The man, who calls himself Michael, has his penis in his right hand, guiding it. It isn’t enormous, but large enough, the condom-protected swollen head protruding above his fingers. He lets it rest against the puffy labia, teasing her with the anticipation. He looks down at me. From my chair beside the bed, I lean forward and focus the digital camera acquired specifically to capture this moment. I press the button and the camera flashes. I nod to indicate that he should proceed. Michael inclines his body slightly. The purple penis head slides easily into my wife. Catherine sighs softly.
What is to follow will be no surprise; every detail of the scenario has been discussed; we all three know what to expect. The anticipation has played a large part in our erotic life for a long time, long before we finally discovered Michael. His name probably isn’t Michael; neither are we in reality Catherine and Charles, for reasons that will soon be apparent.
Catherine is on her back with her knees drawn up in the classic missionary position. She crosses her ankles behind Michael’s back, drawing him into her, seeking deep penetration. Michael co-operates by resting his body firmly against her mound so that she can experience his full length,as was agreed. They are not yet ready for him to start moving.
The origins of this encounter go back almost eighteen months. We were on holiday in Paris with our son, Peter. It was his last vacation before he departed for Cambridge to read engineering. Paris has been a favourite destination for many years, not least because Catherine likes to fine tune her mastery of the language at regular intervals: she is Head of Modern Languages at the most sought-after school in our home city.
In bed one night during that visit Catherine showed me an article in a French magazine describing the growth of swingers clubs throughout Europe but particularly in France and notably in Paris. If Catherine was giving me a barely disguised message, I was surprised. Our sex life had been satisfactory if not exceptional, In the way one is led to believe these things happen, it had gradually dwindled from early passion to comfortable routine. Perhaps because I had grown increasingly involved developing my business, I admit it had reached a stage where it was often Catherine who took the initiative.
“Do you want to try one of these clubs?” I asked, still trying to assess my own attitude to the possibility of spending a hundred euros for the privilege of taking our clothes off with a lot of strangers and letting follow what will.
“Of course not. Not with my figure. And all those groping hands.” She shuddered at the thought. But she was being excessively modest about her figure. She takes good care of it, joining me at the gym twice a week when other commitments allow. I think she looks younger than her forty-two years, thanks to good legs and firm high breasts.
These assets Michael is now slowly exploring. Quiet murmurs I am unable to decipher pass between them, but it becomes apparent that she has asked him to start moving inside her. He does so very subtly, cupping her buttocks with both hands so that he can lift her on to his impaling member. I move in again with the camera. Flash! Buried. Flash! Partially withdrawn. Flash! Buried again, balls resting against her anus.
So if Catherine wasn’t suggesting we join a Parisian orgy, what did she have in mind? We talked for more than an hour, reviewing the diminution of early ardour and discussing possible remedies. Only then, and very obliquely, did Catherine ask how I would feel about involving someone else. I told her it wasn’t an issue worth considering because we had too much to lose.
“But we trust each other, don’t we?” she asked.
“Of course we do. But that’s not the problem.” I reminded her of our exposed positions at home: her school, my company (I employ 17 people in a thriving specialist magazine operation), the Rotary Club of which I am Chairman, not to mention our sporting commitments – we had recently reached the Mixed Doubles final of our county’s badminton championships. Were we prepared to run the risk of being caught in some sleazy tabloid newspaper sting or any one of a number of other ways our little adventure might become public property?
Frightened by the possibility, Catherine agreed. “Well,” she said, “maybe if it stays a fantasy it will liven us up a bit.”
With that we drifted into sleep, but a seed had been sown. Images were forming in my mind.
Catherine is moaning and beginning to writhe. Unspectacular though Michael’s technique has been so far, he has been connecting with all the right nerve endings. No doubt the very fact of opening her legs to a virtual stranger is adding to the erotic charge. The signs are very familiar to me: her orgasm is imminent. But she is not ready to surrender yet. She uncrosses her ankles, wriggles from under Michael and deftly turns him on to his back. When I see that his penis is still fiercely erect, I position the camera again. Catherine is kneeling beside him and her open mouth is about to descend. Flash!
