by Philip Umbrino
(08/29/07)
Hostel bathrooms are not exactly big, and this one was the smallest yet. In a little brick building on the east side of Dublin, I found myself desperately needing time to relax not only from a long plane ride, but from my wife. A second honeymoon was what my wife prescribed, but the spark of romance didn't relight in Rome. Nor Paris, or Berlin, London, or Prague. She seemed just as frustrated as I, and even if we managed to find some time alone in the eight person hostel rooms, every attempt at sex was like a dinner date gone wrong: awkward conversation, silverware in the wrong place, and an embarrassing mess afterwards.
Today was the last day in the city, a muggy morning where the sun hid behind the clouds, and I decided a shower would be the best way to stay away from the woman who had become more of an annoying traveling companion than a wife. At least the hot water in this shower worked, I thought. It was a cozy hostel for one so cheap, and the bathroom, just one stall and one toilet, was surprisingly clean.
With the water flowing and the steam rising I could hear the creaky wooden door open and quick footsteps on the floor. I held the soap in my hand and listened intently to hear anything, when a shadow behind the glass door that separated my middle-aged nakedness from the rest of the world knocked loudly. I slid it open to peek out and stared straight into the face of a young redheaded girl not twenty years old, her face full of freckles and a towel wrapped tightly around her chest.
"I'm sorry lad, but I was hoping to get a bit of a rinse before I go out," she said in a heavy brogue.
"Oh well," I said, trying to focus on her eyes and not the towel that jutted out at me. "I only just got in."
"I don't mind sharing if you don't," she said.
"The shower?"
"From the States, eh? Folk in Ireland are a little more open about that than you." She smiled and turned her head, her red curls flowing past her cheeks.
"Well, sure, why not?" Opening the door, she entered with a dainty step and slowly removed her robe, her pale flesh lighting up the small stall like a lantern. It was impossible not to stare at her breasts, so pink and perky they were almost horizontal. Her legs were equally smooth and creamy, and each led to a perfectly shaved triangle between her thighs. My thirty-two year old frame, still built and fairly tan, seemed crude by comparison.
"On vacation?" she asked as she dipped her head and her shoulder length hair under the tap. The water ran down her skin and caused it to shimmer. My thoughts flashed to my wife, no doubt still reading the travel guide in the room.
"Yes," I managed to say.
"Come a little closer," she said with a smile. "The water's warm." It was true that the stall wasn't big, and I certainly wanted to be a bit closer. I moved near the spigot and she stepped aside to share.
"Come alone?"
"Well. With a friend," I said, attempting to continue staring into her green eyes.
"I'm alone here. Moved out of the house just last week. Been living here since."
"Sounds lonely."
"It can be. Sometimes not," she said, grabbing the soap and lathering it about her breasts. They bounced and swayed with her movements, her large nipples reacting to the touch of her slender fingers. I found it impossible not to look, and even more impossible to stop the reaction in my own groin.
"I, uh, sorry," I mumbled. I could feel my cheeks grow hot.
She stopped a moment and looked down at my fully erect dick and let out a giggle. "Wouldn't worry, lad. You Americans are too uptight about that stuff. Besides, I can take care of it for you," she said, reaching down with a soapy hand and gripping my dick hard. I gasped at her touch, so unexpected and rough. "Would you like me to take care of it?" she whispered, leaning in and pressing her chest against my own.
"Yes please," I said, nearly stumbling on the words. The water was flowing over both of us, and she knelt down and took my cock in between her pretty lips, the pressure of her warm tongue and the rush of the water overloading my senses. Just the damn near thought of doing something different nearly had me lose control. Screw the different cities, I thought. Maybe all I needed was a new mouth.
My breathing grew rapid as the room grew dark, and I could feel my legs tensing up. It had been so long, the sheer excitement was pleasurable enough. With what seemed like expert licks of her tongue along the head of my penis and a few smooth caresses of my balls from her nails, I felt myself erupt, and her slow bobbing became fast as she maneuvered to swallow it all.
"My," she said standing up, "you're breathing hard. Did I take care of it?" she asked. She wiped some remains from her chin and smiled, leaning in for a kiss. There was nothing but the sound of rushing water and my heavy breathing between us, and she planted her soft wet lips upon my own. "I need to get goin', Yank." She took my hand and placed it to her soft mound past the tangle of orange hair and onto the warm lips of her sex. "This'll be around later if you're still feeling lonely. Room 203." I could only stand dumbfounded as her white pear-shaped bottom minced out of the stall and disappeared.
Wrapped in my own towel, I entered the hostel room and found my wife lying on the bed looking over maps, her slender features hidden beneath a baggy night gown I had given her on our second anniversary.
"How was the shower?" she asked. I took a moment to speak, but still was unsure what to say. As I tried to remember the red haired vixen's face or room number, my mind went blank. I only stared transfixed at my wife, her hair pulled back in a pony tail as though she were the young college girl she was when we first met, her face tan and smooth, the confidence in her look that said, I don't mind having awful sex as long as we're together.
"It could have used you," I said finally.
"What?"
"Follow me," I said, helping her up. "I think I may need another one. I had a little inspiration that's definitely not in those travel guides."
