I have been in resort hotels, where I could hear the action from not only the two adjoining rooms, but from the room above, which is a testament to both shoddy construction and the aphrodisiac effect of being on vacation. The weirdest time I ever had, however, was when we were being heard fucking and talking.
An old college friend had invited several couples to his new vacation house, which was situated on an island. We showed up late Friday night, along with two other couples. Everyone had already eaten, so after some chit chat, we retired to our rooms. The next morning, the other two couples arrived and we all enjoyed a splendid brunch, which our host had catered, complete with attractive servers. I loved the expensive wine and fine food, enjoying the great company. But when my friend said something that he shouldn't have, something he could only know if he had overheard me telling my girlfriend the night before, which he only could hear if he had his ear pressed against our bedroom wall, which was unlikely, as his room was on another floor and far away (it was a huge six-bedroom house), I froze and thought of punching him out. The problem with being on the island was that you cannot drive off when you want to do so.
I excused myself, claiming that I needed to find a magazine article to show our host. I ran back into our room and searched for evidence. I found it in a cheesy-looking radio/alarm clock, which looked so very out of place amongst the expensive antiques and trendy artwork. Behind its grill lay a small microphone and at its back a second wire led out to a hole in the wall. The son of a b*tch had bugged our room, and, I assumed, all the other rooms. It was just the sort of thing that he would do, him being a lawyer and bastard, but then I repeat myself. I was about to rip the radio from the wall and throw the damn thing in his face and then charge out of his house, after telling the other two couples that they had probably been listened to the night before. But I didn't. I wanted better revenge, besides you couldn't just drive away, as there was this lame car ferry service that ran infrequently. I returned to the feast and claimed have failed to bring the magazine.
Later that night, after making some suitable sexual noises with my girlfriend, exclaiming how sexy her breasts and naked ass were, in the hope of getting his attention, I paused to talk to her about our host, asking her what she thought of him. She told me how she thought he was handsome and obviously successful, but she wondered why he was the only one without a partner. God is divine. She had given the perfect opening to talk about his love life. Much like Satan, I took an elaborate set of lies and leavened them with truth, true things I shouldn't have known, but I did.
Quite by accident, while getting a haircut a few years prior, I discovered that the woman cutting my hair had once dated our host and that he had dumped her, as he was too embarrassed to bring a hair stylist to his family's Thanksgiving meal. She spilled the beans, all the ugly beans, with my encouragement. Well, I had pocketed those true things and now I needed to dig them out and mixed them with pure BS, making a devilish potent amalgam. He had had one big love in his life, a woman that perfectly fit his ideal, being beautiful, educated, and having rich, powerful parents. She turned gay and they broke up, leaving him devastated for years. I claimed that she and I had fabricated the "turning-gay" story to save his feelings, that her supposed girlfriend was only a roommate, a roommate that I had even fucked and whom I could guarantee was not gay. I also peppered my tale with true tidbits about his sexual fetishes that the hair stylist had revealed to me years ago.
(I was about to deliver the speech that I had prepared in my mind the entire day, a speech about the big falsehood behind his career, but I wisely choose not to damn him, as he might have shot me afterwards.)
I told her that since felt that he was closer to being my brother than just a friend, I could never tell him the truth, I as could never be the one to tell him that the love of his life just hated him and thought he was worst lover in existence.
We then made wild, loud, prolonged sex. During which, she paid me lavish praise, which I didn't deserve, but once again God was divine and he was giving me one miracle after another. Knowing that we had a listening audience made me perform as if I were trying out for the new Olympic sport of Fucking and I wanted to prove that I would bring home gold. I usually hold back, but not that night; if the bed-boards broke, so be it. She stopped me after nearly an hour of fast and furious, proclaiming that her pussy was just too sore. Then, she delivered the sentence that I would have paid her hundreds of dollars to utter, "Remember you are much bigger than my ex was; it's true, it's true; I told you before, you are soft much bigger than he was hard."
I asked to tell me again how big her ex was and she made a three-and-a-half inch space between her thumb and forefinger, which he couldn't see thankfully. I told her that was a perfectly normal, average dick size, that our guest's penis probably wasn't that big. Before she could say something that would undo the damage I had just inflicted, I stuck my cock in her mouth.
The next morning, I didn't feel so great about the night before. I had launched many torpedoes in the dark; maybe none had hit their target. What if he had not listened into our room, but another room, as he had four to choose from? What if he had joined one of the couples, which was possible, as I did catch some odd tension between him and one wife? Damn. I wished that I had taken the direct route of damning him when I found the bug in our room. Now, that option didn't seem available to me, as he could claim that the bugs were part of an elaborate burglar alarm system, which was only activated while he was not living it his vacation house. I could mention him dropping the bit of evidence on Saturday afternoon, but Saturday seemed far away then. Timing is everything and that time had passed.
As I walking down the hall to get a cup of coffee, I ran into my old friend. He openly stared into my eyes. At first, I thought he was going to slug me, which I was prepared for, but he ended up hugging me and thanking me for being such a good friend. His breath stank of alcohol and he looked as if he had cried the entire night. We all ate another great brunch and I was happy to head home. As for him, he got over it, after a year or two, but then rest of his life began to unravel—something to do with illegal kickbacks for foreign clients.