Later, I came to detest it when he called me “Baaaabe.” It’s funny how the one thing you love about someone can be the single thing you come to despise.
I was stunned and my immediate response was outrage as I gathered my things and stormed back to our room. He followed me; pleading that he loved me, but he wanted to try new things sexually.
“Why didn’t you talk to me about this before booking this trip to Hedonistic Island?” I asked crying, betrayed.
“Because I knew you’d react like this. I thought if we came down here in a peaceful setting and experienced non-monogamous sex together; it would help ease us into trying something new; something hotter and sexier.” He said, still pleading.
“So, what you’re saying is you want to cheat on me?” I asked, still crying.
“No. I want both of us to have the opportunity to experience heightened sexual encounters outside of our marriage bed. I love you Baaabe . . . won’t you do this for me? For us?” He finished solicitously as he stood in our room, hands on his hips.
As I mentioned earlier, I wanted to please my husband, and what I came to realize later, was that somewhere buried inside me was the desire to experience sexual relations outside my marriage also. Maybe it was because I’d only ever known one man sexually, my husband, or maybe there was something that had always burned inside me, but I didn’t realize it until my husband gave me permission to act on those lurid feelings.
After the third day of our trip, I finally conceded to my husband’s desires and told him I would allow another woman to touch me, while he watched. He beamed with excitement and we both agreed the first experience would be a luxurious full body massage.
The masseuse, like all the people at this resort was very attractive. Her name was Heidi and she had olive-colored skin; red, pouty lips and well-defined, willowy arms and legs. Heidi wore a pair of khaki shorts. The nipples of her exquisite small, perky breasts pushed against her off-white tank top. Wearing the hotel’s white terry cloth robe, I greeted Heidi; removed the robe and lay face down onto the massage table, my husband perched nearby.
I was completely naked.
It was late in the afternoon, and she opened the French doors to our balcony, letting in the warm, ocean breeze. The sensuous smell of warm spiced oranges and sandalwood whirled above my head as she poured the massage oil into her hands; sending sexual impulses deep inside my cunt.
Heidi began slowly massaging my shoulders, my neck, and my arms. I felt my body begin to relax as Heidi’s expert fingers and hands penetrated deeply into my muscles. I took a deep breath in through my nose and exhaled as she manipulated my body. She worked me like wet clay, sculpting my body with every touch. I felt my pussy becoming juicy and slick. My husband sat quietly in his chair close to the massage table, watching me. Heidi’s hands were strong as she worked the muscles in my lower back; moving down to the cheeks of my ass.
I let out a moan as her hands slid in between my legs. She spread my legs wider. She moved down to my legs, pushing her hands into my hamstrings, my calves and feet. I moaned again and she moved her hand back up and in between my legs.
“I want you to turn over onto your back and when you do, I’m going to gently blindfold you,” Heidi said softly.
I didn’t speak. I lifted myself up and moved onto my back, keeping my eyes closed, and I felt the elastic from the eye mask slip around the back of my head. Heidi carefully lifted my arms above my head and began massaging my breasts with her fingers; my nipples hardening almost immediately. The touch of her fingers felt like shooting stars darting into my clit.
Standing above me, Heidi slid her hands down both sides of my torso. Her fingers slipped underneath my ass, squeezing, and I lifted my hips greedily to her touch. She moved to one side of me and glided her hands toward the glistening hair of my pubis mons. She dipped her fingers into the slippery cleft and rubbed my clit back and forth. Her strong fingers and the oils on her hands made me shiver in euphoric pleasure. She pushed her fingers deeper between my legs, slipping two fingers into my pulsating cunt, while the palm of her hand gently applied pressure against my clit. I came so fast and so strong that I’d forgotten that my husband was in the room, which in some ways was the first sign of the ultimate demise of our marriage.
As the years went by, we attended countless swinging parties. I surprised him and myself, because I grew to enjoy the excitement of sharing my body with different sexual partners—both men and women. I found myself craving the sex found at the parties more so than he did.
