The stage is crimson red from thick carpeting and hidden floodlights. It hosts one king size bed with fluorescent indigo bed sheets and a clever bar attached to the bed with a few half empty bottles of high quality booze, a pitcher, tumblers and glasses. I can see that they’re expensive just by looking at the bottles, but the stage, just five meters away from where I sit, is still too far to read the labels. I recognize the distinctive labels of the Green Fairy, Buffalo Trace bourbon and something that has to be a very expensive bottle of Vodka. The owners of this place – probably watching everything from behind one way mirrors I vaguely discern on the long wall of the room, some three meters high – are not exactly your regular strip bar owners. They got style. A quick look around reveals watchers in their comfy leather chairs and sofas, although they too are just barely discernible contours. The whole room, in fact, is permeated with incense smoke and surreal red light. The term visible darkness probably illustrates it better. We are at the Dreamland Swingers Club in Vienna, Austria.
Somewhere out of the wall opposite of me (I am sitting alone on a leather love seat) silhouettes of two men and one woman emerge and approach the bed. The woman is in the middle, holding men’s hands and wears nothing but this mind-blowing red lingerie, panties and bra and stockings with garter and tight corset and high heels of the matching color. The men are naked, could be in their forties, although I cannot tell for sure, given the poor visuals; the woman is a pretty 37 year old brunette, and her seductive outfit was bought during the last summer sale at Victoria’s Secret for 147 dollars. I know that, because I bought it. The woman is my wife.
As soon as they get to the bed, one man turns to my wife and passionately kisses her in the mouth. The other man is behind her, four hands already all over her. I detect a certain amount of tension in her: the way she holds her shoulders slightly elevated and pushed back as if she wants to back up from the guy who is kissing her. Someone’s hand twists a knob on the console somewhere in the security chambers and I can see everything quite clearly now: the guy kissing my wife looks like he’s been in his forties forever, has a slender and sinewy body one acquires after years of regular exercise. The other guy is his younger version, more muscular, butch, sports a crew cut and tattoos on his forearms. He now gently pushes her to sit on the edge of the bed and kneels before her. She opens her legs to show a slit in the panties and black lace tied up in a cute bow tie over it. He unties it delicately, takes a good look at her shaven pussy, already swollen and moist with expectation, and dives in.
My wife starts to twitch and squirm, the way she does it when she likes the action between her legs. And she usually does. So do I. She has a glorious pussy. Most women don’t really, but she does. She was a bomb when I first met her, a slender, tubular beauty that smelled of hidden carnal desires; over time, she gained a few pounds and went through the normal, inevitable aging process but preserved her subdued but ferocious sexuality like no time passed at all. The funny thing about that is that she conceals that sexuality under the mask of a serious, responsible, professional woman as she is. For all I know, my wife is the most dependable person I know. She doesn’t lie, doesn’t fuck around like most women and men do nowadays. Like I do. But underneath all that lies a real thirst for a raw, animal sex which I am largely incapable of providing. I think I love her too much for that.
Our sex has always been good, but for a long time now I have been suspecting that she craved something beyond our routine sex endeavors, delicious as they were. This bothered me at first, but then I remembered that she has never had anybody but me, that I was her first and last lover; I admitted to myself that, had I been in her situation, I would no doubt decide to indulge myself. Having lost its ground for objections, my wounded male pride gave way to resignation, and resignation quickly became an obsession. I found myself fantasizing about her lying naked in her bed and her faceless phantom lover entering her chambers under the cover of darkness. Nobody real: I knew that she was quite incapable of cheating on me, primarily because she couldn’t lie and thus couldn’t bring herself to do it behind my back. Knowing someone would necessarily imply some amount of intimacy, and intimacy required lying. I knew that would never happen.
All I can see now is the back of this guy’s head between her legs, can’t see what his tongue and lips are doing, but her body language is telling me – telling everybody in the room, and now I see there are at least fifteen people watching the show – that she likes it immensely, the rigidity in her shoulders already gone. The taste and smell of her pussy appear in my mouth – what do they call that phenomenon? Something related to a willful recollection of smells and tastes? Smooth, velvety feel of the rosy flesh inside… Her corseted breasts rise and drop as takes quick, panicked breaths, her hands are grabbing his hair and upper back, the legs wide open like she wants to let him in deep, deeper, all the way. She starts to moan.
