It started as another of our block parties, which always feature plenty of good food and booze, and pretty good company—if you’ve had enough booze. My husband always liked to joke that I could be found “making the rounds with a cocktail in her hand,” which I suppose he thought was funny. That day I was wearing a modest but flimsy short dress with spaghetti straps holding the top just above my boobs. I was bare-legged except for a pair of sandals, and thought I looked pretty sexy for 41.
For a sedate suburban block there are a surprising number of cute guys, making me wish, as always, that their wives weren’t my at-least-supposed friends. But there’s no law against flirting, so that’s what I was doing when I noticed a suspicious conversation—I’d almost describe it as “conspiratorial”—taking place between Walt (my husband) and our host, Enzo, plus another neighbor, Patrick—as it happens, two hunks I’d had my eye on for ages. I didn’t know what was going on, but I had a bad feeling.
I tried to put it out of my mind, though, and enjoy the party. But an hour later, when a lot of the guests were leaving, my husband, grabbed my wrist and said, “I need to talk to you,” and started to almost drag me upstairs. I had a good idea of what was going on, and when we got upstairs and I saw light coming out of an open door at the end of the hallway, I knew where it was supposed to be going on.
Pat and I have been going strong for over 40 years and are still two horny people who make love at least twice a week. Often on Saturday nights we go with two or three couples either to a local club or to one of our homes. Either way, before the night is over we have a fling with all the others. It’s worked for us because we all believe jealousy and dishonesty are first cousins.
However, Pat and I only act like this while we’re with those friends—except if Pat has to travel for a meeting or to buy more goods for her shop. She always tries and mostly succeeds at finding a young guy who’s also away from home. She’s told me all the stories—like the time she spent a whole week with this guy in his early 30s.
In her shop Pat employs two young wives to assist her, one in the morning, the other in the afternoon, and in the afternoon a young man comes in for two or three hours to help with the heavy work and keep the stock room in order.
After college my sweetheart and I found jobs in cities near enough to continue our relationship but distant enough to create a problem when we decided to get married. Our solution: to find a cozy place in the country in between the cities where we work.
We moved in right after our honeymoon, just dumping in the boxes of shit from our old apartments. One day I was doing some unpacking while Michelle was at work and inadvertently opened one of her cartons. It was full of videotapes. Intrigued, I carried it to the TV room.
There were 36 numbered tapes. I loaded “No. 1,” and saw Michelle lying naked on the bed in her old apartment masturbating! As I sat captivated, the camera zoomed in on her glistening vagina and a male voice said, “You like playing with your pretty little pussy, don’t you?”
“I love it!” she said. “But I need to be fucked!” Which shocked me. In our (many) sexual encounters, she never once used foul language.
Spring had come early, and the first warm Saturday afternoon found me out on the golf course, looking for someone else with golf fever to play with. I was disappointed when I found no one available. But as I was hanging out by the clubhouse, a dark-haired woman in her mid-40s showed up. I had seen her around before, and knew her name was Lorna. I greeted her and asked if she had a partner.
“I was supposed to play with my friend, but he called and said he couldn’t make it,” she said. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, I was just looking for someone to play with,” I replied.
She smiled. “Would you like to play with me, since my partner couldn’t make it?” she asked. She said this in an insinuating manner, as though she was talking about more than golf.
Last summer I had to go to down to Costa Rica on a business trip. Since our son was away at soccer camp for a week, my wife Sandi decided to join me. Although I would be busy during the day, I knew she would find ways to entertain herself; but little did I know just how much fun she would have.
Sandi is a light-skinned strawberry blonde, and she started turning heads the day she arrived at the resort. The bellman ogled her in her short white shorts and high-heeled sandals as we checked in. After unpacking, we decided to take a quick dip in the pool before going to dinner.
The pool was large and luxurious, with very attentive service. Each group of guests had their own valet, who was responsible for ensuring that all their needs were met. Our valet was a clean-cut lad about 22 years old named Ramon. His six-pack abs and broad chest did not escape Sandi’s notice. The valets wore boxer-style shorts, but Sandi claimed she could tell he had a large cock.