It’s a little ironic that my ex-husband launched me into the alternative sexual world, and then later claimed not to understand my need and deep desire for multiple partners. He introduced me to the lifestyle, and then ultimately, filed for divorce, indicating irreconcilable differences, based upon my infidelity.
After being divorced for nearly five years, I never looked back with regret. I loved him, and I did what he asked in order to keep our marriage alive. I consider myself lucky, because I ended up finding a deeper aspect of my sexuality than I ever would’ve uncovered if I hadn’t been married to him. I probably should send him a thank you note, but he probably wouldn’t appreciate my sentiment.
Looking back, however, I can’t recall when swinging evolved into a taste for the bizarre . . .
Jolted out of my reminiscence, I find myself back in the plush, overstuffed chair. I gaze down the contours of my body. The size twelve, blue and white, pin-striped suit clings to my medium-large frame nicely; accentuating my curvaceous hips and bust. My shoulder length, dark brown hair is pulled up and into a thick chignon and rests submissively below a black, wide-brimmed hat, tipped in black boa and pulled down and to one side. I want to look mysterious, beguiling, hinting at somewhat androgynous traits while at the party tonight.
My large, round, piercing blue eyes are lined in jet-black liquid liner, and I applied it thickly. I wear translucent powder across my small, straight nose, high cheek bones and forehead, pressing the powder into the cleft of my chin. I finished by dabbing just a hint of my red lipstick into the apples of my cheeks. The ruffles that donned the front of my white, cotton shirt whispered, “hello”, and could be seen at the cuffs, around my neck and coming up from behind the pin-striped vest.
The man stands behind my big, leather chair, slightly to the right, engaged in a conversation with a man seated in the antique burgundy velvet settee nearby. They are speaking about Halliburton stock options. His hand gently touches the nape of my neck. I’m not paying much attention to their conversation. I close my eyes, feeling the soft pads of his fingertips touching me, sending goose bumps up and down my spine. He moves his hand around to the front of my neck, running his fingers back and forth across the indentation, and I swallow hard at his subtle reminder of casual violence; he is in control.
His cologne smells of woodsy spice; it’s deeply masculine. I don’t turn and look up at him; after all, what prey gazes into to the eyes of the predator? At any rate, I’m not allowed to make eye contact, party rules. So, instead I open my eyes and stare straight ahead, looking through a large picture window, trying to focus on the beauty of the pink blossoms that adorn a cherry tree across the street.
“Yes. I have a diversified portfolio,” he says, still speaking to the man sitting on the settee.
His response claims my focus; my eyes shift to the man sitting on the settee. He wears a chic and expensive dark grey suit, with a robin’s egg-tinted button down shirt and cumin spice-colored tie. He is a medium-sized man, and his eyes, nose and cheeks are covered, disguised behind a gold lame, ornate-looking mask, similar in appearance to masks people sometimes sport during Mardi Gras. He is wearing a long, blond wig, tied into a pony tail, and it hangs down to the middle of his back. In some ways, he reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of the Chanel designer, Karl Lagerfeld. Only his tight, thin lips and big ears are exposed. Instead of finding the requisite Italian leather loafers on his feet, matching his expensive suit, he wears flip-flops; the juxt
aposition strikes me as absurd.
Magic Fingers is moving again, moving down the front of my blouse, exploring my skin. The back of his hand pushes against the buttons, and the pin-striped vest I am wearing. I can feel my temperature start to rise; sweat forming behind my knees, my elbows, my armpits and between my legs. I wasn’t wearing a bra or panties tonight, and my full-size breasts sway freely, my nipples rubbing up against the cotton, and I can tell they are hard; they ache. He reaches for my right breast and gently runs his fingers back and forth from where my cleavage begins to the outside, undulating curve, cupping it from the side and squeezing. The inside of his palm teases my now hard candy nipple.
Nervously, I uncross and re-cross my legs; my fingertips drumming against the arm rest; squirming at his touch as I place my drink on the table next to me; I am afraid I might drop the weighty crystal glass. He must have been pleased with what he felt because his hand moves toward my left breast and gingerly cups his hand around it, lifting my breast up from underneath and kneading. I feel his fingers brush back and forth across the nipple, stiffened and thrumming. I think I could have climaxed just from the way he touches my breasts, feeling the lips of my pussy moisten and heat. I close my eyes again.
