SWING! Adventures in Swinging by Today's Top Erotica Writers

by Jacqueline Applebee

  We put our bag in a locker on the other end, where the showers and the private and semi-private rooms are also. At least two-thirds of the people on the dance floor are semi-nude now, and cocaine flows. We’re cautious and don’t accept any drugs from strangers, they could be cut with something dangerous. We’ve been warned that cops often pose as cab drivers out these doors, asking for drugs. It’s apparent they’re plentiful.

  Jenny and I are dynamite dancing together, with our matching gold and silver spandex pants. We create a sensation almost everywhere we go. We’re HOT! High on the little bit of coke with us, high on the sexual energy, mesmerized by the mirror balls, strobe lights, and the beat of the disco music, it feels like we’re in a mirage of a hypnotic fantasy. Every turn promises a glimpse of an outlandish outfit or costume, and various stages of nudity. The DJ mentions something about us I can’t make out, then spotlights us, elevating and energizing our dancing. I take the lead and spin Jenny around a few times, pulling her in close as we intertwine and hump and grind our crotches together, completing the dance. We’re divas celebrating ourselves, loving our power to command attention, to seduce.

  Karl joins us for a three-way slow dance. He points out a man in a red velvet smoking jacket who holds a chain attached to a woman’s collar and cuffs. She’s nude, except for a brown velvet hooded cape and feather mask, dressed as the bird of prey like O in Story of O. What an enchanting, mysterious creature, provoking me to explore what’s behind not only the mask, but the choice of O. I stare at her in fascination. Sensory overload illuminates an intense sexual promise, which hangs in the air with the music, each breath and beat awakening my desires.

  At one or two a.m. people dressed in tuxedos and black tie dresses wander in, settling to eat at the tables by the pool and watch the action. One striking couple arrives, the woman of dark velvet skin, enormous, alluring eyes, and an immaculate Afro adorned with red and gold jewels. Large gold hoop earrings swing with every movement of her head.

  “Look at that woman’s dress! And her hair!” Jenny says, spotting the woman I’m staring at, especially the red satin full length halter dress, and red patent heels. The man with her sports a white cutaway tuxedo with a black mask. I’m mesmerized. By 2:30a.m. the tables fill with the Who’s Who of New York’s disco scene, socialites, celebrities, and voyeurs, who are either swingers themselves, or simply wish to be entertained by horny nude people running around. Elton John and Mick and Bianca Jagger had appeared recently, but no one of note was here now. . .

  “Jenny, let’s give them something to look at,” I say, pulling her closer and kissing her long and hard, caressing her ass, slowly moving toward her crotch, rubbing sensually up and down deep between her cheeks. She responds, and we quickly forgot about our audience. Karl watches from a table, smiling.

  We talk later about getting together with that couple. Karl said to dance and have some fun, but otherwise he thought we should stay away from them. Shit. I don’t argue or try to persuade him otherwise—if either of us is uncomfortable with someone, for whatever reason, they are a NO. He says he thinks they’re too smooth, and his instincts are usually right. They probably were too much for Jenny. Sometimes one of us will make a case for a person or people, and iron out a compromise. This isn’t the time or place for that, as we have to consider Jenny as well.

  We lose ourselves on the dance floor. Already high and heady, and intoxicated with this festive matrix, a fog sneaks onto the dance floor, expanding the surreal. It changes from dusty blue, to green, then blood red, and creeps upward, blending with the smell of hot, moving bodies. I feel as if I’m outside my body, observing from somewhere else. Images of brilliant costume flash before me. There’s a petite, beautifully full-figured woman with a peacock feather headdress worthy of a Vegas showgirl. She wears nothing else but black platforms and a few feathers over her crotch.

  Yet the grand masquerade is later when the cloak of nudity and raw sexuality is worn. Feathers are shown with bodies and sexual technique. Individuality blends into the masses. Threesomes, foursomes, whatever, form their own identity, morphing as they go along, webs of interacting desires. The three of us are tight, a unit, with Karl and I, as a couple, the strong core.

