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

by Jacqueline Applebee

  Before long, I was indeed shuddering and thrashing in Ben’s arms.

  He kissed my cheek afterwards. “Thank you for that. Tell me what you want next.”

  “I feel greedy,” I confessed.

  “Don’t. I like pleasing you.

  “Okay, I want you on top now. I want to feel you all around me.”

  Tap, tap, squeak.

  I almost laughed at his bed’s encore performance as we rocked together, my legs clasping him, feet hooked behind his thighs. I didn’t come again with him—I actually pushed his hand away when he tried to finger my clit again. Instead I floated somewhere outside my body, drinking in the sounds of his ragged breath, the way he suddenly tensed, then bucked rhythmically, his quivering moan of release.

  These are the things I would remember best, my small, shiny souvenirs from the land of Updike.

  Answers

  “Did you have a good time?” Nick asked when we were back in bed together again. I’d guess it was sometime after midnight.

  “Yes. And you?”

  “It was nice.”

  We both seemed to sense detailed descriptions weren’t in order now. As if on cue, we rolled toward each other and embraced. I stroked his back and shoulders, filled my lungs with his scent, seeking some change in him, some mark to prove it was real.

  “I should be tired, but I want you.” His voice was hot in my ear. “I want you naked inside and out.”

  What happened next was the real surprise of the evening.

  Because those words broke something in me, like a balloon blown to the bursting point. A sigh, more like a sob really, forced its way through my lips and I clutched him, squeezing until my muscles burned.

  He groaned, too, his lean body pressing against me as if he would crush me to pulp.

  When we kissed, it was more like a bite, our lips banging together, stinging from the pressure. Our hands roamed over each other’s bodies, grasping, reclaiming what was ours. I wanted him, too, his naked cock buried in my wetness. And I wanted him now.

  I rose and shoved him over onto his back—I never knew I had such strength in me. When I yanked down his sweat pants, his cock sprang up like a jack-in-the-box, bobbing against his belly. I struggled out of my own pajama pants and straddled him. Our genitals met like a head-on collision with my pubic bone jamming onto his belly over and over. There were no questions. We knew just what to do. Nick grasped my nipple and rolled it between his fingers. His other hand circled around to my ass, the territory on which he still had sole claim.

  I started to fuck him, angling my hips so I could feel his cock pressing against my front wall the way I liked best.

  “Come for me, baby. Come for me,” Nick growled.

  Which is just what I wanted, too. And with his finger invading my ass and his lips tugging my tit, I did, roaring as my orgasm tore through me, not caring who heard.

  Only afterwards, when I lay in my husband’s arms, my pussy raw and slick with his jism, did it finally make sense. The story had two acts: a wandering off to glimpse the familiar in the foreign and to watch the stranger in the man I knew best. And now the rush of bittersweet pleasure you can only know when you come home to real life from a fantastic journey.

  I never felt closer to Nick than I did that night.

  I suppose I have John Updike to thank for that, too.

  Initiation

  By Rick R. Reed

  F*CK CLUB. For gay men with insatiable appetites.

  To join, e-mail pics and stats to f*ckclub@sexmail.org.

  All responses private; all responses answered.

  1.

  The first thing they had me do was simple, but humiliating. “For your first task, we want you to go into the restroom at the New Life Theater, stand next to someone at the urinals, and look down at the guy’s cock and say, “That’s a really nice piece you got there. I’d love to suck it.” It didn’t matter who the guy was, what he looked like, what his age was, I had to say the words, and then I had to take whatever came after that, whether it was to be ignored, get a fist to my jaw, or an invitation to step into a stall and do what I had just offered to do.

  It was my entrée, if you will, into the world of swinging. See, my boyfriend and I had been together for going on nine years and, while our love had grown and grown during that period, becoming what the right wingers would hate to call a family, the sex life had diminished to almost nothing. Alan was like a comfortable pair of old slippers: cuddly, warm, always there. But the fireworks had long ago launched, burned bright, and faded to ashes.

  So we agreed to do what so many other gay couples like us in terms of longevity had agreed to do: open up our relationship. Some guys did three-ways, but Alan and I opted for a “don’t ask, don’t tell policy” in which we could have outside sex, but nothing that would intrude on our real and abiding love for one another. We would see how it went. If it didn’t work out, we could always go back to the fraternal way things were. No harm done. Right?

  I found the F*ck Club online and thought it would offer the perfect outlet for the kind of no strings attached sex that posed no threat to Alan’s and my relationship.

  And so I now found myself ducking into the theater, with all sorts of things going through my head. Every scenario had a bad ending, the badness of varying degrees. First, the guy could take offense and take a swig at me, or loudly call out to anyone within earshot what I had just done. Or, he could grab my arm and force me to find a security guard with him and make sure I was arrested. Or the guy could smile and nod down at his cock. If we were alone, I would be expected to kneel and take it in my mouth without question. If not, we would have to go wherever he wanted, whether it was as close by as one of the stalls, or his house across town. But in my imaginings, the only guy who would do with this would be someone hideous: an old, old man with rheumy eyes and bulbous nose, his body shaking with palsy, his breath smelling of onions, body reeking of perspiration. His dick would be covered with sores.