“No. I’m not opposed to hearing about other investments. Why don’t you contact my secretary on Monday and we can set-up an appointment to talk about this in more detail?” His words say one thing, but his hands clutching my breast speak another language.
I hear shuffling in front of me, and when I open my eyes, a man wearing black pants and a white button down shirt is seated Indian-style just in front of the man on the settee. He is dressed like one of the waiters working the party, serving food and drinks on silver trays to the other guests which now fill the room. He is also wearing a mask, and looks only at the man on the settee, saying nothing as he begins removing the flip-flops from his feet. He scoots himself back across the tightly woven, crème-colored carpet, giving himself enough room and lifts the man’s foot. He begins massaging it: pointing, flexing, rotating and rubbing. The man on the settee presses his other foot into Waiter Man’s lap, wriggling his toes against the waiter’s groin.
Settee Man begins to moan as his toes are massaged. The waiter’s erection rises elaborately as my breasts are being squeezed and plundered. It is all so highly erotic that my senses explode, sending tiny shock waves into my juicy, throbbing pussy. I, too, let out a low, guttural moan. Waiter Man is now sucking on Settee Man’s toes, holding his foot steady with both hands, while he slowly sucks and licks each toe, in and out, in and out of his wet, insistent mouth. The man on the couch writhes in ecstasy, bucking his hips up from the settee, moaning and hissing, until he finally succumbs to the intense pleasure. He unzips the fly of his expensive grey suit, pulls out his quivering penis and starts to rub his cock, sliding his hand up and down, masturbating while his toes are being sucked by the masked Waiter Man seated in front of him. My head starts spinning and beads of sweat line my forehead. The depravity is euphoric, compelling!
Magic Fingers moves around the chair and stands in front of me now, but I don’t look up. I’m not to know who he is. He wears black slacks and no belt. He moves his body in front of me, parting my legs with his knees and slipping his body between my open thighs until the tops of his shins bang up against the leather chair. He unbuttons and unzips his slacks, letting them fall to his ankles. He isn’t wearing shorts, and his slightly stiffened cock looks up at me. It is very long and slender from the head to the base of his shaft, and it curves up. I think about how delicious a cock with a curve like that might feel when it hits my G-spot, fucking me hard, and I let out low moan of expectation and lust.
Magic Fingers wants me to suck his cock. I slide myself down from the chair, until my knees hit the floor, my back against the chair as I straddle his legs. I move my head closer to his erection. One hand grabs the cheeks of his ass, pulling his cock closer to my lips, while the other hand touches his smooth, honey-brown, well-developed thighs. I run my hand up and down the length of his hamstrings, massaging his muscles and then moving my hand around and kneading his quadriceps. He lets out a growl. I move my hand from his thighs, firmly grasping the base of his cock while I lightly graze my wet lips across the tip. I make painstakingly slow circles with my tongue around the head before tasting his pre-cum, and enveloping him into my mouth to suck on his cock. I move my mouth farther down, feeling his cock pulsate and grow bigger, sucking harder and licking his engorged dick. I push my other hand into the crack of his ass and move my hand up and down, pushing my pinky finger into the hole of his ass. His ass is sweating and his hips begin to thrust toward my mouth. My hat falls to the floor.
Somewhere in the background I can hear the sounds of sucking and moaning; I think I hear the man on the settee’s voice say in a low, almost guttural tone, “Aaaah. That’s it. That’s it. Suck it hard. Suck it hard,” but I can’t be certain.
With Magic Finger’s cock in my mouth, I squeeze his ass cheeks hard, pushing my finger deeper inside, as I pull him closer and deeper into my mouth, taking him all the way in. He moans as he thrusts in and out of my tight, wet mouth. I can feel his cock start to spasm at the base and I know he is going to shoot his load and cum in my mouth. So, I push my pinky finger into the hole of his ass as deep as I can and wriggle it back and forth until he screams in blissful agony and shoots his thick load of juice down my throat. I swallow his seed and slowly pull my mouth back and off his cock. He is still spasming and I lick his cock like an ice cream cone, still sensitive after the orgasm. Then he shudders, pulling away.