  I notice another stunning couple. He’s a bit older than us, sophisticated in a nicely tailored jacket, carrying a cane with an ivory nude handle. She’s tall, slender, wearing a sexy batwing sleeve dress in a gold satin that glistens in the light, with matching gold platform heels. She carries herself as if an aristocrat, befitting her fine facial features and full lips. Some of the women wear their sexy outfits in the Early Slut fashion, but this woman captivates me with her enticing elegance. I point this couple out to Karl and Jenny, and soon we’re talking with Bill and Diane. She’s bisexual, as Jenny and I, and Bill’s straight, as Karl is, but has strayed on rare occasions.

  The Ladies Only dance is announced—Diane and the gorgeous lady with the red dress and fro join us (she saw me staring at her), as others form their own little groups. Nipple sucking, crotch grabbing, and kissing strengthen with each song. The disco beat seems to be louder. Careful not to block the DJ in front, the men form a horseshoe about ten deep around the dance floor, cheering the best shows.

  When the men are allowed back on the dance floor, they quickly find their places in the groups of gyrating women, forming longer chains, with no shortage of groping and grinding. Occasionally a man dances behind his lady and steers her, front facing out, into a girl or couple of their interest. The three of us dance with Diane and Bill, kissing, petting, familiarizing ourselves. Arousal ignited, we all agree to continue in a semi-private room, our usual preference. We head toward our respective lockers—the three of us ready now for some mellowing Quaaludes, our supply reserved for times like these.

  We change to only shower tongs, take a quick group shower, slowed down only by Jenny and I fussing with the Lily of the Valley scented soap and perfuming ourselves. We show Jenny the row of bidets. She’d never seen one, and once the pulsating water was hitting right on her clit, we didn’t think we’d get her off of it.

  We head for the semi-private rooms, where we meet up with Diane and Bill. Some of the rooms are out in the open facing each other, but the one we choose has a thin half-wall, cubbyhole-like divider with another room. No one is obligated to do anything, but interested persons will talk to you as if you will, because you’re at a swing club after all. Most people are respectful of choices, but we’ve encountered pushy proposals.

  We begin our sexual play with great enthusiasm. Diane’s just as stunning naked as she is dressed—beautiful proportions to her hips and full breasts, which aren’t too big; but perfect for her. Karl loves that body type also. I find Bill to be amazingly fit, stocky and solid, a commanding figure. He has an enticing crop of curly hair on his chest, black with flecks of grey, like the hair on his head. I can’t resist running my fingers through this mass, finding his nipples as I circle about. Karl has fine, light hair, sporting a great head of hair, but not much on his body, with skin softer than mine. I love to stroke the silky hair on his balls and all around his crotch. The contrast of Bill’s chest hair helps enliven the whole experience for me.

  Soon Karl eats Diane while she sucks Bill, and I kiss and finger Jenny. Before long Karl is fucking Diane, as I sit on her face and kiss him. Bill is with Jenny, and occasionally my hand wanders over to stroke Bill and play with Jenny’s perky boobies. No one knows what the next entanglement is—we succumb to the sensual, savoring the flavor. We hear sporadic groans of pleasure from other groups, literally right next to us.

  We fall into various contortions, caressing, stimulating, sucking, and fucking. Resisting nothing, we ravish each other with overwhelming zeal. Sensing something, I glance over at Karl, beads of sweat shimmering on his face and chest, perhaps a bit out of frustration, in addition to the drug supplementation. He looks at me deeply, with love and trust in his eyes, wide with a plea to help him out. A new situation or girl sometimes unnerves him,
delaying the necessary mechanics. He depends on me in these rare situations. He’s come to my rescue at times when the reality of someone isn’t as exciting as the thought or pursuit of them. Karl and I can rouse each other at any time.

  Holding Bill’s cock with one hand, I reach over and suck Karl’s nipple as if a hungry kitten, deeply taking the area in my mouth, then move out to the nipple’s edge with increasing suction, focusing on milking it in and out, then flicking it with my tongue. Next I suck his cock, holding the base firmly with my hand. He grows in my mouth, as I open up my throat with impassioned longing, allowing him to fuck all the way down, unimpeded. I stop and quickly steer him into Diane’s wet pussy—he barely misses a beat. With an appreciative little grin, he takes it from there, fucking with eager intensity. I ponder with a bit of self-satisfaction the talent I’ve developed in swing situations—the creative ability to manage multiple mouths, dicks, and pussies to everyone’s satisfaction. I often feel it my responsibility to set the tone, and initiate things so no one is unfairly singled out or left out. This adds to my yearning for the three of us to share our spicy eroticism, usually creating an exhilarating time.

