Just that position...
She held it, then pressed up, felt a tightening steadily building up, then a sudden spasm that began deep in her belly and swept through her entire body.
Orgasm took over and she was twisting and bucking between her two lovers and that was all it took. First there was a wet explosion deep in her ass and she felt the dick impaled there swelling and pulsing as he filled her with his juices. Moments later, as she clung onto the last waves of her own orgasm, there was a hot pulsing deep in her pussy and that was enough to lift her to one last peak before she slumped back, spent.
The three of them, tangled, lying there. First the guy on top pulled away and flopped down onto the bed, and then Christina was able to extricate herself, feeling that long, soft dick slipping free of her ass. She slipped between the two of them, exhausted, pausing only to be kissed. A soft mouth... One of the guys? Someone else entirely? It felt like a woman’s kiss, but she couldn’t be sure: boundaries like that no longer mattered, it was just a kiss, soft lips, something to give yourself up to, completely.
§
Adam’s dick is so hard, lying there rigid against his belly.
She leans over him, letting her hair trail loose across his torso and down over his dick.
He twitches in response. A single, pulsing movement. And then a tiny bead of pre-come appears at the eye of his dick.
She dips down and slides a tongue across his glans, tasting his saltiness.
“Was it what you’d imagined?” he asks now.
“Yes. No. It was so much more... intense. Going there felt like crossing so many boundaries, breaking so many rules. I’d never have understood quite how good it can feel to be so bad.”
She runs the tip of her tongue down the underside of his shaft.
“And then there was such a mix. At times it felt like I was on display, but at others it was just the two of us, away in a room on our own. Me and Selena – you like the idea of that?” His dick twitches in response, and she folds her fingers around it. “You like the thought of my mouth on another woman’s pussy?” Squeezing him hard, her thumb stroking. “You liking that?”
She pulls down, her fist tight on his shaft, pulling the skin hard back. “Such a good cock,” she says. “Definitely one of the best I’ve had in the last twenty-four hours.”
“Were there many?”
“I lost count.”
After that time in the darkened room, the dick in her ass and the other in her pussy. After that it was all something of a blur. Dozing and waking. Exploring the room. Finding soft, smooth flesh, wetness; mouths and hands. Dicks of all shapes and sizes. Sucking on them and working them with her hands; letting them slide between her breasts. Taking them in every way she could. Some of them finishing inside her or spitting their juices across her skin, while others pulled out and moved on to seek more wetness, more hands and mouths.
“That room... when you can’t see a thing it really does change everything.” She holds him tight still, drawing him slowly up and down in her clamped fist.
“I know,” Adams says. “I know that room well.”
She pauses, looking up into those blue eyes.
“You do?”
He smiles now, a very knowing, worldly smile.
“Were you...?” Had he been there last night? Had one of those dicks been his? She would have known! Surely she would have known...
“Like you say,” he says now, “the darkness changes everything.”
She laughed, then dipped her head again and swept her tongue along the underside of his shaft once more.
“That thing you mentioned,” he says, when he has finished groaning at the sudden intensity of her touch. “That thing where you take a dick deep. That thing you did last night at the club...”
She holds his shaft upright now, away from his belly, and peers up the length of his body into those eyes again.
“You mean when I just keep on swallowing until I’ve taken it in whole?” she says, an eyebrow raised.
“Yes, that,” he says.
She raises her head, takes the swollen head of his dick between her lips and then pushes down. Down until she feels as if she can take him no further, until he hits the back of her throat and she has to swallow and somehow she keeps on taking him in, until her face is buried in his lap and she’s swallowed him whole.
“That,” he groans now. “Oh, that.”
The Walk of Shame
It had happened before and Julie Warren knew it would happen again.
That thing...
The thing where you wake up, realize it’s morning already, feel the press of a naked body against you and you don’t know whose body it is. A hairy leg draped across your thighs, pressing down heavily. A soft dick and balls pressing against your hip. An arm across your ribs, pushing up against the underside of your breasts. Face smushed against your shoulder; the prickle of stubble against your skin, the coarse rasp of it as you shift position.
Turn your head and you see dark, tousled hair, thick eyebrows. Look down and the body wrapped around you is lean, fit, and random memories flash back from the night before of how athletic a fucker he had been, how he’d hit a rhythm of rapid, deep thrusts and kept going for ages so that it had been a relentless thing, a thing that had just built and built until you’d felt like you were going to explode and then you had.
And when you look down you see another slim arm across your belly, a hand on that hairy thigh, fingernails painted a vivid red. Now you’re aware of another body pressing against you, the skin soft and smooth in contrast to the hard, hairy body pinning you in place.
That thing when you wake up and suddenly realize the press of bare flesh against your own is too much for just one other person, that there’s a tangle of bodies and you’re just a part of it. You peer around and see the blonde woman to your other side and beyond her a skinny black guy, a deliciously curvy black woman, more pale skin, limbs, hair.
You don’t know where you are.
You can barely remember who you’re with.
