Swinging in the 70s

Well, Gentle Readers, I owe you an apology. My mind, as those who follow me know, is an attic, and like all attics, sometimes things get misplaced. This series of stories is the most autobiographical of all of my work, and I find writing it down to be cathartic and enjoyable. But an attic has SO many things in it that it's easy to get distracted by them and that's what happened to me.

So, please accept my apologies. I am going to finish this tale, this part of my autobiography, and not let other things distract me. Well, not let them distract me too much anyway.

As it happened, it was a month before I watched Monica with another man. Oh, don't get me wrong. We were settling into The Life, into "swinging," and like anyone with a new interest, we were exploring with abandon. Among our group, you could count on a party pretty much every Friday and Saturday night. But in the tight little intimacy of our trailer park crew, it was almost every night.

John and Darla and Monica and I became a regular dinner group and I learned every place on Darla's body that she liked to have touched or pinched or, in the case of her breasts, pressed with palms flat, covering them, until she groaned and writhed from the pressure.

Sandy, John's sister and our down-the-hill neighbor, taught me the agony/ecstasy of edging one night when she took me to the edge, waited, and took me past that, for almost two hours before she kept up a fraction too long and my body finished. God, it felt like I was pissing as she pulled off, coughing, surprised, and used her hand to hose her face down with my semen until all that showed were her eyes.

I finally got to watch Monica with another man at a party at Tony and Fiona's house. As always there had been plenty of laughing and singing, Sandy was a semi-professional singer as well as a world-class artist with her mouth. There was some dancing, and plenty of alcohol, beer for me, tequila for Monica, something she seemed to have developed a taste for, and conversation laced with innuendo and double entendres.

It was past midnight when I realized that Monica and I were the only ones left.

I chuckled and said, "Well, I guess the party's over."

I was starting to get up when Tony came around the corner from the hallway that led to bedrooms and bathrooms.

He was wearing nothing but his shorts, blue briefs with a white waistband and hemlines if you care.

"Well, that was messy," he said, laughing, sitting on the other side of Monica on the couch, and taking a pull from his beer.

"I'll bite," I said, "what happened?"

He laughed.

"Your wife happened," he said.

"Annddd?" I asked

"Fiona and Monica were doing tequila shots," he said as if that explained everything.

"Annddd?" I asked again.

"And my wife doesn't handle hard liquor very well. I just helped her puke her toenails up and got her into bed before she passed out," he said, chuckling and pulling on his beer again.

"Ahhhhh," I said.

"So now," he started in one of thosefauxover-educated know-it-all voices he could use that always made me laugh, "I am left with a problem," he went on, pushing his shorts down and exposing her erection. "Any ideas?"

Monica looked at me and I gave her a small nod.

Her eyes got big and I thought for a moment she would say "No."

But then she smiled.

I stood and said, "I'm thinking my bride can help you out."

"You know where to find Fiona," he said, smiling.

"Oh, that's not what I have in mind," I said, heading for the kitchen to get a fresh beer, "I'm not quite that necrophilic yet."

"Jesus, Dave," he called to my disappearing back, "she ain't DEAD!"

I laughed and selected one of his excellentKiirinbeers, a Japanese brand I developed a taste for while stationed there.

When I walked back into the living room they were necking.

The thought hit me, as they say, right between the eyes. I wanted to watch, but I wanted to, well, to "participate" is a good word.

So I took a drink from the heavy beer, set the bottle on the little side table, and moved to the tableau on the couch.

"You're way overdressed," I said, voice low and my lips close to her ear.

I started on the buttons of the man's shirt she wore, feeling an odd tingle as the back of my hand brushed his hairy belly as I worked on the bottom buttons. They didn't break their kiss and I had to work past his arms as his hands were exploring her back and then her arms, her hands busy with fingers in his hair, holding the kiss.

With the buttons undone, I slowly worked the shirt open, pressing gently, not forcing but encouraging, as she released him and lowered her arms, helping me to work the shirt off. When I had it down to her elbows I twisted, pulling her elbows back and, in the process, making her arch her back, putting those good tits on display.

Tony didn't let me down. He did a passable imitation of Bela Lugosi asDracula, leaning back, opening his mouth, and then diving onto her nipple like Bela latching onto a pretty girl's neck.

I held her like that as she groaned.

"She likes having them chewed on," I said, nuzzling Monica's neck, watching him at her nipple, "Don't you, Sweety," I added, into her ear.

"Yessss," she hissed softly.

"Tell him," I whispered, my tongue tracing the shell of her ear.

She said, in a deep throaty voice, "Harder."

She cried out softly as he bit down, but I held her tight so she couldn't get away.

I wanted to make this as intense for her as I could, so I twisted my hand in her shirt, pulling her elbows back closer, forcing her back to arch even more.

I released her, suddenly. Her arms moved quickly forward, partly easing the tension, partly to dig her fingers into his hair, pulling him onto her breast even harder. She does enjoy having her tits nursed.

While he suckled and she moaned softly I moved around to her feet, untied the tennis shoes she always wore, and got them off of her.

Then I started on the button and then the zipper of her jeans. She squirmed, willingly, as I peeled them off of her.