  The guys take a break and the three of us gals indulge each other, feeding our hunger for female sex. Karl and I sometimes talk about what we both like in a woman, like eating pussy. We also share an appreciation of a woman’s unique beauty, as a work of fine art, physically as well as personally. But women with each other often share a personal, empathetic element. I give sex to a woman of my enchantment as I want it given to myself, and find great joy bringing her to ecstasy.

  We aren’t left alone for long. Diane sits on my face, sucking on someone’s cock above my head. Jenny laps at my pussy, losing herself. I hold her head, stroking her hair and tickling her scalp. She’s a giving soul, yearning to please, and we’re happy to let her do so, returning the favor eventually. I worry that someday she may get hurt, with such a trusting, innocent nature, untarnished as yet. We watch out for her, admittedly with some selfishness—she could be snatched away.

  Karl suggests one of my favorite positions with two men. I’m comfortable with everyone here, and my passion, kindled with the Quaalude, has reached a feverish pitch. I suck at Karl a bit, although he’s already hard. He puts a fresh condom on, as does Bill, with some lube. I sit on Karl, facing toward his feet, and slide his hard cock into my ass. Then I lean back and Bill gets on top, straddling Karl’s legs as his cock finds my pussy.

  Now, I’m utterly consumed, my ass and pussy getting fucked simultaneously by two dicks. I rub my clit in hard, circular motions. Jenny twists my nipples and Diane moves about fondling everyone, kissing Bill, kissing Jenny, kissing Karl and me. This is her playground and her choice. I hear the music in the background, as our intensity escalates along with our moaning, and faster thrusts by the men. Jenny is licking Bill’s cock and my clit together as he continues to fuck me. He cries out when he comes, and Karl follows. My ardor reaches a hot-blooded burn; I tremble with sensation. Don’t stop, please. I want to capture the feeling, but they’re done and I didn’t cum. So, so close.

  Diane heads to the bidets, then joins Bill for a splash in the pool. We’re starting to get hungry. We’ve had enough foreplay and play with Diane and Bill to last a long while. Karl and I look at each other with desire for some passionate lovemaking, not the impersonal sex of swinging, which doesn’t go beyond an emotional fondness. Swinging reminds us of what we have, and creates a deeper appreciation for each other. Sure, I’ve fallen in love with some women, and even had some feelings for a man or two, and so has Karl, but we never lose sight of our commitment to each other primarily, and keep communication open. Swinging and having a girlfriend adds diversity and enhances our sex, as well as our relationship. As great as the fucking was with Diane and Bill, I didn’t allow myself to cum. My mind and emotions contribute to a passionate surrender, drawing it into lovemaking.

  The three of us lay comfortably holding each other, relaxing. We love our time together, just the three of us. We usually have the best sex with our private home parties; we know each other well and are uninhibited. Jenny’s in the middle, I’m on the outside in spoon position, snuggled against her soft little rump, my top leg between hers. Karl faces her, his outer leg competing with mine, but I win out. We hold hands across Jenny, look into each other in gratitude for this moment and each other and to have Jenny to share between us. I can stay in this serene moment for eternity, loving Karl and holding Jenny’s boobie with my other hand. At home we might take a break, all of us standing naked in the kitchen around the butcher block, eating, laughing. My hunger returns, but I am distracted once again.

  “Let’s finish where Diane and Bill left off,” Karl eventually said to Jenny.

  “Sucki Suki?”

  With the love of my life, Karl, and with Jenny, whom I trust absolutely, I divulge every amorous passion and desire. We have the best sex of the night, the osmosis of our sexual energy acting as if a natural evolution. It thrills me to rouse both of them, culminating in their exhilarating climaxes. Now I cum, a full, encompassing, profound cum, resonating deep throughout my whole body, and with my whole being.