And, you realize now, you’ve never been happier than this.
That.
§
The contrast couldn’t be greater with how things had been only a few months before.
Back then Julie’d had it made. Everyone had said so and for a time she’d even managed to convince herself that it must be true. She had a nice house, a good job in the city and the sweetest, most considerate husband you could wish for.
She’d known Mark since college. He was always the kind, reliable one, the kind of guy who could tease a smile out of her on the grimmest of days, the kind of guy who was always there for her.
By the time he made that move on her – the friendly hug suddenly lingering, the hand moving down to the small of her back to draw her in tight, the slight grind against her as she became aware of his growing erection pressing against her – there had been a kind of inevitability about it all. A sense that one day, when Mark got bored with a succession of unlikely relationships and when Julie realized the futility of holding out for her perfect man, the two of them would give it a go.
If they could be such good friends, then surely they could have it all? Mark was an intelligent, kind and interesting guy. It didn’t do any harm that he had an athlete’s body and perfectly-proportioned film star looks, with those blue eyes, chiseled features and floppy blond hair; with looks like that he’d featured in Julie’s private fantasies on and off since she’d met him. Julie, herself, was short and slim, with curves in just the right places and vibrant copper hair. Quieter and more reserved than Mark, she was the first to admit that she knew exactly how to turn that to her advantage, how a shy, coquettish look from under that fiery fringe had the power to transform an encounter from innocent to one loaded with undercurrents and sexual tension.
They made that transition from friends to lovers, to being in love.
They married, bought that house, landed those good jobs and became the perfect couple.
And with the same kind of inevitability that had led to that happening, they had moved past that point. They had reached the stage in a relationship where you find yourself staying late at work simply so you don’t have to go home. The stage where you look back and wonder how you had let things get like this, how you had not seen this coming and done something while there might still have been time.
Julie remembered that Saturday afternoon vividly, even now, more than four months on.
She’d been home, trying to find things to occupy herself and failing, unable to focus on anything but what she had decided she must say to Mark when he came home later.
She’d finally come to a point of acceptance, a realization that this was it and there was no changing how their relationship was. That she must either accept that and make the best of it, or walk away now and give herself a chance to start over and rebuild her life.
Make the best of it... A life of polite silences, where they’d run out of things to say a long, long time ago. A partnership where they knew what films they liked, what meals to cook, and it was all so easy just to drift along. A relationship where they made perfunctory, missionary-position love once or twice a week when sometimes she really just needed to fuck and be fucked. Where she needed to be desired, wanted, needed.
A marriage that had reverted to mere friendship with the kind, reliable guy who could still tease a smile out of her on the grimmest of days, and who she knew would always be there for her if she let him.
So many women would be grateful for a man like that. A marriage like that.
Was she selfish to hope for more? Unrealistic?
But when you wait like that, all Saturday afternoon, with those words stacked up in your head because you’ve finally decided that you deserve at least the chance of more, there really is no going back.
Each time she heard a sound she thought it was his key in the door. Her heart would thud in her chest as if it were trying to escape. Her breathing would become fast and shallow. Those words would jumble and depart so that suddenly she had no idea what she was going to say to him.
And the sound was the wind, a car outside, a settling of the house’s timbers... anything but the rattle of a key in the lock that would presage the end of her marriage.
But then he came back.
He had flowers. Not gas station flowers, that was never his style. These were sumptuously wrapped roses and crimson Asiatic lilies from a boutique florist – she recognized the label, and knew he must have made a special journey to pick them up. They were exactly what she would have chosen for herself, and Mark knew that so well.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said as he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. “I saw these and thought of you.”
She actually had her mouth open to say those prepared words, despite the flowers, despite that cheeky, roguish glint in his eyes. There was never a good moment to tell your husband your marriage was over. A bad moment with flowers was no worse than any other, she figured.
But then he went on: “You fancy dinner? I booked a table at Canovaro’s. I hope you don’t mind. I booked for seven o’clock – didn’t expect to be home so late. Think we can turn it around in time?”
She just looked at him. The words had fled again.
Why couldn’t he be like this all the time? Smooth and commanding. Romantic. That spark he’d had when friendship had become more, all that time ago. The spark they’d both had.
She didn’t have long to get ready, but she still managed to dress to kill in her slim black Valentino dress with its overlapping layers of lace, tailored bodice and white swan collar, and patent leather Gianvito Rossi stiletto pumps.
When she came downstairs again, Mark didn’t have to say a thing. Just the look on his face was enough. It was the kind of moment where you get all dressed up to go out and maybe don’t make it out of the door at all. The kind of moment where you realize you’ve dressed simply to be undressed.
As Mark drove he kept stealing glances across at Julie. She looked straight ahead at the road, loving that finally she felt desired again. Wanted. Needed. His eyes on her stockinged legs where the Valentino had ridden up. On the swell of her bust in that tailored bodice top. On her face as she refused to meet his look, always aware of the power a confident, sexy woman can wield.