  So, I was scared: scared of being arrested, scared of being beaten up, scared of having to suck a troll off, and scared, too, that going down this road was traveling a route that led to a parting of the ways. “And when the guy comes, you better take it all,” they had said. And I didn’t know this for sure, but I figured they would have some way of knowing that I followed their instructions to the letter or not and, if I didn’t, well, I didn’t want to think about that. If I didn’t, what would happen to me was far worse than any of the things I just described above. But I plunged forward, thinking that I needed a release, needed to find a way to shore up my loving and comfortable, albeit boring, relationship with my other half.

  When I opened the door, my heart was pounding. I didn’t expect there to be anyone in the men’s room, because Act I of King Lear was in progress and intermission was a good hour away. This wasn’t the Cineplex, where teenage boys ran in and out of the movies as if the theater was their living room, but a legitimate performing arts venue that did a lot of Shakespeare. It was under penalty of death (or at least re-admission) that you left your seat.

  So I was surprised to see someone already at one of the urinals when I pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the men’s room. The fluorescent light was bright and unforgiving on the stark white marble walls and the tiny black and white patterned tile floor. The squeak of the door opening and closing echoed in the cavernous space, with its high ceilings and unforgiving acoustics. I paused for only a second, sizing him up.

  It was hard to tell anything about my “prospect” from behind. He wore a voluminous black wool coat that hung down to the lower part of his calves. His shoes were black, with a high gloss; he wore charcoal slacks in a good fabric, gabardine perhaps. There was a small cuff. His hair was black and wavy and dusted the collar of his coat. I moved in closer and peered into the bank of mirrors over the sinks, trying to see what his profile was like, but his head was turned toward the stall and all I could see was the back of his head.

  Altho
ugh his face could have been akin to Frankenstein’s monster or, worse, George W. Bush on a bad hair day, I had to admit to myself he looked like he had potential. His shoulders were broad. He was tall, well over six feet; his body had a presence that radiated strength. Those were all good things, I told myself, if he decided to take me up on my offer. Bad things, I told myself, if he decided to beat me to a bloody pulp and leave me whimpering on the cold tile floor. I also thought both scenarios could be carried out with relative ease because, as I said earlier, it was unlikely anyone would be in the men’s room at this point in the play.

  “No hesitation. Just do what you’re told,” I could remember them saying and thought I had lingered long enough. I took a breath and strode over to the bank of urinals and stood right next to my target.

  He looked over at me and my knees went weak. His face was as strong, handsome, and solid as his broad back tapering down to his thin hips promised. He had a Roman nose, full lips and grey eyes that stood out from his olive-toned skin; the ledge of thick black eyebrows above them made his eyes even more startling. A tuft of curly black hair peeked out of the top of his starched white button-down shirt. He returned his gaze to the business at hand.

  And so did I. His cock was thick and probably close to six inches long (even though there wasn’t a hint of tumescence). A big vein snaked up one side of the shaft and he had pulled back the foreskin to reveal a perfect helmet head. Piss gushed out in a forceful stream.

  Even if I weren’t doing this as part of a test, I would have had trouble tearing my gaze away. Hell, I would have had trouble keeping the drool in my mouth.

  Yet, my heart pounded so hard against my chest, I wondered if the flesh above it was actually moving outward with each pump of blood. A line of sweat formed along my hairline and another trickled down my back. My mouth was dry, and I tried to gather up some spit. I closed my eyes, unzipped, pulled out my own cock, then turned my head slightly.

  Now or never.

  “That’s a really nice piece you got there. I’d love to suck it.”

  It seemed like all sound in the room stopped: no more traffic going by outside, no hum of the fluorescent lights.

  He turned, looking me up and down. A grin played about his full lips and I wasn’t sure if it was a smile of mockery and derision, or one of interest. I began to tremble. They had said I could say nothing further, so I wasn’t able to apologize or explain why I had said what I did. I simply had to wait, mute, and let him be in control.

  He said nothing for a while, but I could sense him shaking off his cock (I didn’t dare look down), and then he leaned close and whispered, “That’s cool, but let’s step into one of the stalls. I don’t want to get interrupted.” He had a foreign accent, Greek maybe.

  I followed him. He leaned against the marble of the stall wall to let me go in after him and I immediately sat on the toilet, leaving my pants up (“Under no circumstances,” they had said, “are you to touch yourself.”). I looked up and watched as he grinned down at me, one of the most gorgeous men I had ever seen, as he undid his belt and pushed his fine pants down to his ankles. He was no longer soft; in fact he was rock hard and his cock jutted out proudly from a matte of black pubic hair. A drop of precum glistened on its tip. He stroked it lightly, that same enigmatic smile (or was it better called a smirk?) playing about his lips. Then he thrust his hips forward.

  And there was no hesitation. I opened my mouth and took him all the way to the root without gagging (although my eyes did tear up) and before I resigned myself to my work, I thought that if the other two parts of my initiation were as easy (or as wonderful) as this, I could be initiated for the rest of my life.