The older guy, still standing, now makes a step closer and positions his cock near her mouth. She takes it in her hands, strokes it and licks it and starts sucking it, working her head up and down, all the while whimpering and moaning deliciously. The fucking guy really does have one impressive cock, long and thick and curved slightly upwards and appearing to be carved out of wood.
I am so excited I can’t breathe normally and my heart wants to jump out of my chest. What if I die of a heart attack now? Well that would be humiliating. I imagine the headline in the newspaper: “Husband Dies While Watching Wife Give Oral Pleasure.” “Fulfilled Fantasy Ends Tragically for Hubby”. Suddenly I am scared to death, partly because of the heart palpitations, the other part being the realization that I might never get a chance to fuck her again. Sex with her has always been terrific. We fucked in the airplane lavatory on the flight to Vienna, in this impossible standing position, and then again in the hotel room before we took a shower and got dressed for the night out. We were already excited at the prospect of the Dreamland adventure, skipped dinner because of it and settled for drinks instead. All the while I was scrutinizing her, afraid that she might not want to do it, and then again scared stiff that she just might; but her pretty face revealed nothing of the turbulent excitement she must have carried inside. “You understand that things can’t change after tonight, right?” she said. “And I don’t want you to do anything with anyone in there,” she added before I could answer. This was our agreement. The trip was my idea, which she initially flatly refused; it took me a good two months of pleading, begging, cajoling to make her change her mind. She will do it, she said, but only if I don’t go crazy and join the action. I understood why: she could never let go completely if I was directly involved. My condition was that I can watch.
Later we got to the cab and the club and a beautiful blonde in a mini skirt and a silk blouse showed us around, explaining the rules in English with a slight German accent: No rough stuff, no means no, the club does not guarantee a partner, no drugs, clothes are optional, but if you intend to join the party, you better take your clothes off – otherwise people assume you’re into watching.
“Off?” my wife whispered in my ear.
“Not all the way, of course,” Renata smiled, revealing her perfect teeth.”Most guys keep their underwear on. For a while. We strongly encourage ladies to wear sexy stuff, lingerie, if you will. To keep the atmosphere up and running. And besides,” she stopped to cast an up and down look at my wife’s skimpy dress,”looks like you’ve got nothing to worry about, baby.”
Later, when we were already in the part of the club drenched with naked bodies, strobe lights and down tempo techno music, she showed up again. With a proposition.
“Those two guys over there would like you to join them for a drink and a party in the Redrum,” she said.
“Red Room,” I repeated stupidly, but my wife immediately turned around in the indicated direction and waved her hand at two men seated on the stairs in front of some scary African two-meter totem.
“Yes,” Renata smiled. “Redrum is a bit of a private environment. I’m thinking it might work better for you fresh daisies. And please,” she put her hand on my shoulder,”please don’t worry. They won’t do anything your lovely wife won’t like.”
Seven minutes. As if on cue, the young guy stands up, goes to the bar and pours the green liquid into one tall glass. The Green Fairy, absinthe. While my wife is blowing the other guy, he unhurriedly burns the sugar into the glass and adds ice water from the pitcher. We already had a few drinks tonight, three glasses of white wine for her and I several straight Jacks for me, so there’s no telling how she is going to react to the Fairy. She is not into drugs at all. But when he offers the tall glass to her, she obediently accepts and takes a long sip out of it, still seated on the side of the bed and shaking her head to absorb the powerful kick of the wicked drink. The two men share the rest of it. As soon as they finish it, the older guy lies on the bed and commands her to straddle him backwards so she can face the other guy now. She takes her panties off, sits in the lying guy’s crotch and starts pumping and rotating her hips. The other guy is already in the position and puts his cock in her mouth. He gently holds her head with both hands and moves his cock in and out of her mouth, slowly, deliberately; when he goes in too deep, she stops him cold, punching him pretty hard in the ribs, and he gets it. She doesn’t like it in her throat. The guy on the bed pulls out a small bottle of something from under the pillow, pours liquid onto his hands and fingers and starts working her ass, rotating his finger around her anus, carefully pushing it in, then two, while she is rubbing her pussy on his lying cock. He pulls his fingers out and pushes his thumb in and lifts her ass up a bit, using his thumb as a hook; she reaches down to grab his cock and positions herself on the top of it and slowly nests down the entire length of his cock. With one cock all the way in and the other still in her mouth, she moans so deliciously that the actual applause escapes from the crowd. With his thumb all the way in her ass, the young guy starts to lift her up and down, slowly at first, but pretty soon it is a steady, merciless pounding from underneath which gives her problems keeping the cock in her mouth; she solves the problem by holding the base of the cock in one hand and having more than a mouthful above the hand, all the while sucking and slurping as the cock goes in and out, in and out. She soon tilts her head skyward and with her eyes closed emits a low, growling sound and I know she is coming, a long, captivating, exhilarating orgasm, which only I had a privilege of observing until now, the crippling orgasm that makes her pussy spasm and grip the cock that’s pumping her. The excitement in the club is palpable.
