The Voyeur

I saw the couple arrive when I was walking back up the drive to the hotel entrance. I’d snuck a cigar at a gazebo on the grounds, and I was hoping the cold breeze had wafted as much of the smoke away as possible. My wife hated me smoking, but I was bored. I’d brought her and her three friends to this expensive hotel and casino for the weekend trip she’d won in a raffle, and they were tucked away in the craps room for hours on end. I’d played blackjack for a while today, but I’m not a very good gambler. I’d walked away before boredom took over and I dipped too deep into my wallet.

They pulled up in an expensive European car like so many others I’d watched over the weekend, the valets springing into action to unload the designer suitcases. Most of the couples were older men with beautiful young girls in the passenger seat–long legs and eyelashes, big tits and collagen-enhanced lips–and I felt cynical and remote as men my age tried to look virile next to all that youth.

The woman was driving this time, and even though the valet opened her door, the man in the passenger seat came around and took her hand, helping her from the car. There was no luggage, so they must have checked in earlier, but this was my first time seeing them. He escorted her around the car, tucking her hand into his elbow in a fashion I’d only seen in movies. I noticed the head valet looking after them, and the doorman bowed slightly when they passed him, and I wondered if they were famous or something. I was a few yards behind them, but everyone’s heads were still turned looking after them when I triggered the motion sensor on the electronic door and entered.

She was small but curvaceous, her spaghetti-strap dress expensive and somewhere between cocktail and evening. She wore black, with a red velvet wrap around her shoulders, but when she took a step, the slit in the skirt parted and I could see bare legs above shiny black stilettos. Her light brown hair was gathered in a bun at the base of her neck, and diamonds glittered at her ears when she tilted her head back to look at her companion.

He was taller–almost a foot taller–and was years younger than she. He was very slender, but his shoulders filled out the tuxedo he wore, and I might have stood up straighter when I saw how straight he stood. His curly hair was much darker than hers, brushed and slicked back, and he walked slowly and steadily beside her, looking down at her as she spoke to him.

She greeted the concierge, and I heard her thank him for a restaurant recommendation. I passed the group as they stood to chat and headed for table where the staff had put a coffee urn and cups and pretended an intense interest in the creamer choices. I wanted to watch them. For some reason, I was intrigued.

They ended their conversation with the concierge and moved toward the casino entrance, and I noticed again how solicitous he was of her, even though they weren’t touching. She walked half a pace in front of him, her head high and her shoulders back, and she seemed taller than she clearly was. She led him toward the $20 black-jack tables I’d avoided, and it was she who sat at a tall barstool on the end. He bent his head and spoke to her for a moment, and then he moved away.

I went to the bar behind their dealer and ordered a scotch. I’d already passed my limit earlier at dinner–as my wife had pointed out–but I didn’t feel comfortable just sitting there without a drink. I took a tiny sip of the expensive blend and tried to look inconspicuous. At least from this vantage point I could see her face.

She wasn’t beautiful, but she wasn’t unattractive either. In the casino’s bright, unnatural lights, I could see she had a couple of wide streaks of silver in her brown hair, and she had large blue eyes and a generous but unaltered mouth. She smiled at something the dealer said and pushed a small stack of chips to the bet. When she won a minute later, she laughed and so did the older man sitting next to her who’d lost.

The young man returned while she was betting on the next hand, placing a tall flute of champagne on the table at her elbow, and she smiled up at him, reaching to stroke his cheek briefly as she did. He took up a position just behind her and to her right, out of the way and seemingly on guard, watching her, the table, the man next to her, and everyone else in the place all at the same time.

The dealer said something, and they both looked at her. That’s when it struck me: their eyes were vaguely similar, large and a light blue color that made the whites look bright, with thick dark lashes and brows, hers much more thin and shaped. Were they mother and son? She didn’t look quite old enough, but perhaps she was well-preserved or had some work done. Makeup covered a lot, I knew, as I’d seen my wife apply hers with a palette knife.