They made it just in time and they took Julie’s favorite table by the window, where they could sit and watch the world go by. They ordered a bottle of Chianti and now the silence was not because they’d run out of things to say but rather because they simply had no need to say anything right now.
He reached across the table after the wine had been poured, and put his hand on hers.
“Julie,” he said. “We need to talk.”
§
We need to talk.
How had she missed all the signs?
Had she really been so wrapped up in her own concerns that she hadn’t seen this coming?
He was going to tell her that he’d had enough, that their relationship had run its course, lost the spark. That living in a marriage that was just ticking over was not enough. That he wanted to give himself a chance to start over again. That–
“I’ve been having an affair.”
She stared at him, her mouth sagging open.
“It’s been going on for some time now.”
She reached for her glass and took a big gulp. Suddenly that smooth Chianti tasted like vinegar.
“It’s not anyone you know.”
As if that made it any better.
“I love you, Julie–”
That one didn’t make things any better, either.
“–but as a friend. We were only ever friends, Julie. You have to see that. We should have stayed that way.”
“You’re saying... that our marriage was a mistake?”
He raised his hand as if to fend her off. The hand that had been resting on her arm, a dead weight she had only wanted to shake off as soon as he started to speak.
“You’re twisting my words, Julie.”
Of course. Turn it all onto her.
“You’re breaking up with me with flowers and dinner?”
He looked around. Had she raised her voice? In her head, it was all she had been able to do to raise a whisper.
He’d brought her here because shy, self-conscious Julie wouldn’t make a fuss in public. They would be able to talk without descending into a fight. That would have been his reasoning. Now, he topped up their glasses, as if it was only natural that they should have a bit of a discussion and then move onto their appetizers.
He was breaking up with her.
It’s what she wanted. What she had planned to do to him. But not like this.
Not with the humiliating twist that she’d misread him completely, thought he was actually trying, and she’d shown just how weak she was in her response to that.
“Do you ‘make love’ to her in the missionary position, too?” Julie said, this time conscious that her voice was carrying, that people were pausing to look. “Do you have that same bored look on your face when you do it? Have you learned to spot when she’s faking it because it’s all just so dull and mechanical?”
“I love her,” he said simply.
She reached for her glass, paused, and then raised it and threw the drink in his face.
Then she stood, gathered her purse, and left the restaurant, all eyes on her.
Outside, the cool evening air shocked her to her senses.
She didn’t know where she was going, what she was going to do, how she was even going to get home. A cab. She would get a cab.
She wouldn’t get a cab.
She didn’t want to go home. Didn’t want to be there when Mark got back, if he decided to go home tonight. Or worse, get there after him. Go up to their room and find him already in bed. Would he do that?
I love you, Julie. But as a friend.
It’s not anyone you know.
I love her.
She fished her cell phone out o
f her purse, thumbed Contacts, scrolled, pressed Call.
“Robyn? Me. Yes, yes, everything’s fine. Will you come and get me? I’m just outside Canovaro’s. Yes, now.”
§
Her sister peered at her Julie as she climbed into the passenger seat. “Mark?” she asked, and Julie nodded. “I thought so. As soon as you called.”
“You knew?”
“He didn’t exactly hide it,” said Robyn. “Not from anyone who wasn’t blinded by that doe-eyed love thing you do.”
Julie’s sister always said it how it was. Maybe that’s why she’d been the first person Julie had thought of to call. Maybe she needed a hefty dose of reality right now.
“Not any more.”
“So what’s it to be? You going to tell me where you want me to take you? Or are you going to come back to the apartment, drink shit-loads of wine, and tell me all about it before sleeping in a drunken heap wherever you fall and waking up miserable and hung-over the next morning?”
“I think I’ll take the second option, if that’s okay with you, sis’?”
§
The next morning she insisted on walking to the station to get a train home. As well as a stinking hang-over, she’d woken with a new sense of fight: she wasn’t going to be beaten down by this. She’d already decided her marriage was over, so Mark could go and do whatever he liked. This was a new start, and that was exactly what she’d set out to achieve.
She realized it wasn’t her most practical decision almost as soon as she emerged from Robyn’s apartment building. While her little black Valentino dress with its layers of lace and figure-enhancing cut had been perfect for dinner with a husband she’d briefly thought might actually give a shit, for a Sunday morning walk to the station almost any other outfit she owned would have been more appropriate. The point-toed Gianvito Rossi stilettos only underlined what must be obvious to everyone who paused to look: this was an outfit from the night before and now she was out here the next morning with nothing else to wear, the classic walk of shame.
When she first saw those looks – the old guy pausing by a shop window and smirking at her, the middle-aged couple with their disapproving stares, the young guy making no secret of giving her the once-over and no doubt imagining vividly what she had been up to the night before – she wanted to stop and defend herself. Shout in their faces that this was no walk of shame, it was the walk of triumph. The first walk of her new life. Her Mark-free life.
The Swingers' Club Boxed Set: All eight cuckoldry and swinging stories in one volume Page 7