Her womanscent, that sweet perfume of her desire, came off of her in waves as I stripped the last of her clothes from her.

I watched, my erection so hard I could feel it throbbing with my heartbeat.

They made out like teenagers as I watched and worked on my beer.

Monica caught my eye across his shoulder as he was nuzzling at her neck and the look on her face made me think of fairy tales that included wicked witches and evil stepmothers.

"Help me," she said softly and with that odd telepathy that all married couples share to some extent, I understood what she wanted me to do.

I went to them, enjoying as the view changed like some cinema verité movie scene. My wife was sprawled back, her legs parted in invitation. My friend was nuzzling her neck while his finger played in her wispy pubic hair.

Tony is one of those guys who has thick, curly hair everywhere. He has auburn hair shading to red, and the downy hair on his body was that almost-orange of a redhead.

For the first time in my life, I touched another man in a sexual way, my hand brushing his ass through the material of his briefs.

"Let her up," I said softly, letting my hand caress where I was touching, "It'll be worth it."

He stood and Monica rolled off of the couch in that athletically graceful way she has. In one smooth movement, she got onto all fours on the carpet, looked over her shoulder, grinned, and said, "woof woof."

I was very deeply into what was happening, the beer and pot, and my natural libido fully in control. All of my thinking at this point was being handled by my one-eyed friend standing at attention between my legs.

I hooked my fingers in the elastic waistband of Tony's briefs and worked them down.

It turned out that Tony wasn't very long, but he was ridiculously thick. His erection, pointing straight ahead out of a very thick triangle of that almost-orange pubic hair was like a pink Coke can.

It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to bend forward and kiss the pink tip but then just as natural to pull away quickly when I felt his fingers touch the back of my head.

"This is for her," I said, giving that thick member a squeeze and then going back to my chair and taking a drink from my beer.

As I watched, my friend took my wife doggie fashion.

When he got to his knees behind her, his knees between her calves, she started that "woof woof" sound again, doing a passable bark. She turned it into a whine and then a snarl as his hands grasped her hips and then moved forward to press down on the small of her back, forcing her to arch her back even more, putting her pretty ass on display.

She howled as he entered her, pushing that thick cock all the way in with one thrust. She howled again, something from an old Bela LugosiDraculamovie as Harker was in the horse-drawn carriage on the way to the castle. If there had been a dog in the house, I'm sure it would have joined in.

Their coupling was almost violent. He was barking and snarling now, his fingers digging into her flesh, and she was barking and howling, a full-blown wolf baying at the moon.

She came with the squeal I recognized and I knew if I looked I'd find their thighs slick with her thick white love honey.

He kept at her, his body thrusting hard enough that there was an audible smack with each thrust, almost drowned out by his barks and grunts.

She came three times and the third he was with her, their howls loud enough that I expected Fiona to wake up and come in to see what the hell was going on.

He held his position, his back arched, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hips, his head thrown back.

She held her position, her back arched, her knees bent pushing back against him, her mouth wide open in a silent howl as post-orgasmic tension slowly faded.

Finally, they sort of slow-motion collapsed onto the carpet, both panting, catching up on their breathing. When they settled onto the carpet, turning to face each other and sharing kisses in the afterglow of love well made, well, sex well experienced at least, I thought about joining them.

But then I thought of the lovely Fiona and it hit me that maybe necrophilia wasn't that bad after all.

I watched for a couple of minutes as Monica and Tony engaged in tender afterplay. I could hear them whispering but couldn't make out the words.

I WAS surprised on some level that I didn't feel jealous. In fact, what I felt was quite the opposite. I was happy for them. But I did feel a bit like the proverbial third wheel so I stood, smiled at Tony who caught my eye over Monica's shoulder, and went in search of Fiona.

The three-bedroom, split-level ranch layout was typical of that post-World War II housing boom that would see 500 houses built in a single development using a half-dozen basic floor plans. I knew where the bathroom was, of course, and in a vague way knew that the two bedrooms off of the upstairs hallway to the left were "secondary" bedrooms, one used as an office in Tony and Fiona's house I would later learn, and the master suite with its own attached bathroom ("en suite" my summers as a construction laborer taught me) was on the right.

I stopped to pee and then went down the hall.

Fiona wasn't hard to find. Her snores served as a good auditory beacon.

The light in theen suitebathroom was on and I could see her, sprawled in that way only a drunk can sprawl. She was on her side, her face pillowed on her left arm, her right arm flung in that graceless way of the passed out, her hand hanging over the edge of the mattress. Her left leg was straight and her right foot hung over the edge of the bed making her look almost like she had dreamt she was doing some sort of a kick when consciousness failed.

Tony and Fiona were part of the airport posse. As such, they were older than we were. I happened to know that she was 44, their daughter, unimaginatively named Tiffany, was six, and in a conversation one time she mentioned that she was 38 when they were surprised that she was pregnant.

I didn't know the word somnophilia at the time, hell, it didn't exist at the time, but I couldn't avoid the thought that it would be fun to have her as she slept. Well, okay, as she was passed out.

I looked at her, thinking it might be fun to take her as she lay there.

In the end, though, I simply crawled into the bed, kissed her shoulder lightly, and went to sleep beside her.