Each time she bent over, the soft fabric at the crotch of her jump suit pressed a little bit further up into her slit, slowly building her moisture. Jane thought about how her moisture slowly builds in just that way, every time her husband Brad slowly licks her inner walls and her throbbing little clit. Thoughts of Brad back in London made her even wetter, but she fought to stay calm and focused on the job at hand. Besides, she didn’t want to get too excited, and risk seeping out any of the two injections of Brad’s love juice, which she was still carrying deep inside of her from last night’s ‘bon voyage’ fuck. Jane finally found a low shelf in a corner next to the bed, and she planted the microphone underneath. The shelf was too low to crawl under, and the corner was remote enough that nobody would look for a bug there, yet close enough to the bed to capture any secrets that W might reveal to his wife during pillow talk. Of course, it would also capture their moans and squeals of. As night drew closer and the air conditioning began to raise goose bumps on my skin I slid into a pair of tight cotton boy shorts and closed the curtains. Peeling back the crisp bed sheets I climbed in, poured myself another glass of wine and settled into the plump pillow with the TV remote. French TV was as crap as I recalled; a curious mix of incomprehensible game shows, dubbed cop dramas and intensely acted national films, invariably starring Gérard Depardieu. I set the volume low and chose an episode of CSI, more to be entertained by the dubbing than the action itself, after all, the TV was only a distraction until what I hoped was some uninhibited lovemaking from my hotel neighbours. Doors banged periodically in the corridor, the muted ping of the elevator distributed patrons throughout the building, and the odd drunkenly loud conversation passed my door. The clock on the TV informed me it was approaching what I termed the "sweet spot", 10pm. For some reason, ten o'clock usually.
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