I keep my eyes closed while I hear Magic Fingers rustle with his clothes, putting on his pants. Minutes pass and I open them—he is gone. I sit up straight in the chair and smooth out my suit, find my hat and put it back on my head, cocking it to one side, casting an enigmatic shadow across my face again. I reach for my cocktail and look ahead, taking a long sip. The man on the settee is still there, but the masked waiter has gone. He is staring at me, smiling like the Cheshire cat.
“Great party, wouldn’t ya say?” he asks me, still smiling.
“Oh, yes. It’s one of the better parties I’ve attended all year,” I respond, smiling slyly.
“Will you come again?” he inquired, lifting his right arm over the back of the settee.
“I fully intend to come as many times as possible.” I respond, taking another sip and winking at him.
He and his wife Pat are middle-aged swingers. They only swing occasionally and only with couples to whom they are attracted. He could never have imagined when your husband sent him and Pat a note that it would lead to a level of passion and desire that had escaped him for many years. He had forgotten that a woman could enflame his passion to this level. He found himself consumed by a lust for you that turned him into an eighteen year-old boy with raging hormones. It is YOU that he desires as he writes to you of “Our First Encounter.”
Our First Encounter
By Randall Lang
My wife Pat and I have been married for over twenty years and have been swingers for the past eight. Although we deeply loved each other, the “sameness” of our daily life had greatly blunted the excitement and attraction that we felt for each other. It started as a joke about a male stripper that led to talk of a threesome. The flash in Pat’s eyes instantly told me that she was serious. After some exploratory “What would you think . . .?” questions, honest feelings began to shape the conversation. I think we were both surprised with our own responses, but it was new and exciting. She stared over my shoulder as our computer searches yielded results. We had found the doorway, now we had to decide if we should enter. The decision came quickly. Basically, we agreed that the worst that could happen was that if we did not like swinging, we would not do it again.
Our first couple lived over an hour away. We were both as nervous as high school kids as we drove to meet them. I kept telling Pat that she could say the word and we would go home. Honestly, I think I was so nervous
that I hoped she would stop us, but she held firm.
We met them at a restaurant. We had chatted a bit on the telephone, but we were still basically strangers. Just as our first impression had indicated, they turned out to be warm, friendly, and not the least bit intimidating. I suppose that, at that time, I expected swingers to have wild predatory eyes and attack us as food, but it was not like that at all. We discussed families, jobs, children, and all of the other commonalities of life, but as the evening wore on, the topic of swinging came up. They were open and honest with us; discussing their start and experiences. They also let us know that there was no pressure, and that we could leave at any time if we felt uncomfortable and there would be no hard feelings.
We traded spouses for the trip to their house. It was such a strange feeling to have a different woman in the car with me, but it was also new and very exciting. I kept stealing glances at her legs and her breasts as we drove. When I finally developed the courage to touch her hand, she turned to me and smiled warmly.
Their home was lovely and similar to ours in many ways. We sat in the kitchen and had drinks as we continued to talk. It was not long before our hostess took my hand an invited us to tour the house. As you might imagine, the tour ended on their king size bed with Pat and me side by side in someone else’s arms.
The experience was life changing. All the way home and for days afterward Pat and I talked of the feelings we had experienced during our first outing. It had been comforting, relaxed, and thoroughly enjoyable. We never turned back.
* * *
After eight years we have settled down a lot. Once the newness wore off and we had a few negative experiences, we decided to slow down and to be more selective. We became less active, preferring instead to stay within our small cluster of friends for both swing and straight activities. We have been to swing clubs and to occasional parties, and we found both to be interesting, but lacking in that special element of mutual attraction. As with any “rich sweet”, we knew that a small portion taken as an occasional treat was much better than over-indulging and spoiling the enjoyment. The bond between us remains as strong as it can be between a man and a woman, and our swing activities only enhance that.
SWING! Adventures in Swinging by Today's Top Erotica Writers Page 28