  I placed my hands on his muscular thighs, thick with coarse black hair, then moved up to his ass, the cheeks clenching as he pounded himself into my open, and very receptive, mouth.

  2.

  I left the theatre, casting nervous glances around me, almost expecting to see Alan leaning against the concession stand, arms folded across his chest, grinning at me, as if this was all something he’d made up for me, a test of sorts. Was the guy in the corner in the dark blue suit security? Was the old woman near the exit a friend of my mother’s? I couldn’t believe what I had just done. The memories were still playing in my head: a lurid porno loop. I could see nothing but a flat stomach crowned with coarse black hair moving toward my face, then away. I could still smell the musk of his crotch. I could still hear his sighs and breathing increase as he quickened the thrusting in and out of my mouth, his ass muscles clenching as he forced his cock all the way down my throat.

  I could still taste him.

  I didn’t know how long this initiation would continue. Would the next two parts arrive immediately? Or would it take days . . . or weeks? I was soon to find out.

  When I emerged onto the sidewalk, crisp autumn air hit me. There was a guy emptying the trash: gray hoodie, faded jeans, construction worker boots, a dark blue bandana wrapped around his head, emphasizing dark Latin features. He lifted the trash can into a bigger plastic bin on wheels. He was good at it and got everything in with the first fluid throw.

  Everything, that is, save for a piece of fluorescent yellow paper. He glanced down at it, then back at me, and moved on.

  I watched him head on down the busy street, wondering if it was a sign. I hurried over and picked up the piece of yellow paper before it had a chance to flutter away on the October breeze.

  I opened the folded paper. “Walk three blocks. In each block, go up to one man of your choice and grab his ass. When he reacts, your only response should be: ‘Oh God! I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.’ Move on to the next . . . if you’re able.”

  I stood staring at the piece of paper and my anxiety, so recently abated, returned full force. I began to wonder if I shouldn’t abandon this whole idea and head home. Clubs were for high school . . . and one like this was something I could hardly get my head around. It seemed like they were setting me up to be bashed . . . or worse.

  And yet something inside urged me on. I was like an addict, even though I had done very little to even get hooked, or in fact, to even know what the ultimate thrill of my high might be.

  I thought again about my experience in the theater and tried to use what happened there as motivation to move me onward (that, and the mystery of it all). After all, the guy in the men’s room could have been a plant and all of this could be very benignly watched over. How could anything bad happen?

  Even I knew the answer to that question.

  Up ahead was a man waiting for the bus. He looked pretty harmless: slight frame, wearing a brown suit and tassel loafers, a Wall Street Journal tucked under his arm. He was slightly balding and, when he glanced down the street to see if the bus was in his field of vision, revealed a clean-shaven face made slightly more distinctive by small gold wire rimmed oval glasses. He looked to be about forty; not like the kind of guy who would punch someone out, no matter how outraged he might be. He wouldn’t have been my first choice for ass grabbing but, lust briefly abated by my earlier encounter, I took a deep breath, strode up behind him and grabbed his ass, squeezing the surprisingly muscular cheeks hard.

  He turned immediately (no surprise), mouth ajar and eyebrows raised. “Wha—?”

  “Oh God! I’m sorry; I thought you were someone else.” I let a giggle loose, embarrassed by how high-pitched it was.

  The guy’s eyebrows came together and for the moment, the briefest flicker of outrage moved across his features. Then, he softened, even smiled a little. He shook his head, looking me up and down.

  “You want to watch that, fella. You could get yourself in big trouble.”

  He turned back to watching the street for a bus, or cab, or whatever he was waiting for. He snapped open his newspaper, dismissing me. But I could see his hands were trembling slightly.

  I moved on.

  The next guy I went up to was someone I wanted to touch. There were no rules against that, was there? And, not to stereot
ype, but I was pretty sure he was gay, just because of the fact that he was so aggressively masculine. He was standing looking in the window of a bookstore at a display of the latest outpouring from David Sedaris (clue one) and a small grin played about his lips (I could see his reflection in the glass). He was broad-shouldered and looked even more so because he was only about 5’8”. He didn’t wear a jacket, so I could see the tense muscles bunched beneath the fabric of his form-fitting, long-sleeved white T-shirt. His hair was salt and pepper, buzzed, and his face had a strong jaw line and was enhanced, rather than marred, by a light covering of acne scars. He looked tough . . . and mean. But the tight Levis and engineer boots said “leatherman” in a loud voice.

  I grinned, strode up to him and gave his ass a squeeze, trying to ignore the fact that my mouth was dry and my heart was doing an irregular thump.

  He turned to look at me and his hardened features lit up with a 100-kilowatt smile.

  I almost forgot what I was supposed to say. Anxiety and lust warred within me. Guess which one was winning. I might as well have been winking when I said, “Oh God. I’m sorry; I thought you were someone else.” I made it apparent from my delivery I didn’t think he was anyone else, just the gorgeous hard-bodied stud standing before me. I looked down at his crotch, where a sizable basket presented itself.

  He cocked his head. I felt no fear and, in fact, was hoping for a proposition. The hell with this initiation thing—I was up for an encounter. No one said the third man’s ass I had to grab had to be right away.

  “Did you really?”