But if she was suspicious of me -- the sudden increase in ass play, the longer hours I spent online or the more time I gave to messing with the phone ...- she didn’t show it. Once or twice, after a rousing bit of sex, she’d ask me, “What’s gotten into you?” I never had a good answer for that, but she didn’t seem to mind. Then one night, a Thursday, the day before my weekly visit to Tom’s, I came home to find her alone, red-eyed and staring out the window. She was smoking, a habit she had given. I was staying at a small hotel, since my wife divorced me, and I went up to the third floor so I could just go to my room and sleep until the next miserable day. I noticed the cleaning girl's cart was outside my door. I ignored it, assuming I could just tell her to come back later. I opened my door and threw down my tie and suit jacket on the bed. I looked in the mirror at myself and noticed the bathroom door was cracked open. In it, the young Russian cleaning girl was touching herself. Her. More

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