“Do you want some company?” I turn to see a pretty, dark haired woman standing at the side of my sofa. She is about my age, which is forty, wearing a short, tight, red-and-black zebra striped dress. The red stripes are almost fused with the surrounding so it appears that some parts of her body – hips and breasts – are missing. Thin, long legs on high heels are perfectly sculpted. American accent.
“Sorry, honey,” I respond, regretting it immediately. “I’m not sure my wife would be okay with that,” I point to the stage.
She takes a quick glance towards the stage and gives me a condescending smile. “Looks like she’s pretty busy at the moment, but have it your way. Tell your wife she should try Hollywood.” I watch her walk off into the red darkness.
When I look back at the stage, I see that the three of them are standing, the younger guy at the back and the older in front of her. The young guy holds her buttocks from the back and lifts her effortlessly in the air so now she is now actually sitting on his hands. She is absolutely and unreservedly obedient, guesses his thoughts precisely because she now spreads her legs wide open towards the older guy, who grabs her thighs, positioning his rod right in front of her magnificent pussy. Why don’t they use the fucking bed? His cock completely disappears in her and my wife lets out a long aaaaaaaaaaah of pain, or pleasure, probably both, grabbing with one hand the guy’s ass and with the other the neck of the Atlas guy holding her and does not stop producing all kinds of delicious ahs and ohs and ohmegods until everything was over twenty something minutes after.
But that was after, and I don’t want to get ahead of the story right now. I’ve been waiting for a long time to see this, and right now I want to see the every last bit of it, don’t want to miss a single contortion on her pretty face, not a single twitch of her slender torso, the look of her nipples sticking out from the corset, hard and red and wanting. The guy’s hips are slapping her, massive, long, strong strides by which he pulls out almost completely and slams his cock back in with a resolution and firmness that shakes her body head to toe. Ten minutes into it (I know because there is a digital clock on the wall, digits the color of oxblood) she comes again, now completely and unabashedly lost in the orgasmic dreamland, what little of inhibitions she has had until now have vanished. But the guy does not stop, does not slow down; in fact, he speeds up the rhythm until his relentless pounding actually catches up with the music (when did it start? Some growling, trembling, bass-infused techno). The watchers are mesmerized, there’s absolutely no sound in the room, except the throbbing, pulsating sex music, the men’s grunts and my wife’s incessant, noisy expressions of immense carnal pleasure.
For some reason, I start thinking about the whole lack of jealousy problem. My wife is jealous as a starving cat watching her owner feed the dog cat food. She can’t stand other women being around me, or me being around other women, whichever comes first. There are a couple of single girls in my office, in their thirties, and they are the constant source of her inquisitive impulses. She thinks that jealousy is an expression of a healthy possessiveness that’s natural to every human being, and that only reason a person is not jealous is because he or she does not really love, or does not love enough, the person in question. I don’t know what to think of that. It transpires that I don’t really love her, but I know that’s not true. I am pretty certain of my feelings for her, but still have to admit that this obsession of mine may not be exactly normal, if you catch my drift. Shouldn’t I be mad because of all this? Even a little bit? I mean, come on, two guys are just fucking the brains out of my wife – wouldn’t it be natural for me to get a first sharp object and proceed to hack them all to pieces? I know that many men would. If my wife is correct, then I don’t love her, but what if she’s wrong? Is it possible that I truly love her and still enjoy the tonight’s show?
How she justifies her present act to herself – given her views on the normalcy of a relationship – is another matter. We haven’t talked about it, but I suspect her answer will once again be pitched to underline my lack of jealousy, in order to not explain her rapacious desires. I guess I’ll deal with it in due time. But for now, I want to enjoy the show.