When we made love after our return from Paris, Catherine reminded me of the fantasy, and I had to agree it added spice and vigour to our coupling. She was asking me to drive harder, then checking me to prolong the pleasure. With Peter now away from home, her release became louder and less inhibited by the idea of being overheard.
For my part, I found myself almost subconsciously returning to the suggestion of involving another party. I could still see all the potential pitfalls, but suppose I could devise a way to minimise the risks? I didn’t want our relationship to become arid, and the truth is I found myself responding to the thought of watching her open her legs to another man. Eventually, at the end of one of our more acrobatic performances, I asked her if she would still like to try.
“Not if we would be running all those risks. It was just a passing fancy, Paris and all that. At the time it seemed it might be good for us both but -”
“Suppose we could eliminate the risks? At least reduce them to negligible?”
She hesitated. “Could we?”
I said I had given it some thought, and there might be a way.
“Is it something you could cope with? Are you really sure?”
“Yes.”
So it was agreed. But first we had to consider exactly what we were seeking. Another couple was our ideal but there were obvious drawbacks: suppose I was attracted by his other half but Catherine didn’t respond to him? Or vice versa? Too complicated. A single woman then? Bisexuality was an unknown for Catherine but she didn’t rule it out; I was intrigued,too. But how to find a suitable woman? Much easier, we finally decided, to look for a single male. You didn’t need to consult an opinion poll to know there were plenty of candidates out there.
“But I have to ask you again,” Catherine said, “are you sure that’s something you could cope with: watching me with another man? Because I would want you to be there.”
I told her about the pictures which had been surfacing in my head with increasing frequency.
Michael’s rampant penis and Catherine’s voluptuous mouth have found an instant rapport. Each time she lets it slide centimetre by centimetre from between her lips she lifts her head slightly so I can see the sparkle of excitement in her eyes. It is visible even in the camera’s viewfinder. Flash!
While Catherine sucks, Michael’s hands are exploring. He allows a dangling breast to nestle in his palm, then tentatively rolls a nipple between finger and thumb. Instantly, Catherine’s head plunges to engulf his full length. When she can hold her breath no longer she releases him before lifting to dive deep again. I catch a glimpse of the nipple Michael has been tweaking: Catherine is on heat. Michael reaches behind her to fondle her bottom. Another irresistible moment. Flash! His index finger rests lightly against her aperture. I raise the camera again but he withdraws his hand. For the moment.
Finding Michael was a long drawn out project, the reason why months passed between our original discussion in Paris and the culmination of my search. I won’t bore you with the many false trails I followed, the e-mail exchanges that fizzled out, the hopes that were raised and dashed. After all that, you will understand the elation of success.
Michael told us he was an American doctor, a general practitioner, from a small town in Oregon. At thirty-two, Michael is ten years younger than Catherine. He said he and his wife had recently arrived in Britain on an exchange scheme scheduled to keep them here for three years. In early contacts via e-mail Michael reported a background not unlike our own. He explained that they had chosen to come to Europe because they were looking to expand their sexual horizons in a way that was simply impossible in small-town America. Crucially, his profession meant a desire for discretion I could comprehend.
My own precautions were as secure as I could make them. The e-mail address I used was set up solely for that purpose. When we moved on to communicating by voice, I bought a cellphone that was kept exclusively for conversations with Michael. Another important consideration was that Michael was living and working more than a hundred miles from us. Meetings would be at a large, anonymous hotel somewhere approximately equidistant. And at any point up to the moment when we first met, we could pull the plug and retreat into safe anonymity.
There remained, of course, the question of whether Michael and Catherine would be compatible. That was given some encouragement when Michael’s e-mail arrived with two attachments. I opened them to find two photos of Michael, one clothed, one naked and showing an erect penis of enviable dimensions. Not enormous, but large enough.
My wife has always had a talent for fellatio. It’s not something I, or anyone else, has taught her. It is an innate gift. She can gorge on a penis, hollowing her cheeks as she sucks it towards the back of her throat. And she has a beautifully judged delicacy, too. As Michael is discovering, her way of licking at the sensitive area just beneath the circumcised head is almost indescribably exquisite. Fortunately, her ability includes an instinctive awareness of when her partner is reaching bursting point.
Michael is there, clutching the back of her head as he prepares to erupt. But she draws away from him, sits back and strokes the firm shaft slowly and carefully, taking him back down into the controlled zone.
