She wanted to confront each of them and explain what had happened. How dare they make assumptions about her? Each of them, writing their own story for her, filling in all the juicy details of her escapades.
A woman: fiftyish, her silver hair tied harshly back, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of her sagging mouth. Staring. Either disapproving or jealous, it was hard to tell which. Julie met the woman’s look, raised her eyebrows questioningly, challengingly. The woman looked away, with a slight shake of the head.
Julie remembered her feelings upon leaving her sister’s apartment, that new sense of determination.
She wasn’t going to let these people judge her. She was going to hold her head high, proud.
And so she swept into the station, bought a ticket from the machine, and waited for her train, standing there in her party shoes and her designer-label black dress from the night before.
§
Was sleeping with strangers a revenge thing?
Not that Mark would care, of course. He’d made his position clear: he was moving on. He’d already moved on.
No, not straightforward revenge, then.
A reaction to what had happened, yes. But more than that: a positive thing. A constructive thing. A way for her to move on and start over. A chance to prove to herself that she was still desirable, adventurous, fun. All the things she’d stopped being when she married Mark.
It started that morning, when her walk of shame took her onto the train and it became clear that the few other passengers were still regarding her in the same way: easy-ride party girl, making her disheveled way home from the night before.
“It’s not what it looks like,” she said to a thirty-something guy sitting opposite her, who immediately looked away. Was he actually coloring up in response to her talking to him? How sweet.
He was skinny, with short dark hair and eyes that kept flitting back in her direction and then away again. Now, after a long pause, he turned to her again and she saw that he was smiling. “No?” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare, but...”
He’d been going to say something corny, but he stopped himself. She approved of that. She didn’t want some stranger trying lame chat-up lines on her just to test out his own theories of how easy she must be.
“I was out with my husband,” she said. “He told me he was having an affair. I stayed at my sister’s.” Why did she feel the need to explain herself?
The guy nodded. “How awful,” he said, and he really sounded like he thought that.
“I didn’t see it coming,” she said. “Didn’t have a clue.”
“Hindsight’s great, eh?”
Somewhere in the back of her mind, something was forming. Not even an idea, more a pressure, a need. She didn’t want a stranger chatting her up. She wanted to be in control. She wanted to be the one in charge.
Now, she said, “He sounded like he’d just grown bored with me. Lost interest.” The guy was studying her, and now she gave that look, the slightly shy glance up from her big eyes, with her head slightly dipped. The coquettish look, the hint of mischief. “I’m not that bad, surely?” she said.
“I...” His face was coloring up again.
She leaned back and crossed her legs, the movement leading his gaze down that tailored dress to her legs, the sheer black stockings, and those patent leather stiletto pumps.
“No,” he said, finally. “You’re not that bad. So, um, what are you going to do?”
She knew exactly what he meant. He meant what was she going to do about Mark? Was she going to divorce him, kick him out of the house, or maybe try to win him back?
He didn’t mean what was she going to do right now?
She sat forward, smiled, and reached out to put a hand on the inside of his knee. Then, crooking her fingers to form a claw, she ran her hand upwards, her nails raking up the inside of his thigh.
“What am I going to do?” she said. She glanced around. There were two other passengers at the far end of the carriage. “Well right now,” she said, “I’m going to do this.”
She leaned forward further, and ran her hand up to his lap, brushing her knuckles against hardness. Turning her hand, she pressed down against him, finding the contours of his shaft.
“You might see it as a pity thing,” she said, rolling her hand against him. “A mercy thing, perhaps. For me it’s more about anger. And need. I hope you don’t mind?”
He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped and just gave a slight shake of the head.
His pants were a loose fit, which gave her room to maneuver his dick so that it lay fully-stretched, pointing to his right. Now, she could rub it more freely, feeling the give as its outer sheath of skin slid against that rock-hard core.
She moved to sit next to him, and now his dick was pointing towards her. Looking back down the carriage, she could see that the other two passengers were oblivious.
Sitting like this, it was easier to rub him, working him through the fabric of his pants.
She raised a foot so that her legs parted, and she slid a hand up, hitching her dress up to reveal the tops of her stockings and the smooth skin of one upper thigh.
Burying a hand between her legs, she pressed the heel of her thumb against herself and rolled her hand from side to side, while all the time she kept up that steady rhythm on this stranger’s hard dick.
She turned her head and looked at him.
He was studying her closely, his mouth still parted a little, his eyes wide. As she watched, he very deliberately let his gaze roam down her body to where her hand pressed between her legs. She shifted to part her thighs a little more, easing the dress higher, and now, through the fabric of her panties, she pressed her fingers against the folds of her labia, rocking her hand from side to side.
Then, as he watched, she pulled the thin fabric of her thong aside, revealing the smooth skin of her pussy to him, letting him watch as she slid a finger inside.
Her movements were becoming more urgent now, her rhythm on his hard shaft accelerating.
