Tonight I depart from my attempt at writing my hyper-romantic story about the Australian who got me so spun up that I had to start a blog to recover. Instead I’ll regale you—or at least attempt to—with a tale that lays my baser nature bare. It began innocently enough in a round about way. The man—we’ll call him Damon—friended me on Facebook several years ago in order to get in touch with the man I was dating at the time who, incidentally, shunned Facebook like the plague. They had been childhood friends and Damon was on a reconnecting bender. Connection made, I assumed he would bow out, unfriend me, etc., but instead he remained, occasionally commenting on my status updates and posting amusing ones of his own. So when Damon and his wife came through town and wanted to meet up with us I readily agreed.
The wife—we’ll call her April—and I got on immediately. Phone numbers were exchanged along with promises of popping in for a stay at their home if and when I was in their city. Which I did. Twice. The first time I detected only the slightest undercurrent from Damon, that invisible rippling of the atmosphere when a man is drawn to a woman and she is aware of the attraction. It wasn’t an issue because April and I went out for drinks, leaving him home, and got to know each other better. That’s when she began to reveal their naughtier side. On occasion they would host parties at their home. Yes, those kind of parties. Turns out my new friends were into soft-swap swinging.
On my second visit things went a little differently. My first evening there, April and I went out alone as before, catching up on each other’s personal and professional lives. As I was in town on business, I had only planned to stay the one night, but a labor-intensive project took longer than expected and at 8:00 in the evening the prospect of the four-hour drive home seemed daunting. I texted April and asked if I could crash as her house one more night. She quickly replied, “Sure. I’m out with some girlfriends if you want to join. Or you can go on to our house. Damon is home. He’ll let you in.”
I opted for the latter.
When Damon opened the door to my soft knock he looked surprised. I stood wearily just outside the threshold, leaning against a porch column, my suitcase trailing behind me.
“I’m back,” I said with a smile, “May I impose once again?”
The door swung wide and he reached for my bag, ushering me inside. I collapsed on their sofa in a heap, explaining why I was back in a barely coherent stream of consciousness. I was so very tired. He poured me a glass of white wine, handed it to me and sat in the club chair adjacent to the couch where I lay sprawled. We talked of this and that for over an hour while I unwound and all was well and good. But then he brought up the swinging.
“April told me she told you about the parties,” he said.
“Yeah, she did,” I said, in my most calm and non-judgmental voice. I really didn’t know what to say.
“You’ve never done anything like that, have you?”
“No, I’m pretty straight-laced, but don’t have a problem with other’s doing it. I’m a fan of sex, but I’m really more of a one-on-one girl.”
“Have you ever been with a girl?”
“No,” I said, wrinkling my nose, “That has no appeal.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Too bad? Why?”
“April thinks you’re hot. We have talked about how we would both like to have sex with you.”
I buried my head in the wine glass. When I don’t know what to say, I say nothing. Damon got up, refilled my glass and sat down beside me. A delicious electricity ran up and down my body.
“Would you like to see pictures? Of one of the parties?” He asked.
I smiled and nodded. He pulled out his phone and began flipping through the images, showing me smiling, happy couples who became happier and more unclothed as the pictures of the evening progressed. He told me about different games they played, the rules of respect that must be obeyed and how, most of all, he liked to watch.
“What do you like?” he asked me, looking deep into my eyes.
“Well, when I’m wiped out like this, I mostly just want to be held,” I answered honestly.
He pulled me towards him, nestling me in that most comfortable space just under a man’s shoulder. I rested my head on his chest, reveling in the feel of his hand stroking my hair while I processed all he had told me. When his hand moved from my hair to my neck and then to my shoulder, I knew what he was doing. But I didn’t stop him. It felt too good. The warming of the wine in my veins combined with his ministering hands left me feeling as if I was floating above reality, like I was watching myself in a play.
He shifted so I was stretched out on the sofa and my head was resting in his lap. As I lay there with my eyes closed, strong fingers massaged along my collarbone, dipping deeper into the V-neck of my wrap dress. The pressure shifted and he lightly ran his palms on the outside of my dress over my already erect nipples. I arched into the sensation, wanting more. He slowly untied the belt of my dress and gently pushed the fabric aside. My sharp intake of breath as he pulled one breast and then the other out of my simple nude bra gave away my level of desire.
Damon slid off the couch, letting my head fall back on the soft cushion and knelt beside me, kneeding my soft white mounds in his large capable hands. I opened my eyes and looked up at him, surprised to find him intently watching my face rather than my body. His eyes locked on mine he bent his head and took a nipple into this mouth. A sharp, quick tongue flicked rapidly across one and then the other before he began sucking and gently tugging on them with his teeth.
My hips had begun moving in a slow circle of desire, my channel aching for attention. He read my body language well. Moments later his fingers were exploring the outside of my panties and he was exclaiming at my wetness.
“Straight-laced? Bull shit,” he said, “You’re soaked. You’re body is begging to be fucked.”
I nodded in agreement. He lifted my hips and slipped off my panties.
“What about April?” I probed, knowing the question had to be asked.
“It’s all good,” he said.
With that he buried his face in my hot, damp pussy and proceeded to thoroughly eat me out. I came first with a surprised gasp, then with a series of rapid pants.
“I think you’re ready for bed,” he said, and helped me to my wobbly feet.
Slowly he led me up the stairs, my dress gaping like an open robe. Once in the guest room I stood still and compliant as he undressed me, running his hands over my nakedness. Arms, breasts, hips, legs, stomach—he touched them all. He was still fully clothed. As I slipped into the bed, I heard him undressing and then felt his hot bare flesh behind me. A stiff, throbbing cock prodded at the entrance to my well, begging for entry. I shifted so that, as he thrust, rather that going inside, he repeatedly struck my clit. Over and over the silky hardness speared, hitting that magic spot faster and faster until at last I felt the cresting wave of a massive orgasm. My deep, throaty scream filled the room and his cum released between my clenched thighs. The last thing I remember before sleep engulfed my exhausted body is Damon cleaning my legs and mound with a warm towel, tucking the sheet in around me and then kissing me gently on the forehead.