Satisfied that the danger has passed, Catherine moves on. As Michael starts to rise, presumably thinking it is his turn to take the initiative, she puts a firm hand on his chest to indicate that he should remain on his back. Guessing what is coming next, I ready the camera. By the time I frame the picture she is astride his face. Flash! I capture a close-up of her fingers holding her labia apart. Michael’s protruding tongue is finding the way in.
The date had been set and the rendezvous point arranged. We chose a different hotel for ourselves from the one where Michael would stay. If the initial chemistry didn’t work, we would have a bolt hole. On the other hand, even if things did work out we might still wish to avoid sleeping three to a bed afterwards.
The arrangement was for drinks and dinner at Michael’s hotel. As we drove there,Catherine asked, not for the first time, “Don’t you find it suspicious that Michael has left his wife at home while he is on this jaunt? I mean, isn’t this Europe idea meant to give them both access to a less circumscribed sex life?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Michael says he has his wife’s blessing as long as he tells her everything when he gets home. But who knows? Perhaps she thinks he’s away on some medical conference. Does she even exist? Mind you, we only have his word for it that he really is a doctor.”
Deferring a view on that, we soon found that at least the (clothed) e-mail photo didn’t lie. The man who emerged from the bar with a warm smile and firm handshake was undoubtedly the Michael we were expecting. I guessed him at just under six feet, medium build, wearing an expensive grey suit, white shirt, conservative tie. My definition of handsome might not be Catherine’s but by anyone’s standards he was more than passable. He kissed my wife on the cheek, took a pace back and said, “Well, Charles. You didn’t do Catherine justice. You didn’t tell me she would light up the place.”
It sounds like a chat-up line, and it was certainly over the top, but it was said with such self-effacing charm we were both immediately won over. The American accent was soft and low-pitched. Over cocktails and food that deserved better attention than we were able to give it, Michael’s unforced charm dispelled the nervousness we were feeling. Mature, confident, successful adults we may have been in our daily lives but here we were in middle age embarking on the unknown. Yet, as I regarded Michael from the other side of the dinner table, it was easy to recall the e-mail picture of Michael, naked and aroused, and match it with Catherine at her most receptive.
With a vagina thoroughly lubricated by a combination of Michael’s clever tongue and her own voracious desires, Catherine is ready to progress. And here comes a surprise for me. She asks Michael if he will talk dirty to her. This is something that was not unknown in our younger days but I thought we had grown out of it. But this meeting with Michael has removed all reserve from my wife.
“Will you fuck me now?” She asks him, alerting me to have the camera primed.
“For such a sumptuous pussy, it will be my pleasure. My cock is all yours.”
“Give it to me, then,” she demands. “I’ve been wanting it ever since you had your hand under my skirt during dinner.” (Another surprise for me.) “How do you want me?”
“Doggy?”
As the camera flashes, she falls to her knees and spreads herself. Michael is behind her, cock in hand. He removes the condom and replaces it with a new one. “Better now than finding it slipping once we get started,” he says with a grin. Flash! This shot shows the sheath distended by hard flesh.
I have to confess that my own uncertainty about how I would feel while watching my wife being serviced by another man had all but disappeared. Taking advantage of a dinner table in a quiet corner of the restaurant, we had prepared the ground, clarified the do’s and do-not’s. Condoms obligatory, accepted readily by us all. Oral, yes of course; to completion was not ruled out but was thought undesirable in case it curtailed subsequent pleasures. Michael asked about anal; Catherine conceded that a careful finger would be acceptable but no more.
Throughout, I felt in no way humiliated because I knew Catherine’s love for me was deep and solid. I now believed that Catherine was capable of relaxing into this intense journey to the physical peak without losing her emotional compass. What was about to happen would hopefully be a profoundly exciting sexual experience for us both, made safe because Michael and Catherine ensured that I did not feel excluded. On the contrary, I was very aroused.
This was something Catherine and I had discussed be forehand and had prepared for. During what I suppose now I should call our normal relations,Catherine would sometimes give me a signal that she was in the mood for sex. This was a compensatory initiative following our discussion in Paris, and I found it worked for me. When I returned from the office and went to our bedroom to change, I would find a pair of blue panties on my pillow. Over dinner when Peter was at home all it needed was a smile to acknowledge that I had received the message and was looking forward to bed time. Then, as part of our foreplay, Catherine would fold the panties round my cock and bring me to readiness.