She leaned forward to place a bet, and her wrap slipped down from her shoulder. I saw it at the same time the young man did, and he reached to adjust it for her, his hand lingering on her bare shoulder for a few seconds. She reached up with her own hand, a bracelet on her wrist glittering, and they touched briefly without looking at each other, and my pulse thundered. She caressed his hand with her thumb, and I saw him swallow–visibly–when she did.

She continued to play for an hour, amassing what would have been a small fortune to me, the man standing by her side. He didn’t drink or talk to anyone; he just stood there watching the room, watching her play. Every few minutes, his eyes would make a circuit of the room and I would look somewhere else when he did, sure those blue eyes would see me staring if I didn’t.

She sipped at her champagne but didn’t drink much, and I realized only when the bartender asked if I’d like another that I’d drained my glass. I paid the check–wincing at $18 for one scotch–and texted my wife to see if she was done, but she didn’t answer. It was past midnight. She and her friends–the harpies, I thought of them–could play all night, I’d learned, and then they’d sleep till almost noon. She and I were sharing one room and her friends another, but last night she’d told me that she’d probably just stay in their room when she got done tonight. I should probably go on up and go to bed.

But I couldn’t. I was mesmerized by this couple. Never mind that they were probably the type of people I’d never meet in our hometown–they didn’t look the type to buy the brand of cars I sold. In a way, it was like watching some show on television about wildlife you’d never see in real life, but these exotic birds were within shouting distance.

She looked up at him and he bent his head to her level to listen to whatever she whispered in his ear, and then he nodded again and straightened. She stood and thanked the dealer and listened to what the mostly-inebriated man next to her had to say, patting his hand as they walked off to the cashier’s window. There was no line this late, and they were able to immediately change her chips. I watched them walk out of the casino and considered my options. It was late, I was slightly drunk, and following them anymore was crazy. On the other hand, there was nothing waiting for me in my hotel room, and I was bored. I stood and stretched and then ambled after them, trying to pretend I was just heading to bed.

They were on the other side of the lobby by the time I came out of the casino, and I walked a bit faster. They passed the elevators and headed toward the lobby bar, still open this late on a Saturday night. There was nothing else down that corridor, so I slowed my pace, sure of where they’d end up.

I went past the bar entrance to the men’s room and took care of all that scotch and the beer I’d had earlier, and then I stood at the sinks, looking at myself in the mirror. What was I doing? I had to admit following them was pretty creepy, all in all, but I wanted to figure out what was going on. I ran cold water and splashed it on my face and then dried it with a paper towel, staring at my bloodshot eyes in a face gone soft with middle-age. Fuck this, I thought, I’m going to bed.

I came out of the bathroom and headed to the elevator but felt my feet slow at the opening to the bar. It was dark in there, and warm, and only half-full at this hour. I just wanted one more look, wanted to see them one more time, to see if I could figure out my interest. I stepped inside and let my eyes adjust to the dim light.

They were sitting in the corner on the white leather banquette, two drinks on a little table at their knees. They were close, but I could see space between them. Her legs were crossed, and she leaned back with one arm resting on the back of the banquette behind him. He was sitting straight and tall in the seat next to her, his body turned slightly toward her. They spoke in low tones, and I heard her laugh, a low and husky noise that seemed to draw the eyes of the other patrons, mostly men alone like me.

I sat across the bar where I could see them, and I risked another scotch when the waitress came over. There was a television playing silently above the bar, and I pretended to be interested in the closed captions that flashed constantly over a sports wrapup. But every chance I could, I watched them. Occasionally, she would lean forward to speak to him, her lips a few inches from his ear, and I noticed that he would close his eyes as she did, perhaps concentrating on what she was saying.

What was it about them? Why did they seem so fascinating? I leaned forward in my chair, the shoulders of my sports jacket straining, and wished I was close enough to hear what she was saying. But then she’d lean back again, and he’d open his eyes, the moment over. At one point, the hand resting on the banquette slid forward, and I watched her touch his hair, just behind his ear. And he shivered. She laughed, low and rich and deep, and moved her hand back to the banquette.

