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The Spirit Of Giving 

The Spirit Of Giving 

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A married couple unwraps erotic pleasures with a group of randy revelers.

Some people say marriage changes everything. I’m not sure I believe that, really. But it seems to have changed me and my wife a whole lot. We’d lived together for 10 years — since she was 22 and I was 34 — before getting married three years ago. It was high time, we’d thought. But, once the vows were spoken and the honeymoon was over, our libidos seemed to shift.

Just months into our married life, I began having fantasies about Sylvia being fucked by other men. This was something entirely new to me, and it unnerved me more than a little. Sylvia’s a gorgeous woman — a dark-haired beauty of Italian heritage, with the tempting voluptuousness of Elizabeth Taylor in her prime. She has smooth tan skin, ripe breasts and a firm ass. She’d always turned men’s heads. We used to laugh about it: Ah, Syl’s making the boys gaga again. But after the wedding, when men came on to her, I would get really turned on.

Sylvia would giggle a little and blush — whereas before she would have rolled her eyes and ignored the flirtations. Now she sometimes flirted back!

Neither of us had slept around much before we’d met. Of course, considering the difference in our ages, I’d had more sexual experience than she before we fell for each other. But we both had practiced serial monogamy, more or less, during our young lives. Now, though, I felt a pang of something slightly distressing in my stomach, even as something stirred in my groin. It was only a matter of time before we had a talk about what was happening. That led to some sexy role-playing and naughty talk about the responses she was provoking in other men — and me.

Maybe it was just a coincidence that — at the same time we were having these feelings — this cultural thing known as “hotwife” syndrome began to erupt everywhere. Suddenly, the practice of men getting off on having their wives pursued, seduced and — ultimately — plowed by other guys was an actual thing. About a year ago, we found ourselves talking about making such a fantasy a reality.

We looked online for guys who might be interested in helping us out. We weren’t remotely prepared for the number of responses we received. Eventually, we began corresponding with a man in New York City named Miles, who seemed like a good possibility. He had had some experience with swinging and the hotwife scene before, so he seemed like a good candidate.

We agreed to meet mid-December in the big city. Sylvia loves Christmas shopping in Manhattan, so we figured we would make it a three-day weekend — get a hotel near Times Square, enjoy good restaurants and all the trimmings. We even made plans to see a Broadway musical. (No luck securing “Hamilton” tickets, but we found another show we both thought sounded pretty good.)

In the weeks preceding our hotwife weekend with Miles, anticipation left us almost nonfunctional at times. I would describe in exquisite detail what I wanted to happen after we brought Miles back to our hotel. Sylvia would listen to my pervy ramblings while jamming her large, buzzing vibrator in and out of her cunt and moaning frantically.

But then we got bad news. Just days before the scheduled weekend, Miles emailed us to say there had been a family emergency. He needed to fly to California immediately. To say we were disappointed was a huge understatement. Miles assured us that he was definitely interested in playing at some later date, but we still felt deflated. However, as we had the theater tickets and a hotel reservation, we decided to go ahead with the weekend and make the best of it.

“Who knows?” I said. “Maybe somebody else will come along.”

Neither of us thought that was at all likely. But I did quietly do some research online about places in Manhattan where we might encounter eager libertines.

When we left our hotel for our shopping excursion that Saturday, we noticed that there were hordes of people — mostly college-age or slightly older — roaming the streets in Santa Claus costumes or other holiday getups. Some of the sidewalks near Rockefeller Center were crimson with these posses of rowdy overage kids — shouting, joking and horsing around. Most of the guys, and some of the girls, wore Santa suits (or at least Santa hats), but there were also contingents of rambunctious elves and squealing female reindeer complete with antlers and perky little tails. Plenty of the young women exposed their toned legs to the frigid air, and they were as sexy as hell. They were certainly getting a lot of attention from the guys, who seemed to grow a little freer with their hands as the hours passed, as they no doubt downed another beer or chugged another eggnog at every venue they visited.