Life was getting too predictable in my hairdressing business. I could close my eyes and walk through my daily routine—have my shampoo girl Laura (fresh out of beauty school) whisk my next client to the back sink to wash her hair, then usher the lady onto my chair (my “throne,” I call it, since I make my clients feel like royalty), towel-dry her hair while chitchatting about her latest heartbreak while on autopilot I snip and sculpt her into the goddess I know she has inside her.
Poof! Like magic, she melts in my hands. Her problems—typically dissolved relationships, cheating spouses, backstabbing friends or family dramatics—all fade away by the time I blow her out. My clients leave feeling on top of the world, which is why they always come back to me, however deep they have to dig into their pockets. My services don’t come cheap, but they seem to feel that the price of beauty is worth it. My ladies leave radiant, looking like they stepped off the pages of a Hollywood gossip rag, feeling like rock stars!
My wife Joan and I have been married for a little over 28 years. Neither one of us had ever been with anyone else until about three months ago, when we met Kevin, who became a “friend with benefits.”
Kevin is about 28 and very well built, with a thick nine-inch dick. Joan and I both benefit from him, as he fucks my wife’s brains out about two or three times a month, and I get to watch.
Last month I celebrated my 53rd birthday. On that day Joan took me shopping. She bought a short black see-through nightie and a pair of very high heels. Then she had her nails done. After that we picked up a couple of orders to go at a very nice restaurant.
When got home Joan told me to set the table while she changed. I set it with candles and wine, as she’d specified. After a while she came out in her new outfit. Her hair and makeup was perfect, and she looked so great that I was hard already. Then she told me to strip down to my boxers.
“Do you mean Kevin’s coming?” I asked, as that was all I wore when he was there.
My friend Gayle had been married to her high school sweetheart for 24 years when she came home unexpectedly one day and caught him with their neighbors’ 20-year-old daughter. She had gotten hysterical and run them both out before packing her bags and leaving that house forever. She had then called me and asked if she could come and stay with us for a while, and of course I said yes.
When she got here the poor woman cried on my shoulder for four days, telling me how she and Cal had always taken their vows very seriously, and had been completely faithful to one another—or so she’d thought. She had never let another man touch her, shooting down anyone who tried until they finally quit. She declared that she thought no man could be trusted, and she then wanted to know how my husband Orin and I had managed to keep our marriage together for so long.
I’m sure I shocked her when I told her that both Orin and I had engaged in intercourse with other people, but never secretly and always with the other’s consent. I told her that I had been with a rather large number of men, while Orin had only found half a dozen women he’d wanted to screw.
We had been on the road about six hours and were making good time on the first day of our two-week vacation. We were out in the middle of nowhere, enjoying the scenery and each other’s company, when I spotted a herd of ponies standing along a fence. In the midst of the group stood a stallion, his long male organ dangling impressively. As we passed by I commented on its size, asking June if she would like it if I had a tool like that. She scoffed and told me not to talk foolishly. “Men don’t get that big!” she declared.
I begged to differ, saying, “I know I’m not that big, but some men are, and some are even bigger.”
She went silent then, and we drove several more miles without speaking before I finally broke the silence, asking her what she was thinking about, “Sex,” was her one-word answer.
“All right,” I responded instantly. “You want to stop for a quickie?”
After giving birth to three kids, my sexy 32-year-old wife Arlene has developed a very plump pubic area, with delightfully prominent vaginal lips. Although I find it very sexy, she has always been self-conscious about it, and gets sort of embarrassed when she wears a bikini or tight jeans, since they tend to show off the shape of her crotch.
About three weeks ago our local radio station began running promos for a bar in our area that was having a “camel toe contest,” with a cash prize of $500. I urged Arlene to enter, but she kept saying no. Finally, however, she reluctantly agreed to give it a try.
The night of the contest I got her to wear a pair of white lace panties underneath a pair of tight white cut-off shorts, which were drawn way up in her crotch to show off the shapes of her ample pussy lips. As it happened, there were quite a few ladies entered in the contest. Arlene was glowing red with embarrassment as they got up on stage to let the crowd check out their tightly covered crotches.
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