The front guy is now reaming my wife in tempo with the music, his cock going in and out like it has a life of its own. After the noisy second climax, I expected her to slack down a bit, but she continued her beautiful performance without missing a beat, now stroking with her right hand the Atlas’ cock on which she is sitting, the left one still clasped frantically onto the front fucker’s ass, moaning and sighing and flying on the wings of the Green Fairy. The young guy is still holding all her body weight in his hands. The show continues, the relentless pounding goes on so that every time he smashes his cock in, her entire body shakes like she is being administered electroshocks; she is, actually wailing at one point but producing an unmistakable sound of inconceivable pleasure right after, all the while seated on the other guy’s arms and the cock directly under her ass and horizontal to the ground. Her legs are now open wide and fully extended, the left one mopping glasses off the bar with the high heel. The glasses fall noiselessly on the thick rug underneath without breaking.
The guy at the back whispers something in her ear (I actually lean forward as if I could catch it, but of course I can’t and in that moment I am flooded with a mighty surge of jealousy!) and she nods her head, yes, yes. The front man immediately pulls out of her, grabs her thighs tighter and helps the guy at the back lift her up some more so that she can raise the cock from under her into a vertical position and guide it in her ass. She starts to squirm and rotate her hips as the head goes in, and than a half of the shaft, aaaaah, and then some more, aaaaaaaaaaah, and then the entire cock disappears in the hollow as she lets out an agonic AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH, OOOOOOH, MMMMMMMM. With four hands now holding her ass and thighs, she takes the other cock back in her pussy, they are as one body now, the two men almost hiding her in the sandwich between them and only her legs sticking out to the side, erected and shaking, and her arms around the front guy’s neck, nails clawing and ripping the skin off his back. The two men have some problems synchronizing their movements and finally proceed to lift her up and down instead, grunting and moaning with strain and pleasure. What a scene. My wife of fifteen years, right there on that stage, riding two cocks at the same time and screaming in delightful agony.
If there is a Hell, I’m thinking, I’ll be the first sonofabitch to enter it. I know that on some level, all this – the premeditated act of planning some perverse sex, the trip to Vienna, the Dreamland Club, my wife being fucked like she has never been fucked before, and by two complete strangers to boot, and me watching – all this has to be dead wrong on some primordial level. But to tell you the truth, I don’t care. I don’t give a flying fuck about what an ordinary male must think of me, or perhaps the majority of women as well, I don’t care, I say, because I know that deep down in their souls everybody has fantasies of some kind and they are dying to make them true. It just so happened that my wife and I shared the same fantasy – the stage being depicted right now – and that fantasy came to life by a strange turn of events. In a way, I am lucky. As I can imagine she is, right now. How many of you married men and women can claim that? All of you who do not miss a chance to fuck a stranger, or a friend, or your wife’s friend, but are ready to defend your lousy honors by blood if necessary if your certain someone just as much as take a sideways look at anyone?
Yes, I am the luckiest bastard in the world right now, besides maybe my wife, my lovely woman, whom I have been fucking for the last fifteen years and whom I love fucking more than anybody else on this planet, even after thousands of marital sex acts. Who, prior to this night, has had a total of one lover in her life – me. Who is being royally fucked by two cocks at the same time, who is coming once again as I am thinking My God, this can’t be happening, this is too good to be true because everything is just like I imagined it and then some more, it can’t be true! But it is, it is happening, her eyes almost popping out of the eye sockets, veins on her neck bulged and taut like they’re going to explode any second now as she is being frantically slammed onto two cocks and while she is moaning and yelling and screaming OOOOH AAAHHH OOOH GOD and when my cock explodes inside my pants, just when the two men finally let my wife fall onto the bed and spurt sperm all over her, the bed, the floor, and the bar, grunting and yelling like madmen all the while – even in that the most impossible of moments I know that I love her more than any of you can ever imagine, more than it should be permitted for any person to love without a fear of spontaneous combustion. And then, when everything settles, when the two men and my wife sit on the bed and go into an awkward threesome hug like true lovers, in that one singular, radiant point in my history I have a true and powerful moment of clarity: I realize that jealousy is not a proof of love, just as much as the absence of it doesn’t constitute its opposite. Jealousy is love’s true archenemy.
And in that very moment, my wife looks around as if she has just opened her eyes and immediately sees me watching her; she smiles and blows the sweetest kiss down my way.