“It’s SantaCon,” the hotel concierge told us in the afternoon. “Happens every year — a big, citywide pub crawl. Lots of noise, tons of drinking. Watch out for puddles of barf.”

That night, as we walked from a fine Italian restaurant to the theater, we pushed our way through a tangle of crimson partiers. It was then I noticed the heads of some of the young male Santas turning Sylvia’s way. And why wouldn’t they? She was dressed to the nines, wearing a rich-looking white faux fur over her slinkiest, sexiest black dress and black fishnet thigh-highs. Her hair and makeup were flawless — she’d given her eyes the Cleopatra treatment, which made her look even more like a robust Liz Taylor. I was looking forward to fucking her silly later that evening.

“Some of those Clauses like your goodies,” I teased her.

“I hadn’t noticed,” she said. But her smile told me she was fibbing.

“Ten seconds ago we passed a Grinch who stared right at your tits.”

“Really, David?” she said with mock innocence. “The Grinch should have stolen a little Christmas from me.” She said it so suggestively that my pulse raced and my dick twitched.

After the show that night, we strolled through the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood. I’d read online about a bar in that nabe that catered to a young, “sex-positive” crowd.

Walking west toward the Hudson River, we eventually found the place. It was a bustling but not too crowded establishment. We stepped inside, where a gal near the bar was dressed like a snow-woman and was playing a samba version of “White Christmas” on a portable keyboard. A small group of 20-something SantaCon celebrants gathered around the pool table in the back. We found a small booth nearby that had just been vacated. No sooner had a guy come to clear our table than a tall waitress in reindeer antlers appeared, bringing us complimentary shots of cinnamon schnapps.

“He brought the panties to his face, inhaling the scent of my wife’s cunt.”

“This’ll take the shiver off,” she said. “I’m Prancer, How are you two doing tonight?”

Soon we were doing very well indeed. Prancer was right about the schnapps. It did warm us up. Before long, Sylvia and I felt like we were finally unwinding after an enjoyable but hectic day.

Prancer was razzing the three young men and one young woman who were playing pool. They seemed to know her well. These revelers weren’t rowdy like some of the others we’d seen. They were jovial and a little buzzed but not blotto. Soon the gal and one of the guys came over to our booth, where we were telling Prancer about our day.

“Prancer, you cheeky reindeer!” the guy said. “There you go again. Flirting with somebody outside your species. Santa is very disappointed.”

The guy’s friend — a short, trim, ginger-haired female elf — stood on tiptoes to kiss Prancer on the cheek.

“He’s right. No bestiality tonight!” the elf scolded the reindeer. Then she looked at Sylvia and me. “Unless these pervy humans are into that, of course. The redhead grabbed Sylvia’s hand and shook it. “Hey, there. I’m Jennifer. This is Jonathan. Okay, if we share your booth?”

Before we could say “yea” or “nay” (and we would have said “yea”), they had pushed in beside us — Jennifer next to me and Jonathan alongside Sylvia. He was tall, thin, brown-skinned, hirsute and quite handsome. Later in the evening, he would tell us he was half Ethiopian and half Israeli-American. He had a sly smile and a cool, edgy look.

Innuendoes flew as the holiday spirits continued to flow. Eventually, the two other pool players joined us, making for an even tighter squeeze in the booth. Bret was a skinny, quiet, slightly awkward Santa, with a scruffy face. Will was a short, stocky Asian-American man, in a full red Santa suit, complete with a white beard.

Was I just imagining — or fantasizing — that these people were interested in trading something more than bawdy wisecracks? Jonathan was certainly not shy about having his body pushed up close against Sylvia’s. And Jennifer flirted shamelessly with the Santas — and me.

At one point, Jennifer and Sylvia went to the ladies’ room.

“So, is Jennifer a girlfriend of one of you guys?” I asked.

“‘Girlfriend’ is maybe not the right expression,” Jonathan responded.

“I’m old and married and out of the loop,” I told him. “So, what is the right expression for her?”

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