Surely if those two passengers looked back along the carriage, even though the seats obscured the view they would be able to work out exactly what was happening just from the movement of her body as she jerked this guy off through his pants?
He put his hand over hers and she looked down.
So strange to see another man’s hand there, not Mark’s.
She let him nudge her hand aside, press his fingers against her pussy, dip the tip of his middle finger inside and then trail it up to her clit.
A sudden flick across that hard bud sent a jolt of pleasure through her body. Another.
She was working him more firmly now, rubbing along the length of his shaft and then pressing down on the swollen head. Over and over again, as his finger flicked steadily at her clit, a delicate, butterfly touch.
This wasn’t going to last much longer at all! She’d had no idea this guy would have such an expert touch, bringing her to her peak in a way she hadn’t known for years.
So close...
Then she felt a pulsing, and the guy arched his back, pressing up against the flat of her hand. Another, and now there was a bit of give in that hard shaft, and she realized he was coming in his pants. She pressed down and felt wet heat through the fabric, and then a softening, a slumping of his body, and...
Through all this, he never let up with that steady flicking of his finger, and now the sheer naughtiness of what had just happened was all it took to push her over the edge. That softening under her hand, the throb of his climax, the wet heat...
She moved her hand over his, everything suddenly so intense. She pressed him against her, his fingers sliding against her labia, his palm against her soft mound, against her clit. Pushing up against that hand, she felt an intense clenching of ever muscle in her abdomen, in her pussy, in her thighs... Holding him against her so that she could feel the pulsing of her orgasm through her hand covering his, she fought not to cry out loud at the sudden intensity o
f her climax.
And slowly, slowly, she remembered to breathe.
§
Walking home from the station in her little black Valentino dress and those Gianvito Rossi stilettos, everyone looking at the young woman clearly dressed for the night before.
All the looks, the disapproving, the mocking, the smiles of one sort or another.
Each of them making assumptions, making up their own accounts of her exploits.
Walking home, her pussy slick with her own juices, and her head filled with memories from only a few minutes before.
The feel of the guy’s hard dick. The pulsing as he came and the immediate softening. The wet heat of his semen.
His hand on her, pressing down as she climaxed. That steady flicking of his finger against her clit. The breathtaking intensity of her orgasm.
A young woman, looked her up and down, her imagination clearly filling in the gaps. Julie smiled and nodded, and the woman looked away.
They’d all got it wrong. This wasn’t a walk of shame. It was a walk of freedom, and it felt so fucking good.
§
She had time later to feel bad about it, of course. She had the rest of the day for her mood to swing from one extreme to another. Shock at her own behavior. Shame that she had done what she had. Anger that the guy had gone with it when he must know she was vulnerable and distressed. Guilty that she had betrayed Mark, even though she understood just how ludicrous everything about that reaction must be. Triumphant, too, that she had proved herself attractive, that she had gone out and taken what she needed. Amused, even, that she had done what she had and that now she was feeling so many conflicting emotions as a result.
The last thing she anticipated was that when she got on the train the next morning to head into the city for work, the guy would be standing there by the door and the only place for her to stand would be right next to him.
She’d seen him before.
Why had she not recognized him? It’s not as if he looked so very different, standing there in his suit and tie. It felt as if a cloud had descended on that Sunday train ride home and she had only seen what she wanted to see.
But now...
He glanced at her, across her, away, and then his eyes darted back, the classic double-take.
He opened his mouth as if to speak and then stopped himself. The workings of his mind were clear: the rush from recognition, to remembering, to a mind racing to work out what was the appropriate thing to say to the stranger who had jerked him off in his pants on the same train route only the day before.
He said nothing, just nodded and smiled, then looked away. Passing acquaintances, no more.
She forced her racing heart to slow down by taking a deep breath and holding it.
After a few minutes, she allowed herself to glance at him again. He’d been studying her and now he nodded, and said, “Are you okay?”
She nodded, and said, “I am. I’m good. And you?”
He smiled. “I’m fine,” he said. Then he added, “So... I was wondering... do you like to party?”
§
By ‘party’ he didn’t mean the polite kind with canapés and cocktails and bad music, he meant party.
He meant evenings when he sends a text message asking if you’re free and when you turn up at his place the door is answered by his girlfriend, a breathtakingly beautiful Indian woman who greets you with a big hug like an old friend, even though she’s only wearing a thong and a tiny black bra. An evening where the girlfriend, Sunita, tells you about the Sunday morning when Ricky had come home with wet pants and a story about a stunning redhead who’d jumped him on the train. About how that story had led to her undressing him and leading him to the wet room where she’d washed him clean of his own juices and made him tell her the story again while this time it was her hand on his dick.
Evenings where Julie had kissed another woman for the first time. The softness of Sunita’s lips, the gentle probing of her tongue. The smoothness of her skin, and the waxy taste of her nipples, as they popped up hard from almost nothing in Julie’s mouth.
