Tuesday, 10 July 2012

By the Bi


There's a lot of consternation over sexuality on the site. Not so much for the women - it seems they're almost obliged to swing both ways - but as for me and the other chaps on there, it's quite the big issue.
Our profile basically flags me up as, if not a fully-fledged bisexual, then definitely bi-curious. And it's true that the idea of getting to grips with another man doesn't repulse me - after all, if there is a groaning heap of humanity going on, then I would rather be in the thick of it than just a casual observer. I'm quite happy to take a cock in my mouth or let masculine lips get round mine - and kissing's kissing, basically it can be good or bad with either a man or a woman in my book.
And, of course, flagging myself up as open to all is the simplest way of putting off the hetero single men who, frankly, should be out looking for a girlfriend, not approaching a couple on the internet. The way I see it is that if you tick the MMF box and also play the totally-straight card then you're simply advertising yourself as a cuckold, a broken little man who will dejectedly sit in the corner while his wife is being pummelled by a proper bloke who really knows how to handle himself. There are a lot of men out there who think this is commonplace among couples on the site - one that I took an instant dislike to crowed long and hard on the webcam about how he'd hooked up with a man and his wife, hubby had failed to perform in any way and she had had the best sex she'd ever experienced since chapter six of Seven Shades of Grey. Yes, we all knew he was making it up, but it's a myth which is perpetuated a bit too often.
So wearing the 'bring 'em all on' hat, for me, ensures that if it's just a lone cock joining us then he'll be well aware that he'll be expected to want to play with me as well as the beautiful T. And, yes, I'm aware of the dark side of that - it's basically me saying that if you want to fuck my wife without bringing a bird, you're going to have to suck my cock first. Emasculation, anyone?
For couples though, it's a completely different kettle of fish. The contact always starts jovially enough, but the question of what I'm expecting to do doesn't take long to rear its head with the full-on straight blokes. Take the couple we're currently messaging with a vague view to meet up with at the weekend. I chatted to him on the phone and we've exchanged quite a few text messages - the usual 'it's all about the chemistry' malarkey. Then, pow, up pops the text from the chap saying "U do now Im straite dont you". (As a quick aside, what is it with swingers and literacy? This man's in his late 40s and he can't do apostrophes or spell 'know'? Sheesh.)
But, anyway, I then know I have to send a host of comforting texts back reassuring him that I'm not about to tie him face down to the bed and shove my arm up his arse to the elbow. And now, everything's cool, he's admitted that he really fancies T and we've basically agreed that if it comes to pass this weekend it'll be all vanilla straight-swap, same-room kind of thing - a tiny bit disappointing for T who can't help but like the idea of a man at both ends, but probably a nice safe way to kick off our Aussie swing-life.
And it works for me too. As with the glum engineer, the goalposts are in a completely different place if Mr Hetero is bringing along a lady - at least there's a good chance I'm going to get to play an active role with someone.
So, basically, I'm a bit of a moveable feast. If Joe Solo comes up, then I'm going to expect to be quite hands on, if Sid Straight and his wife are interested that's all good too, he can rest assured I'm not going to suddenly be behind him nibbling his ear.
But what, then, is the true answer? Well, the reality is that I'm only bi in the sense that, in the sack, being at the heart of things works best for me. The truth is I have no desire at all to ever be one-on-one with a man and I absolutely don't ever want to be the sponge to another fellow's rock. I get off on T getting off and I know how much she likes a bit of MMF, but if she suddenly went off the premise I wouldn't push for one last go.
I am, then, only a bi swinger, not a bi man. I've never fancied one man more than another - yes, I could see the beauty in the smiley Latino chap, but a lot of that was about his complete lack of body hair - and I've certainly never thought I was falling in love with a bloke. 
In fact, the harsh reality is that I don't really like men, that I'm not what you'd call a man's man. All my closest friends are women, I've never walked down a city street in a group of lads singing in that embarrassing deep voiced warble they do. I've never wanted to get involved in team sports and have made excuses not to go to every stag night I've been invited to - simply because I can't imagine anything worse than to be out socially somewhere where it's all men. I find the competitiveness, anger and angst tiring, the chest-thumping, the showing off. My heart sinks when we meet yet another eloquent, intelligent, funny, vivacious woman - in any sphere, not just the site - who has a lumpen oaf of a husband/partner/boyfriend who can't string a sentence together and starts getting uppity and shouty if he thinks he's not the alpha male. Most men, unfortunately, are just very, very dull.
Still, if they're a good kisser, I'll probably let that slide. 

