Following a car wreck that led to a month and a half in the hospital with two surgeries, I was sent home with the prognosis that, while I would likely still suffer temporary paralysis from the waist down for several more months, with lots of therapy and hard work I would be fine. Through it all my wife Hannah was a rock.
One night a couple of weeks after my return home, when Hannah returned to the bedroom from showering, as she was removing her robe to put her nightie on I noticed her nipples were somewhat swollen, indicating to me that she wanted sex. Since I couldn’t do anything about it, I just ignored it, hoping it would go away. And it seemed to. She never mentioned it.
Nearly a month later, when Hannah came to bed (we had a single bed set up for her next to my hospital-style one) and kissed me good night, I noticed her firm tits standing tall, with the nipples all puffy, and I knew she wanted sex again! And again without mentioning it she just climbed in bed and said good night.
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My wife of five years and I decided to take a cruise to “get away from it all.” Online I found a deal on a seven-night Mexican cruise and booked it without further research, which turned out not to be the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Melissa and I (in our 30s) wound up on a ship where the average age must have been at least 75!
For the first night’s dinner we chose group seating and got seated with two other “young” couples—in their 50s! It went okay, but we weren’t enthused. The next night we chose to have our own table, which resulted in an hour wait for seating!
The third night we spotted a couple who actually looked a few years younger than us! We got seated with them, and dinner turned out great. We had lots in common and ate and talked for a couple of hours, putting away three bottles of wine. After dessert Melissa told Gil and Pamela we’d brought some vodka on board and invited them to our cabin for a nightcap.
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Like most kids, all through high school I suffered from having too little money and no sex. When I turned 18, in the spring of my senior year, my father said he thought he could land me a caddying gig at the country club. I figured that would at least help on the money front, but my first weekend I didn’t even get out on the course, so of course I made no money.
Before I left Sunday, I told the caddy master, “I know this game.” He said, “Kid, you’ve got to pay your dues. Maybe next weekend.”
That weekend was cold and blustery. I figured some of the regular caddies would stay home, but it also meant a lot the golfers did. I decided to wait it out. What else could I do, go home and jerk off? I played cards with the other caddies, but there was enough play that in time I was the only caddy left.
I was thinking of going home when the caddy master came in the caddy shack, looked around for an experienced caddy and said, “Shit, are you the only one left?”
I said, “Really, I can do it.”
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After I told my wife about my upcoming trip, I paused and said, “You understand I’ll be gone for a month, right?”
She nodded and said, “Well, duh! I’m not pleased, but that is what you just told me, isn’t it?”
That threw me. I thought I had this speech all planned out. I tried to get back on track. “Well, what I didn’t tell you is that your old pal Corey needs a place to stay in town for a while, and I told him he could stay here.”
“You did not!” she said. “For the whole month?”
“Yes,” I said. “Why? Is that a problem?”
“Not for me,” she said, her face brightening. “I’m just surprised. Do you really trust me for an entire month with a guy you know I used to sleep with regularly?”
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My wife has a group of girlfriends that meet regularly, with sex seemingly a major point of discussion among them. Awhile back one of the married women began having an affair with a black man at her workplace, and from the start the tales she told always seemed to have my wife pretty excited when she came home from their get-togethers. Along with some of the Penthouse Letters letters we share, this fantasy really supercharged our lovemaking. (We’re in our early 40s and highly active sexually.)
About two months ago the bank where I work, which frequently takes on interns from a local college, took on a marketing intern who was older than our usual college student—or even college graduate. Brad was 28, and had gone back to college after a stint in the Army. He is a strikingly good-looking, well-built black man, but I took no special notice of him until he was assigned to my department near the end of his internship. He did a particularly creative job on a program we were launching, and at that time I got to know him fairly well.
I wanted to reward him before he left by including him in some corporate perks. When he mentioned that he plays racquetball, I took him to an exclusive health club where the bank maintains a membership, and we had a very intense match. He was clearly younger and in much better shape, but since I had been playing a lot and he hadn’t, my shots were just sharp enough to take the match, three games to two.
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My story begins one night six years ago, when my wife and I were out at a club and bumped into Rita, one of Camille’s college girlfriends.
I should say that Camille and I have been married for nine wonderful and sexually exciting years, and at 31 she remains an extraordinarily beautiful woman—statuesque (five feet ten), with full, firm breasts and shoulder-length blonde hair and dazzling blue eyes. Everywhere we go she gets admiring looks from men, and is often hit on.
When we were engaged, I told Camille that I liked it when she showed off her body in public. After we were married, we moved away from her religiously conservative parents and she changed her wardrobe to suit my desires. She wore only short skirts or dresses, and her blouses were all low-cut to show her magnificent cleavage. She enhanced that by wearing underwire bras that had only thin materials covering her nipples so they would be visible when she was wearing a tight blouse or sweater. She wore pantyhose (sans panties), some of which were crotchless.