Now, as I watched Michael and Catherine begin their serious endeavours, I took these same blue panties from my pocket, unzipped myself and began to masturbate with them. My cock was hard and needed careful treatment. My eyes never left the action taking place on the bed a few feet in front of me.
“Fuck me hard, Michael. As hard as you can. It’s good like this. But don’t come yet.”
Catherine is still on her knees, Michael kneeling behind her. He has been entering her with a series of rapid thrusts. Now he changes tempo, steadies himself with his hands on her hips, withdraws completely and then rams his cock back into the welcoming wetness of her cunt. I focus the camera on the action area as his balls swing through against her. Flash! Michael’s grunt is matched by Catherine’s murmur of approval.
“Again?” Michael asks, cock in hand.
“Yes, keep going if you can. Are you all right?”
“Oh God, its so great. Don’t let it end yet.”
“Keep fucking then. But stop when you have to.” I can scarcely believe this. This is my wife’s voice, the Head of Modern Languages at a very distinguished school. Like Michael, I am having to concentrate hard to avoid a premature conclusion.
Deep breathing and recuperative pauses between thrusts give Michael the control they both crave. The grunts and murmurs continue for some time. Catherine turns her head to smile at me. I smile back and nod to reassure her that this is working for me, too. I am hardly moving the blue silk panties against my shaft. A small stain of precum appears.
If I am now close to the point of no return, so, too, are they. Michael pulls his cock out after one last vigorous drive. “Now, Catherine,” he says,his voice hoarse with the lust she has provoked in him. “On your back. Open wide.”
In seconds she is spread, knees apart, fingers holding herself open for him, the insides of her thighs glistening from her leaking juices. I want to use the camera but my cock needs my hand.
Michael says, “It won’t take long, I’m afraid. So enjoy.” He plunges a cock that is near to bursting into a cunt that cannot wait to receive him. This no longer a carefully choreographed affair, as it might be between partners fully aware of each other’s needs. This is two people fucking heedlessly, both on their limits. Catherine is urging him on with scarcely decipherable obscenities, Michael is gasping, driving, racking up the force of each penetration, gathering speed.
It can’t last and Catherine, sensing as much, at this wonderful moment reaches out a hand to beckon me to join them. As a huge groan signals Michael’s last, draining thrust, I kneel beside Catherine and, with two easy strokes, shoot spunk on to her tits.
We lie, the three of us, in silence for several minutes. Then Catherine retrieves the blue panties and uses them to clean her breasts and between her legs. “Well,” she says, “was it good?”
“More than good,” Michael replies. “Like nothing ever before.”
“Yes,” I say. “Truly like nothing ever before.”
It was two days later that the cellphone – the Michael phone as we had come to call it – rang again. He spoke first to Catherine, thanked her profusely, asked somewhat anxiously if any regrets had developed in the aftermath. She assured him there were none. (She didn’t tell him that after we left him, we had gone to our own hotel and made love at great length and with deep affection. It was only then that I realised she hadn’t come with Michael; she had saved her orgasm for me.)
Then Michael asked to speak to me. He had a request, he said. He hoped we would agree but he would, of course, understand if we declined. On his return home, he had fulfilled his promise to tell his wife everything that had happened. And now he wanted to know if we would like to meet them both.
I asked him to hold while we conferred. It wasn’t a lengthy consultation. Catherine had read my expression. “He wants to bring his wife,doesn’t he?” she asked. I nodded. “Fine by me,” she said. So it was agreed.
Just as I was about to ring off, Michael said he would call in a day or two to confirm arrangements. But in the meantime, could I e-mail a selection of the photos for his wife to see?
Sadly, I couldn’t. When I tried to transfer the pictures to our home computer, nothing worked. Probably there was a fault on the camera. I could hardly take it back to the shop. Nor could I get the IT wizard in my office to look at the problem. That precious experience would simply have to remain locked in our memories.
Next time,said Michael, he would bring the camera. Which suits me because I have every intention of being rather more than a spectator then.
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