I realized I was more than half-hard as I watched them, and I shifted in my chair. At my movement, the waitress looked over at me, but I shook my head, then changed my mind and made a check-signing motion in the air. She nodded and started to ring up my drink, probably another $18 scotch, I thought glumly as I watched her working the POS. Someone stepped in between us, and I realized it was the young man, who spoke to her for a moment.

And then he turned to walk to my table.

He stopped beside the table, his eyes not on me, but on the woman he’d been with. She was still leaning back against the banquette, looking relaxed and confident, but she was watching us.

“She would like to invite you upstairs with us.” I looked up at the young man, who seemed even taller and more muscular close up.

I opened my mouth to question him–I mean, what the fuck?–but he’d moved away, back to her side, where he took her offered hand and helped her up. My mouth was still open, and I closed it as the waitress stepped over. “You’re good to go, sir.”

I looked at her, my mind slowly clicking over various thoughts. “What?”

“Your friend took care of your drink. You’re good to go.”

I looked back at the couple, who were about to walk out the door, and made a split-second decision. “Thanks,” I said, and stood, then walked to the door.

They were standing at the elevator bank, eyes on each other, but they’d already pushed the ‘up’ button. I stepped up close and stood beside them, wondering what to say. Surely they didn’t think I was going to their room with them. Watching them had been crazy enough, but what they were suggesting–well, what were they suggesting?

The car arrived, and we all filed inside. The young man pressed one of the upper-floor buttons, and I stepped up to the buttons and pressed the number 7. Lucky number seven, my wife had said when we checked in yesterday, and all the harpies had cackled along with her. My wife. Whatever was going on with these two people, it didn’t concern me, and I wasn’t going to their room. The doors shut and the three of us stood in the elevator as it began to move upward. They were less than two feet from me, but they might have been in a different elevator. They stood close to each other, and I noticed her arm was tucked in his elbow again, her other hand holding a small bag. The elevator stopped at the seventh floor and the doors opened, and I felt the blood surge all over my body, adrenaline pumping. I willed my feet to move but they didn’t. The doors shut again and the elevator continued climbing.

At the twenty-first floor, the doors opened again, and they moved together out to the hall. I watched them go, my heart pounding, and the doors began to close. My hand shot out and they opened again, and I followed the couple into the hallway. I noticed numbly that the décor was different on this floor, the carpet thicker and more expensive, the doors much farther apart. I followed them at a bit of a distance, maybe ten feet, but they acted like I wasn’t there, moving in a bubble created by the energy surrounding the two of them.

They stopped at a door, and she took the key card from her bag and unlocked the door. I reached the door a few seconds after she went in, and there he was, holding the door open for me. Standing, he wasn’t much taller than me, but he wasn’t smiling or saying anything, and I felt dwarfed anyway.

The door closed behind me, and I realized we were in a suite, a very luxurious suite, the kind that the company reps had at the conventions I had to attend once a year. There were fancy couches and chairs and even a small bathroom near the door to the hallway. The lamps were on very low, and the curtains were pulled back, the lights of the city showing bright through the sheers. The pair of doors to the bedroom were firmly closed.

I stood in the middle of the room and looked around, unsure what I was supposed to do. The young man was standing at a bar, and he walked back toward me with a glass in his hand. Another scotch. At this rate and at my age, I’d need to use the bathroom pretty quickly if I drank it. I tried not to think about it and took a tiny sip.

The woman was nowhere to be seen, but her shiny black shoes with the needle-point heels were there tumbled near the end of the couch, the right one turned over, its red sole jewel-like in the light. As I watched, the young man stooped and straightened the shoes, lining them up side by side, but leaving them where they were.

The closed doors to the bedroom opened then, and there she was. She’d taken her hair down and changed into a silky blue robe and tiny high-heeled shoes with fuzzy stuff on the toes, and she had eyes only for him. He was staring at her, his bow tie looking too small for his neck as he stood there motionless. She smiled and walked to him, reaching up to untie the bow tie. I’d never actually seen a real one–certainly never worn one–and she pulled it loose and then slid it out from his collar slowly, and it was one of the most erotic things I’d ever seen. She laid it across the end of the couch just above the shoes he’d neatened, and then she turned back to him. I was standing a few yards away, but I could see him inhale as she touched him, sliding her hands from his belly up to his chest.

