My Swinging Confession

My name is Helen and I guess you could say that this is my confession.

I live in a respectable street of a respectable suburb upstate. I won’t tell you exactly where, but you can probably already imagine the place. A secluded road with neat, comfortably-apportioned houses; each house with its own immaculately trimmed and tended lawn; pure white picket fence; wide, welcoming drive way and delicate floral borders.

The Avenue. It could not be more suburban and stereotypical. But I, we, like it here. I live at number four, with my husband, Jack. We married five years ago, when we were both just out of college and we are still very much in love. In many ways, our life in the Avenue for the first five years was idyllic. I worked as a librarian at the local adult college and Jack worked as a software developer. We worked hard, we spent our evenings at the movies, or curled up on a sofa together. We could afford long holidays, we gardened, attended charitable functions. Sometimes we went to a baseball game, sometimes we took in a show. Life was perfect.

Well, almost perfect. There was one thing that nagged at me, one little persistent, consuming, burning itch that I longed to scratch. It was something that I didn’t dare share with Jack for a long time. For around four years, in fact, until it just came out.

I had drunk too much Merlot. We were in bed, I had slipped out of my panties while Jack was in the bathroom and had been stroking myself, teasing my nipples, my clit, with my fingers and feeling like such a naughty, filthy, wanton slut. So I told him. When he came out of the bathroom, with just a towel wrapped around him, I told him my dirty secret. I told him I wanted to see him fuck another woman, in our bed. I just blurted it out.

He was silent. I could hear my heart thudding. Then he smiled. He came and sat on the bed, kissed me full on the lips, and then nodded.

“That would be fun,” he said.

The next morning I asked him if he remembered what I’d told him. His wicked grin told me that he had. At first I was ashamed and embarrassed, but he held my hand and said that he was honored that I had felt able to share something so personal and that he loved me. And after all, I told myself, it was just a fantasy. There was nothing wrong with fantasy.

So I got over my embarrassment, and for a few days, the relief of unburdening myself was glorious. It felt so naughty, so wicked, so transgressive. I had bared my innermost desires, exposed them to the man I love and he hadn’t flinched. I felt like the kind of dangerous, disreputable girl I had always fantasized about being, but at the same time it also felt as though I had found a new level of love and intimacy with Jack.

That feeling would only grow deeper the following Saturday, when Jack, after three whiskies, took my hand as we sat on our bed and told me that it would be hot if I was with another man. It was dark in our room when he said those thrilling, dangerous words, and I saw the fear in his eyes, his fear that I might be horrified. But I wasn’t horrified. Not at all. Though I had never really thought about it before, the idea stirred something in me. Yes, I wanted that too.

Jack told me that he loved it when I moaned and gasped with pleasure and he wanted to see me like that, with another man, like I was starring in an erotic film. He wanted me to gaze into his eyes as I was fucked by a stranger. The way he described it was so hot. I asked him to tell me again and he did, embroidering the fantasy with all kinds of erotic talk, dirty words, wild ideas, all of which sent shivers of pure lust through me.

We made love that night, as passionately as we ever had, at least, before we met the Porters. Three, four, maybe five weekends in a row, we got drunk together and told one another all about our dirty secret fantasies, embellishing the stories with ever more outlandish ideas, until we had driven each other wild and then we would fuck over and over until we were exhausted.

Over the weeks, the heat of that passion grew less intense. We spoke of it less frequently, and the novelty and thrill of being open about it faded. But the itch remained. That didn’t fade. It was always there, whenever I touched myself, whenever Jack touched me, whenever I closed myself and surrendered to the all-consuming fire of my orgasm. The thought of Jack and another woman and me watching, sitting naked at the end of the bed as he fucked another woman, sensing their sweating, glistening bodies as he made her scream. Oh I wanted that so much.

I’m not sure where it came from. I guess a skilled psychiatrist could plumb the depths of my subconscious and drag out the truth, but I didn’t really care. All I knew was that the thought of Jack with another woman, a hot woman, a beautiful, sexy, gorgeous woman, was both frightening and gloriously exciting. Perhaps it was the forbidden aspect. That isn’t how it is supposed to be. A woman is supposed to be jealous of her husband’s affection. Perhaps it was that risk. What if he enjoyed having sex with her more than me? The risk that he would leave. The risk that I would lose everything. It was partly that, but it was also the idea of watching it, watching Jack being passionate, the writhing limbs, the forbidden, transgressive sex in our bed.

But after a few weeks, Jack stopped referring to it, and as we had never got round to working out how to arrange it, I resigned myself to it remaining as just a glorious fantasy.

Around six months after I had confided in him, Jack came home late from work one day and gave me some bad news. Apparently, we had to entertain his boss, Michael Porter, and his wife. I groaned when he told me. We don’t do a lot of entertaining. Sure, we have friends over from time to time and family, but those are all people we know, people we don’t have to impress. The Porters were different. But according to Jack, there was no way round it. He was desperate to get the promotion to head of section, and he needed to improve his relationship with his boss.

So that Saturday night, I slipped into my tightest black party dress – my only black party dress – which was much shorter than I remembered. As I tugged at the hem to try to pull it down at least over my mid-thigh, Jack came into the bedroom and whistled.

“Is it too much?” I asked

“It’s perfect,” he replied, patting me on the ass and kissing me on my neck, which sent a little tingle of pleasure all the way through me.

The Porters were punctual, and brought two bottles of expensive wine with them, which I gladly swapped for the rather cheap bottle I had bought. They were older than us, maybe late forties, but both obviously worked out. Michael Porter was tall, greying a little at the temples, but square-jawed with big shoulders and a wide, welcoming smile. I found myself blushing a little the first few times he turned the smile on me, like a nervous girl at a high school dance.

Anna was a little taller than me, with short dark hair, but the kind of body that I have always been envious of. Curvy to the point of being overtly sexy, her breasts heaved in a tight red velvet dress, and she swayed when she walked. Her sparkling smile was kind of captivating too, and it was obvious that Jack was having trouble not staring at her chest whenever he looked at her. I didn’t mind that. I thought it was cute, and told myself I would tease him about it later.

Dinner went well. The Porters were good company, charming, but not showy. They talked about their holiday home in Florida, their wedding, and both had a store of anecdotes from their previous lives. Michael had been a footballer, while Anna had done a little modeling. The wine was flowing and the conversation was easy when Michael asked if we’d like to play a little poker.

As it happened, we had played quite a lot while we were in college, and the idea sounded fun. Jack dug out some old poker chips from the back of the wardrobe, I cleared away the plates and soon we were sitting around the dining table playing a little Texas Hold ‘Em.

Jack, Michael and I were playing pretty well, winning our share of hands, but Anna, who seemed to be drinking a little more than the rest of us, was soon down to her last chip. When she turned over a pair of Kings and I showed three twos, she laughed and pushed her chip across the table to me.

“I guess I’m done,” she said, laughing, casually resting her hand on Jack’s arm. He was a little flustered, which I thought was so cute. I smiled across the table at him and he smiled back, before blushing and looking at his cards.

“Oh now, we can let you stay in. But you have to offer a little something,” said Michael, dealing the next hand. Anna looked at him with a smirk.

“Oh really? And what did you have in mind?”

Michael smiled and said nothing.

“Well I don’t have any valuable jewelry to play with, so I guess I’ll just have to strip,” she said, pouting a little.

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