Digging in the garden doesn’t sound particularly sexy, I know. It can be, though. Trust me. Because that’s when I get to unabashedly watch my wife’s gorgeous ass as she crawls through the huge box of dirt we’ve deemed a garden. And by God, for some reason that woman almost always wears white. So she ends up with streaks of earth on the seat of her shorts—streaks that are just begging to be traced with my fingers.
It was a sticky, late-summer day the last time I lost my manners and acted on impulse.
“I can feel you looking at me, you know,” she said.
We’d waited very late in the day to harvest the blessed green onions that took forever to grow. The later in the day, the cooler it was. The sky was coming down to a nice purplish shade, and when the wind blew, it was almost cool. Almost.
Her ass looked damn near neon in the odd summer light. It was those white shorts; they practically glowed.
My wife and I enjoy your magazine, particularly the stories about swinging and group sex encounters, which up until last year we’d never dreamt of being a part of. Fiona and I don’t have an open marriage, per se, but we’ve been involved with a number of couples, who wouldn’t have thought about sharing their mates until we related some of our stories and curiosity got the best of them. But first, let me tell you the tale of the first time we invited other people into our bed.
For our vacation last year, Fiona and I went on a seven-day Caribbean cruise. Our first stop was St. Thomas. After breakfast onboard, we headed for Megan Bay, one of the most beautiful beaches in the Caribbean. Not only was the beach beautiful, but there were also a number of ladies sunbathing topless, which made the front of my swimsuit stand out. After a few rum drinks and some coaxing, Fiona removed her top and revealed her beautiful breasts.
I figured there were a number of fellow boat passengers at the beach, but I didn’t recognize any right away. Soon a couple of guys strolled over and introduced themselves as Chad and Jack, and said they had the cabin next to ours. Funny, I hadn’t noticed them, but they sure were noticing my wife, which was a turn-on for me.
Kaylee always obliges me when I tell her I need it. I don’t need it as often as I used to, but sometimes when the urge is strong, it’s like an itch under my skin that can’t be scratched—no matter how hard I try. The only thing that works is seeing my wife with another man.
“I need it,” I said, over dinner the other night.
Her answer was the same as always. “Okay, I’ll set something up.”
Then back to homemade pizza on focaccia bread and a kick-ass Chianti to wash it down.
It only took her a night to set things up. Kaylee is a looker. She’s tall and lean, with hair the color of wheat that sways down along her back. Her legs seem to go on forever, and her toenails are always painted an unusual color, which adds a bit of intrigue. When she’s naked and there’s nothing on her insanely hot body but navy blue polish on her toes—it adds something.
Mack and I have been known to hook up whenever we can. It’s rarely planned; it tends to be a spur of the moment deal. I know his big secret: He likes it a bit rough. And he knows mine: I love anal. Always have. Together, we make a mighty fine pair, especially when we’re horny.
The last time our attraction had a chance to spark into an encounter was when we closed up the restaurant after a big holiday weekend.
“You wanna grab some linens from the storage space? There are two things left on the list. Swap out the linens and grab new candles for the tables. I’ll get the candles.” His eyes tracked over me for an instant, and I swore I actually felt his gaze on my skin.
We still talk about it. It’s become something of a legend to us when we’re naked and kissing—on the verge of fucking. Our trip one year to Mardi Gras—the crowd, the smoke, the booze, the beads. All of it crushed around us as I lifted her skirt.
Olivia’s ass is a thing of beauty, and in the midst of copious forms of drunken debauchery, I’d let the mood sweep me away.
“What are you doing?” she yelled in my ear. Though in the noisy throng, it was barely a whisper.
“Just looking.” I palmed her ass and smoothed my fingers over the butter-yellow fabric of her panties.
“People will see.”
“Go for it, man,” a guy shouted as he drifted by in the crowd.
The encouragement from a stranger made what I was doing that much better. I yanked her back toward me, with her skirt still flipped up. Pushing my cock to the split of her ass and feeling her heat, I groaned.
I told her to find someone, right after Brenda got me to admit my fantasies and she confirmed that hers matched. We hadn’t been married long and were playing the ever popular what’s-your-biggest-fantasy game. Mine was to see her with someone—fucking a stranger. Hers was to be seen.
Turned out we were a match made in heaven.
