Camille and I bid a hasty farewell to our remaining friends in the hospitality suite, took each other by the hand, and walked quickly to our room. I checked my watch as Camille slid the card key into the door. 12:30. As the door to our room swung open, my theatre training kicked in, taking me by surprise. I began to think atmosphere, wardrobe, positioning. Setting the mood for what Olivia would see and feel when she arrived in thirty minutes. I did not allow myself to consider the possibility that she wouldn’t show.
Camille stepped into the bathroom to freshen up, and I busied myself with tidying up our mess and flicking lights on and off until I found the right balance. The room had a balcony, which was nice, but the ambient light from the world outside was intrusive and harsh. I pulled the curtains tight, surveyed the room once more, and finally allowed myself to get comfortable. As I slipped off my shoes and socks, Camille emerged from the bathroom. It amazes me, sometimes, how we seem to be in the same frame of mind without vocalizing our plans. She wore but two articles of clothing: a short floral silk robe and, as I could see through the nearly translucent fabric, the black thong she had worn under her cocktail dress. Precisely how I would have dressed her, had she asked.
I removed my jacket, watch, tie, belt and slacks, and rolled the sleeves of my white dress shirt to the elbows. I kept on my black boxer-briefs, and smiled at the realization that Camille and I each had on two garments, both quite representative of our gender. The bedside clock radio read 12:50. I poured both of us a drink from the bottles we’d brought along (we are nothing if not frugal), and presented Camille with her bourbon. She smiled broadly, stacked the bed cushions behind her, and settled onto the bed with her Kindle. I admired her ability to relax, under the circumstances, and silently vowed to myself to do the same.
I settled into the big easy chair beside the bed, sipped my scotch, and suddenly understood that the worst case scenario for the night was that I had Camille all to myself. She had turned me on to no end, all evening long, and I was so proud to have her on my arm. For a worst case scenario, that was pretty fucking good. I almost didn’t hear the soft knock at the door, through the fog of my own self-satisfaction. Camille closed the leather cover on her Kindle and put it on the bedside table. On my way to the door, I paused to kiss her deeply. “I think we’re on,” she purred.
Olivia’s own sense of presentation was evident as soon as I opened the door. She had posed herself in the doorway for maximum effect, her right hand high on the door frame and her hips tilted left. Her right foot was crossed in front of her left, and she twirled a small silver zippered purse around and around her left index finger by its strap. I smiled and allowed myself an extra beat to examine her. She wore thin replica baseball jersey, the kind a single woman might sleep in, and though it was thigh-length, I could make out the lace trim of the white boy shorts she wore underneath. Two articles of clothing.
She read something in my eyes and guessed, correctly, “You didn’t think I would come.” She looked both ways down the hotel hallway and, content with what she had seen (or had not seen) walked past me and into our room. She put her left hand on my cheek and let it slip down to my chest as she made her way by. I closed the door, with the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside handle, and secured the latch and deadbolt. Behind me, I heard the bedsprings creak a bit and Olivia’s greeting to Camille. “I adore that robe!”
I went back to my chair and sat on the edge of it, with my elbows on my knees. Camille had turned onto her side, her back to me, with her torso raised and supported by her left elbow. Olivia sat on her heels on the bed, her knees only inches from Camille’s belly. Disclaimers followed, with Olivia speaking first. “I just want y’all to know that I’ve only done this — you know, with a woman — a couple of times. But Brad moved out a long time ago, and I’ve been so busy with the kids that I have neglected myself. A lot.” In a gesture of reassurance, Camille extended her slender fingers and laid her right hand on Olivia’s bare thigh. I felt a tingle.
"I understand completely!" Camille offered. She had raised her sons alone for years before I came into her life and had refused more date requests than she could count, in order to be there for them. "But I should tell you, before anything happens, that we have a strict no-penetration rule, with Holden. That’s just something we don’t do." Olivia leaned forward, and in a stage whisper cooed, "I will play by whatever rules y’all have." She reached for a loose end of the belt of Camille’s robe, glanced at me, and added, "I just want to play."
Camille rose to her knees, mirroring Olivia’s body position, and softly kissed her neck. A woman’s touch is so sweet and subtle, but always moving with a purpose, and I marveled at how their hands explored one another in these first moments. Camille found the hem of Olivia’s shirt, snaked her hands underneath and gently clutched her narrow waist. Shifting her weight from side to side to part her knees just slightly, for balance, Olivia untied Camille’s robe as they began to kiss, softly. With her eyes still closed, Olivia raised her left hand in my direction and beckoned me.
I unbuttoned my shirt as I walked and let it fall to the floor behind me just as I reached the far side of the bed. I positioned myself behind Olivia, my knees between her calves, and took her hips in my hands. I watched as Camille moved her hands up Olivia’s back, beneath her night shirt, using her nails to lightly caress the sensitive skin along her spine. Olivia trembled lightly, and then transferred those trembles to Camille when she found my wife’s rapidly stiffening nipples with her fingertips.
I leaned forward, finding the exposed skin on the left side of Olivia’s neck, and nibbled as gently as my enthusiasm would allow. I kept my eyes open, in part to thrill at the intuitive way that Olivia was touching Camille’s breasts, and in part to learn from it. Camille extended her arms along Olivia’s shoulders, and found the back of my head with her hands. She ran her long fingers through my hair as her kisses with Olivia grew more urgent. I moved my hands up Olivia’s torso, beneath her shirt, and began to manipulate her swollen nipples in the same way she touched Camille. In a whispered exhale, Olivia breathed “Oh…fuck…”
She opened Camille’s robe further, and moved to slide it off of her shoulders. Camille assisted, allowing it to fall from her body to the floor. Olivia reached for the hem of her own shirt and, partially due to her zeal at removing it and at least a bit because of her alcohol intake, tumbled over to her right as she jerked it over her head. She could not even move to brace herself as she fell onto the generous stack of pillows, and she laughed aloud in her embarrassment. I took the shirt, which was tangled around her wrists, and tossed it in mock frustration across the room as she settled herself into a comfortable position on her back. As Camille and I leaned forward to kiss, across Olivia’s prone body, we each felt one of her hands on the back of our heads.