  Epilogue

  Plato’s Retreat, an on-premise swing club and disco, gained world fame when it moved in 1977 to the Ansonia Hotel building at 230 West 74th Street, in New York City (it later moved to 509 W. 34th Street). The basement location formerly held Continental Baths, and an upscale gay bathhouse. Plato’s retained the pool, saunas, and dance floor in its conversion, and instantly became legendary, riding the wave of the disco and sexual frenzy of the late 70s and early 80s, along with Studio 54 and others in Manhattan. With more than “dirty dancing” happening at Plato’s, the city closed it in 1985, along with gay bathhouses, in response to the AIDS epidemic. Smaller clubs, less in the public spotlight, remained open. Reopening as Plato’s Retreat 2 in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, it never achieved the fame and reputation as the original. In 2006, it changed to a sex club for men only.

  John Updike Made Me Do It

  By Donna George Storey

  Roots of an Obsession

  John Updike made me do it.

  He definitely deserves a lot of credit anyway.

  Because when I think back on that night in Tahoe, it’s almost as if he were right there in the hot tub with us, his lips stretched in a patrician smile as he guided my hand over to caress the rock-hard cock of a man who was not my husband.

  Of course said husband was too busy sucking the rosy nipples of the German woman, Katharina, to notice or care. And Jürgen and Jill were already kissing as if they’d done it dozens of times, which they hinted they had when Jill spent her junior year in Bonn. None of them seemed to need John Updike’s help, although no doubt they had his blessing.

  Updike had been softening me up for this night for years. Sitting in the effervescent spa water with five other horny married people, the Sierras soaring around us into the star-flecked sky, it was just like stepping into the pages of a steamy novel. In fact, it was the same surreal excitement I felt as I devoured Rabbit is Rich or Couples under the blankets as a teenager. Sneaking them from the bookshelves in my parents’ room, I instinctively knew I could only read them when I heard the soft click of their bedroom lock at night.

  While my parents “did it” the customary way—with each other in their marriage bed, their lust invisible to the world—the couples in John Updike’s stories were fearlessly experimental, so they ended up all jumbled together like Halloween candy in a plastic pumpkin. They’d jet off to the Caribbean where the wives would confer to redistribute sex partners for the night. Or they’d fall into affairs and then confess to their spouses who would graciously consent to sleep with their cuckolded counterparts to even the score. Even Updike’s memoirs glittered with shocking transgression. I can’t tell you how many times I masturbated to the scene of Updike fingering a neighbor’s wife through her ski pants as they drove back from Vermont through a starry winter night.

>   I knew these were just stories, maybe even pure fantasy, but I sensed, too, that John Updike was giving me a glimpse of the hunger and restlessness of the adult world. What were these people looking for in their swaps and affairs? Did they ever find it?

  Would I?

  The Games Begin

  We’d just passed Auburn on our drive up to Tahoe to spend the weekend with Nick’s old friend Jill when the snow started falling hard. Before long, Nick had to pull over and put on the chains. I suppose I started playing the “swinging” game because the poor guy was half-frozen when he got back in the car. With the traffic inching along I-80, we were sure to miss dinner at the cabin. He’d need more than Power Bars and trail mix to warm him up.

  I explained the rules to him: we’d take turns naming a couple we knew and then describe what we thought it would be like to swap for the evening. I opened with the most obvious couple in our lives. “How about switching with Grace and Jack?”

  Nick’s eyebrows shot up. Grace was one of the most talented programmers he worked with and he once mentioned casually that he found her attractive. With her porcelain skin and hourglass curves, I doubt he was alone in that opinion.

  “I could see that as a possibility,” he said cautiously.

  “A possibility? Come on, you’d love it. Grace straddling you, cowgirl style. Those melon breasts jiggling as she rides you. Her pale skin all flushed with arousal. You could grab her nice round butt and knead it while she creamed all over you. Then you’d tickle her ass crack—you’re good at that—and when she came she’d probably give that sweet little laugh, like she did when she was drunk at the Christmas party.” I giggled in what I thought was a decent imitation of his favorite colleague.