed and wandered over to the window. It was after four in the afternoon and they had been driving since nine in the morning. Their fatigue suddenly caught up with them and Greg yawned. The yawn finished, he put his arms tightly around Wendy and, feeling his love pass into his arms, he stroked her hair and pulled her closer. Wendy snickered, then giggled and then began to laugh. This was not the reaction he'd hoped for. "What the hell's so funny?" he demanded.

"You didn't notice?"

"Notice? Notice what? That the two of you were turned on to each other like cats in heat? That?"

"Well, yeah, that. But you didn't notice she was looking at you the whole time she was showing us around the room?"

"No. I thought she was like looking at the floor for dustbunnies or something."

"Really? Come look in the mirror and I'll show you what she was looking at, my big, horny hunk of a guy." They walked over to the mirror. The four-inch diameter wet mark in the groin of his Dockers was unmistakable. "That is what she was staring at. Either you are incontinent or..."

"Ohhh shit. I am embarrassed!!!"

Through the mirror, from inside her apartment/office, Emily Larrimer smiled. This might be a fun weekend after all.