Monday, 9 July 2012

Zero for 44


Here's a list of the people we haven't had sex with so far: 
i) The glum engineer who wanted to marry T;
ii) The chatty, busty blonde who looked a bit like T's old boss back in the UK;
iii) The staggeringly attractive 26-year-old who really probably could do much better than the likes of me;
iv & v) The Scottish ex-pat couple who have the low-down on sex parties in industrial estate warehouses;
vi) The beautiful Latino boy with the perfect pecs and contagious smile;
vii & viii) The couple old enough to be my mum and dad who host suburban sex parties;
ix - xxxix) The various couples and single men who were due to attend the above couple's party;
xl & xli) The gregarious texting couple who we'd been messaging for a good couple of weeks;
xlii and xliii) The couple who would have loved to but were round some other couple's giving them a good seeing too;
xliv) The handsome bi man with a profile pic of him in what looks like a locker room.
XLIV of them then, forty-four for those of you who, quite rightly, never bothered to learn a dead numerology system. Of course, you can add to that list 'everybody else on the whole site', but the key to my moment taking stock is that these are the people we've been on the cusp of being - or actually were - face to face with.
Our strike rate, then, is 0 for 44. Not particularly major league stuff so far.
The glum engineer was in the first week. As T became more and more a fan of flaunting on cam to her army of tugging troops, she - the social soul she is - spoke to them via the keyboard as well as flashing flesh to take them to the edge. Our engineer replied regularly and soon a friendship of sorts seemed to develop between my wife and cock #16 on the cam. Mobile numbers were exchanged and a textual relationship was spawned.
As such, one morning as I folded towels and scrubbed down the hob, I was presented with the premise that T, the engineer and I should hook up. In a bar, perhaps, then up to a hotel room, maybe even heading back to his flat - it looked quite nice from what I could see over his shoulder and behind his busy hands on the webcam.
Fair enough, I suppose, but his big drawback was that he was adamant that he was very, very straight. Now, I'm not here to come out of the closet, but I really can't see the point in playing with a man if he's going to jump like a startled kitten if I accidentally rub elbows with him.
My mobile number was passed on to him, then, so I could put this point across. I promised I wasn't going to insist on coming in his hair, but gently stressed that I also wasn't that interested in a chap who just wanted to shag my wife while I watched - or better still, I imagine, left the room and sat in the bar with a nice book til it was all over. He accepted all this, but wouldn't be moved from his 'no touchee L' stance. 
Well, we wanted to break the duck, so we suggested enlisting a woman. Straight partner swap territory, you see. Not quite what I'm looking for, but it seemed the best we were going to get was me one end of the room with a pleasant bird, T rocking his world at the other.
And we gave it a go - which was where the doppelganger of T's old boss came in. She was sweet, clever, funny and she and I chatted on cam, then the phone - at which point I put our indecent proposal to her. She mulled it over for a few days and declined, saying she'd love to meet us, but wasn't that keen on going toe to toe with our new pet.
To give him his due, the engineer had a crack at lining up someone for me to pass the time with - the too-pretty 26-year-old. Her pictures painted her all sleek, olive-skinned beauty, pretty, long, flowing dark hair. We chatted with her about the arrangement on the site and she seemed keen enough. When push came to shove, though, she wouldn't commit and the doubts that whether our chap was a) paying her or b) had set up a dummy profile of a beautiful sex kitten who, surprise surprise, would have to pull out at the last minute, kicked in.
So we politely called it off, waiting a horrible 10 minutes for his texted reaction, then both sighed deeply in relief when he said that was all fine, maybe next time and, no, he wasn't going to hunt us down, decapitate us and wear our skin as a fetching hat. 
He hasn't been on the cam since. Hopefully, he's found a girlfriend.
Our engineer plus-one-TBC was tentatively arranged for a Friday night. Disappointed that we were to be home alone again, T put out feelers on the site and netted a meet with the Scottish ex-pats - to date the only fellow swingers we've met face to face.
We met at a nice bar, presumably all wearing nice undies, and chewed the fat for a while, exchanging tales of Glaswegian restaurants and warehouse orgies. They'd been to a few, it seemed to be their thing, but admitted neither of them had had sex with any strangers at them. He'd had his cock sucked a few times - even once by a chap, which was a relief after the relentless heterosexuality of the engineer - and she admitted to a dabble with a woman in a hot tub. 
But click, we didn't. Then T told them she didn't have any interest in girl on girl and the spark went out in his eyes - it had long gone in hers, unfortunately, despite my attempts at charm.
So we went home, picked up some wine on the way, T made a couple of cam-wankers come and then we shagged on cam to make sure everyone else had spilled what they needed to spill. So, at least we had a nice end to the evening, but still we'd not broken our duck.
Bull by the horns then and we applied for the party thing. In at the deep end doesn't quite cover it, so we came up with a plan to get our feet wet earlier. I had a late shift on the Thursday and the kids would be at school, so T would take a sickie and we'd get a couple or a single chap - T has made it clear that FFM is going to have to wait a while - round to our place and go all wham, bam, thank you ma'am on their asses before turfing them out at one o'clock and discussing the date over a nice lunch.
We put out an invitation for that scenario - and the applicants rolled in. Dozens of them - though in a sadly predictable way, all single men, no couples. Still, we vetted them and picked our favourites - mine was the beautiful Latino boy - but on the day, one of our brood was sick so the plug was pulled. 
Maybe that was for the best, we said afterwards. After all, were we ready yet to invite complete strangers to our homes? Especially ones who had nothing else to do on a Thursday morning.
So, the party loomed, but T has described that washout. Then the 'meet and greet' which served only to bring me to the most hideous pub I have ever had the misfortune to set foot in - and I've graced some real dives. In truth, I think if they'd picked a lovely bar, all floaty ambience, giggles and polite, charming staff, I'd've probably been up for going home with at least the gregarious couple we'd been messaging for a couple of weeks, if not all them. Yes, perhaps she didn't quite live up to her profile pictures, but she had a pretty face, was very blonde and, hey, had a nice pair of tits and an arse you could lose yourself in.
But no, we made it to the perfect bar - but alone, messaging the couple who were playing and the locker room chap on the off chance of adding extra flesh to our own in our lovely hotel room. Both replied the next morning, both would have been keen, but it seems planning is all if you're going to get what you want.
Still, ever onwards. It feels like we're getting closer, after all. 