Evenings where she and Sunita had turned to Ricky, exploring his body with their mouths. Where they had straddled him, Sunita on his face and Julie riding his dick in the reverse cowboy position so she could lean back into Sunita’s embrace. The perfect position for Sunita to lean forward, stretch one long arm down Julie’s body to press a hand against her pussy, feeling her boyfriend’s dick where it entered her... for her to find Julie’s clit and start to flick just as Ricky had done to her on that encounter on the train.
By ‘party’ he meant evenings spent in larger groups. An evening at a big house somewhere south of the city, when it had just been Julie and Sunita and maybe a dozen guys. When Julie had found herself lying back on a double bed next to Sunita as one guy after another had moved onto her, entered her, fucked her hard, then swapped with the guy who’d been doing the same to Sunita. An evening when her pussy had been so filled with semen she’d felt like someone had just pumped her full, when her body had ached so much from one fuck after another that she could barely stand afterwards, let alone walk.
Parties where she didn’t even see Ricky or Sunita. They might have been there, they might not. Pretty soon she became accustomed to getting random invitations on her phone or on Facebook, often from people and numbers she didn’t know.
§
Her friends were very understanding and supportive when they learned of the end of Julie’s marriage. Even more so when they found out that Mark had been seeing someone for the past eight months.
They were sympathetic when Julie vowed that she would never marry again, even though they clearly thought it was simply a reaction to a marriage gone bad. They didn’t get that it was because she had found something different, something so much more fulfilling.
That her life now consisted of moments like this, of waking in a room you don’t recognize, or realizing that you don’t know the person who is lying there tangled naked with you, and then that there’s more than one person.
Moments when memories of the night before start to seep back in. When you realize you’re at your new friends Martin and Selena’s place, where these parties usually ended up, even if they didn’t start there.
Fragments.
That long black dick, so close to your face. White fingers wrapped around it, pumping it hard. The sudden blossoming of creamy white at its slit end, and then semen arcing through the air towards your face, splashing into your open mouth and across your cheek and into your hair.
The girl. One of Selena’s friends. Cupping your chin in her hands, dipping her head in close so that she can kiss that trail of semen off your cheek. Then moving so that her lips press against yours and you open your mouth to hers, kissing a semen-loaded kiss. Swallowing. Kissing more hungrily and then working your way down her body until you’re driving your tongue deep into her wet pussy.
Feeling hands behind you, on your ass, spreading your cheeks so that a tongue can probe you from behind, pressing deep into your dark opening while stubble scrapes against your ass and fingers drive into your cunt.
So many sensations of hands and dicks and mouths and pussies. Skin against skin. Wetness and heat, and then slumping together, lying tangled, exhausted, spent.
And waking, realizing it’s morning, feeling the press of naked bodies against you and not knowing where you are or who you’re with.
Realizing that you’ve never been happier than this.
That.
Unfinished Business
“Do you think I should reply?” Christina asked.
She knew that questions like this depended so much on context. Asked over the breakfast table accompanied by a pile of brown envelopes, it would be a very different question to the one she asked now.
Asked by a young honey-blonde in black stockings, garters, tiny panties and a quarter-cup push-up bra, and the context is very different.
Asking the question of a man maybe twenty years her s
enior who is naked and hanging from handcuffs locked into iron loops on the oak-paneled wall, and it’s a very different question indeed.
Christina leaned back on the chaise longue, arching her back to push her breasts upwards in that way Adam particularly liked.
As she surveyed his naked, slender body, his erection nudged even higher, pointing towards her.
Adam really was such a very good husband, and she adored him. He would do anything for her, and he liked nothing more than to make her happy. His wealth was only a bonus, allowing him to indulge her in ways that would otherwise be impossible. Traveling the world, the finest dining, the best in culture... she really did have everything.
That he encouraged her to explore the senses, indulge in her wildest desires... that was just the icing on a seriously attractive cake.
“I do,” he said now. “It would be rude not to reply.”
“Don’t you worry that it’s risky? I was with Taylor, before I met you. You know I always said there was unfinished business there...” She let her hand stray down across the smooth skin of her belly, to the lace of her panties. “What if the old fire gets rekindled? What if things happen?”
That long dick of his: now it stood even higher, twitching occasionally as she spoke.
She leaned forward and took him in her hand, relishing the smooth glide of skin over that hard shaft. “You really wouldn’t mind if...?”
She took him in both hands now, and started to pull, twisting her wrists as she worked the length of him.
“No...” he gasped. “No, I wouldn’t mind.” She peered up at him, the head of his dick so close to her open mouth. His body was stretched taut, arched away from the wall. Those cuffs must hurt!
She brushed his glans whisper-soft across her lips, the contact lubricated with his salty juices.
“Just... one thing,” he said. So difficult for him to talk when she was doing that thing across her lips!
The Swingers' Club Boxed Set: All eight cuckoldry and swinging stories in one volume Page 8