She slid her hands over his shirt front and then underneath the jacket to his shoulders, and the tuxedo jacket slid up and then back, down his arms to the floor. Even in her high-heeled shoes, she was much shorter than he was, but it was clear who was in charge of this, of all of this. His hands were at his sides, and he looked down at her, and he looked hungry. Starving. She’d moved close to him, but their bodies weren’t touching, except for her hands on his chest. She looked up at him, and then she laughed that low, husky laugh, and I saw him shudder again.

She went to his belt next, unbuckling it, sliding it out of the loops, and dropping it to the floor, and then went back to his shirt. She unbuttoned each button, and then pulled the shirttails out. The shirt fell on top of the jacket and belt and then he stood there, completely motionless, his chest bare. He had tattoos on his arms and chest, but I wasn’t in a position to see what they were, even if I cared. What I could see from the side was the outline of a very large cock in his pants.

I swallowed hard. I had a moment’s thought to my safety. This younger man could likely have beaten me to death with his fists, and I had no idea why I was there. While I might have been curious, I didn’t know if I was curious enough to have some sort of sexual encounter with them both. I knew I should leave, but my feet seemed as drunk as my brain. I licked my dry lips and tried to consider what to do.

She moved again, leaning closer, and I watched her lick his nipples, one and then the other, and then she slowly and deliberately bit into one. He moaned, his eyes closing, and she slid her hands down to his belly to unbuckle his black pants. Her hand dipped inside his fly, and he inhaled sharply, his hips bucking towards her. She laughed again, a sexy laugh that showed she had control and she knew it. I felt my balls tighten as I heard it.

“Come, babyboy,” she said, and took his hand. They walked into the bedroom, leaving me standing there. I had no idea what to do, but they’d left the door open, and my rebellious feet shuffled toward it. There was a lamp on in the bedroom, but the best light was from the open door that fell across the bed. I stood at the threshold, uncertain, but they weren’t paying me any attention. He’d taken off his pants and shoes and socks, and I saw them over by the bathroom door in a pile. My wayward brain thought of what my wife would have said had I not hung up my pants, but then I realized I was in a bedroom with a mostly naked man and woman, and all thoughts of my wife fled.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, and he was next to it, the lump of his cock under his black boxer briefs huge on his slender body and right in front of her face. She was looking up at him, and he was staring down at her, and I realized there was a chair in the corner. I moved as quietly as I could–instinct, I guess–but I don’t think they even noticed me.

She slid the briefs down his hips, freeing the cock as the material hung on it, and it bounced slightly from the contact. The last time I’d been this close to a naked cock was in the high school locker room, where you compared as nonchalantly as you could, making sure never to look too long. This time I didn’t have that problem, and I looked. He was circumcised, his cock long and very hard, the end glistening and red. While I watched, she lightly scraped her nails up his thighs and around his hips, then up his flat belly. Her head tilted toward his cock and she took it in her mouth as easily as she might have sipped her champagne. He closed his eyes and inhaled, and I thought his knees buckled slightly.

She ran her mouth over and around him, taking the big cock in and then sliding it out, teeth scraping the side as she looked up at him, her hands still moving, now cupping his balls and squeezing, then sliding around to his ass, and then back to his cock, stroking and squeezing as she watched his face. And then she started to speak to him as she stroked, that husky voice pitched so low I had to strain to hear. A shiver ran up my arms.

“Oh, yes, babyboy–you like that, don’t you? You love it when Mama plays with you, don’t you?” She laughed, and I felt my chest tighten. God, that kind of sexy talk was hot.

She licked and nibbled again, and he breathed with difficulty. I felt some sympathy. Had she done that with me, I’d have come after the first stroke.

And then she pushed him back so she could stand, untying her robe and sliding it off her shoulders. She was naked, and I admired her confidence. Like I thought, she wasn’t young, but she wasn’t middle-aged either. She was definitely younger than me and my wife, and her curves were soft and full, and I thought she looked great. She wasn’t looking at me though–she was still looking at him. I could just see his face from where I stood, and he was looking at her like my dog looks at bacon.