She was a walking sex goddess, and in bed she has always been a tigress, willing to try anything. She has numerous toys and uses them and my eight-inch cock constantly for her pleasure as well as mine.
To get back to that night at the club, Rita is also a knockout—also tall, though not as tall as Camille (about five-seven), with shorter hair and smaller but still nice-size breasts (C-cups, I would guess). She was at the club with her husband Grant, a muscularly fit guy, about five-ten. They sat at our table for several hours, drinking wine and catching up on each other’s lives and on old friends.
I kept noticing Grant looking at Camille’s breasts—with the nipples poking very visibly through her sweater! And I was sure that he also caught me admiring Rita. Occasionally we danced with our wives, and we even switched partners a couple of times. It was a hugely enjoyable evening, and we wound up inviting Rita and Grant over to our house for the next Friday night.
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“I like them,” my wife said as Carrie and Bart left our table to dance. “Don’t you?”
I looked toward the couple we had just met and nodded. “Bart invited us to a party this Sunday,” she added.
I said, “You want to go?” Mona nodded and glanced toward our new friends on the dance floor, moving slow and close. I said, “You do know they’re swingers, don’t you?”
“No, they’re not,” she said with a frown. “Really? How do you know?”
“He told me. Said he’d ‘like to show you the finer things in life,’ you’re ‘one hot lady,’ and he likes you a lot. Didn’t he say anything when you were dancing?”
Mona stared at them dancing. “Well, he did say they’re ‘a very open couple’ and then winked. You mean he meant they—”
“Fuck other people? Yes.”
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I was what people call a good girl. I didn’t have many dates until I got to college; I was a virgin until right before I got married; I never did anything you’d call kinky; and my husband was the only male besides my doctor to ever see my vagina.
Once I was married, I pledged to my husband and myself that I’d be a faithful wife. I never flirted with another man, or had impure thoughts, or coveted anything anyone else owned or desired. I always tried to do the right thing.
At least until Barry moved in next door.
A week after he moved in with his wife Janine and their two kids, I caught him staring at me from his kitchen window while I was in the back yard in my shorts and a halter top. I pretended that I hadn’t seen him. When I looked up a few minutes later, our eyes met and he smiled—the kind of a smile one gets when the person smiling knows what the one watched is thinking.
After that, every time I saw Barry—over the back fence, at the gas station, at the grocery store, even at a neighborhood party—he had that same look. He grinned as if to say, “I know what you want, pretty lady.”
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I’ve studied a lot of cunts (including in magazines and videos), and I’m convinced my wife has the best-looking one I’ve seen. Her labs are not too big but just the right size to chew on; the glistening little lips are elegant and puffy; and since she shaves her box, her clean slit is uniform and just the right length to show enough of the lips to show they’re there. If her lovely legs are held open, the lips spread their wings like a butterfly taking off.
After reading a “Take Her, She’s Mine” letter in Penthouse Letters that told about a wife who liked to show off her pussy and a husband who lived to share it with other guys, visually and otherwise, I became obsessed with the idea of other men seeing my wife’s perfect pussy. At first I got excited just imagining it. Then I started fantasizing about actually sharing it.
I finally talked Nan into letting me photograph her splayed pussy. Though she protested at first, she clearly enjoyed spreading her legs for my lens. I detected a bit of an exhibitionist in my demure spouse!
After a few months I had quite a collection of “snatch shots.” I didn’t say anything about maybe showing them to others, which I doubted she would go for. But from the first I was thinking about who I could show the pics to. I got the feeling that deep down Nan wanted someone else to see them.
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He was tall and handsome, and he asked me to dance while I was sitting with my husband listening to the music at a club we’d never been to. Don nodded that I should accept the invitation. So I stood and let the man take my hand.
During the first number, with my husband watching from the table, my audacious dancing partner leaned in and asked if my husband satisfied me in bed. I pulled my head back, stopped dancing and said it was none of his business. “Well, if he doesn’t,” he whispered in my ear, “and I’m guessing he doesn’t, then I’d like the chance to show you a good time, to give you the kind of lovemaking you deserve.”
I started to pull away, but he held me tightly and said, “More than dance with you tonight, I’d prefer to show you just how good oral sex can be, done by a man who knows the art of cunnilingus. Thanks for the dance.”
Then he let me go. I left him in the middle of the musical number and went back to the table to my husband.
The problem was that as I sat with my husband, I couldn’t get the stranger’s words out of my head. I tried to be angry, to tell my husband what the asshole said and have him punch his lights out, but the fact was that our sex was flat and uninteresting, and I yearned for an exciting sex life.
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