The most logical place to find a safe person was our pool club. We’d established long-standing friendships with many of the couples there. Some of them had even attended our wedding. And since summer was upon us at the time of our confessions, it seemed the perfect place to not only have some fun but scout out a lover for Brenda, as well.
After fifteen years of marriage, my wife and I thought we’d done it all. We’d done swinging and swapping, tried bondage and domination, and acted on our fetishes and fantasies. It seemed like we’d reached the end of our sexual adventures. But of course I should have known better than to underestimate Elyse.
We were talking about people who’d contacted us through our profile on a popular swingers’ website when she mentioned getting some messages about our wife-watching request. Elyse and I are always looking for men, women or couples who will fuck her and let me watch. It’s not hard to find people willing to play with us, so I wasn’t all that surprised when she told me we had several interested parties to choose from, but when she said she didn’t want me to know who she’d selected until the night of our get-together, I knew something was up.
I didn’t question my wife’s decision. I knew if she was taking control of the situation that whatever she was planning would be good. To be safe, Elyse changed our password for the website so I wouldn’t log in ahead of time to find out what her plans were. “It’s going to be good,” she promised. “I know you’ll enjoy the evening—and so will I.”
“That’s what matters most,” I assured her.
We ran into Missy’s old flame at the Renaissance Festival. It would have taken an idiot not to see that there was still a flirtatious spark between them. The way Ryan looked at her—reaching out to touch her before remembering his manners in front of her husband—had my heart thumping. He wanted her, and I could see my blushing bride doing exactly that, blushing at the sight of him.
He went off to get us beers so we could all have drinks and chat, and I leaned in close and whispered, “He wants to fuck you.”
She tapped my arm with her fingertips. “Stop,” she said. But her cheeks blazed redder, and her eyes were shining.
“You want him, too.” I pressed my lips to her ear so she could feel my mouth and my breath. It always made her shiver and made her nipples hard.
“I . . . ”
I met Cindy in college. She was in two of my classes, and I found it most difficult to concentrate on lectures with such a goddess sitting just a few seats away from me. She’s petite and blonde, with a hypnotizing walk and mesmerizing breasts. Her beautiful eyes haunted me until I finally got up the courage to ask her out. We went for coffee one lazy afternoon, stayed up all night in my apartment talking, and by dawn I had her pressed against the wall of my tiny kitchen with my cock buried deep in her hot little snatch, while she begged for more. We married within the year, and we’ve been inseparable since.
Cindy’s insatiable when it comes to sex. Most nights saw us programming the DVR to record our favorite television shows, rather than let a single night go by without losing ourselves in our passion for one another. The only exception to our evening activity was my Friday night bowling league. Occasionally, Cindy would tag along to cheer me on, but most of the time she’d stay home, relaxing, or catching up on her reading. She’d often be waiting naked for me when I got back, toying with her pussy, and telling me how much she’d missed me.
I was pulling my car into the alley parking lot on one such Friday, when I realized I’d forgotten my bowling shoes. Cursing, I raced home to fetch them. I turned onto our street, still half a block away, when I noticed a yellow sports car parking in front of our house. My foot hit the brakes, and I quickly pulled to the curb behind a neighbor’s car, peering through the windshield as an unfamiliar young man with dark hair strolled up my front walk carrying a bottle of champagne. The door opened, and he disappeared inside the house.
Every Tuesday my favorite submissive, George, comes to my dungeon for his session. He always comes bearing tribute presents, and he always has a new excuse for why he needs to be punished. However, two weeks ago, he’d missed his regular session and hadn’t bothered to call in advance to cancel. It was unlike him to be so disrespectful, so I was concerned and thought something had happened to him. However, when he called two days later to make his appointment for the following week and failed to mention his error, I knew that it had been a careless mistake—and that I had to make him pay.
George was on his best behavior from the moment I answered the door right up until we were inside the dungeon. He clearly knew that he was in trouble for flaking the week before, and he seemed to think that ignoring the problem would make it go away. I was going to make sure he knew that wasn’t the case.
As he knelt on the floor, I paced back and forth in front of him, letting the clicking of my heels against the stone floor send him into a panic. The longer I made him wait, the more worried he got, and he started whimpering, begging me to begin his punishment. “Please, Mistress,” he whined. “Please punish me for what I did wrong!”