Sunday, 8 July 2012

Cake forks


We're sitting outside on a coldish winter night, hugging our glasses of nasty white wine, wondering, not for the first time, what the hell we're doing here.
All around us, there's a wild party in progress, with girls in minute dresses, guys in stone washed jeans, the shouting and hollering of youth drowning out the slow fizzle of our evening in freefall.
We had escaped from the routine of our lives for one night, intent on moving away from the virtual hump of a webcam session to engaging in real live sex with a real live couple - or two.
We'd even bought new towels as instructed by the sex party hosts. Beautiful, teal coloured towels.
On the way to our hotel, L suggested we take a spin past the party venue.
Turning off the highway, we find ourselves in the kind of neighbourhood where bodies are buried under patios. The house itself is anonymous, the kind of home you'd expect to find an elderly couple eeking out their last days in. You'd guess at brown furniture and doilies inside, not the marble floors and understated luxury we'd been imagining for the past couple of days.
As we drive away, shivering slightly at the thought of the fate we could have endured, there's a disappointment for the party that now will never be, but still on optimism that, hey, we've got all night ahead of us. Who knows what might happen?
A text flashes up, as if by magic.
'Hey you guys are you free today lol?"
We'd been texting the couple we'd had our eye on via the site for a few weeks, and now it appeared that they, like us were kid-free, knicker-free, fancy free.
I text back saying we had been thinking of going to the party but thanks to the house looking like a mass murderer's lair, that was now a no go. Did they have any suggestions?
"Come along to the Moon and Piano, it's a meet and greet, and wear something sexy lol."
Trying to ignore the Tourettes serial lol-ling, we said that sounded good - we'd see them there after dinner.
We take time to get ready. L is in his new jeans and top, looking frankly hotter than I've ever seen him. I'm in a corset/lingerie thing with hot pink jeans. I'd sizzle if you touched me.
We catch the train into the city, walk around in a confused way thanks to L's GPS system having a laugh at our expense, before we find ourselves, staring with a growing sense of dread, at a monument to British bad taste masquerading as a pub.
The Moon and Piano is filling up quickly with the kind of people you would move away from in a train carriage. And here we are, right in the middle of them, wondering how our lives have reached this point. We're keeping an eye out for the couple, but so far nobody appears to fit the bill. We're also aware that somewhere in one of the pub's many rooms, people we've seen fondling themselves and spurting on screen are ordering spritzers and Coronas like normal people.
We've just spotted a card on the pub table which says, unhelpfully, that at 9pm, the furniture will be put away. It's 8.56pm.
Behind us, in one of the pub's cavernous rooms, currently showing a footy match on a floor to ceiling screen, there's a fat woman blowing up red balloons in the shape of hearts. Or it could be breasts. Hard to tell. We have a horrible feeling that she may be one of the members of our state's chapter of the site - one of the women we may have observed on webcam, from the chest up, head obscured. 
"Surely she can't be," says L. "She looks like a dinner lady."
We're beginning to feel the slow lurch of horror that this evening's much anticipated foray into the world of swingdom may not be the glamorous, beautiful people populated experience we'd hoped for.
The braying behind us increases as various candidates for Oddball of the Year turn up, embracing the dinner lady and her helmet-haired mate, determinedly holding a bunch of red breast balloons.
"This is the kind of pub we emigrated away from," I hear myself saying. 
It's a British-themed pub, complete with mock-Tudor fascia, Toby jugs and ugly Essex types propping up the bar.
"Maybe our couple will be OK," L says, his heart not really in it.
A text flashes up on my phone.
"Look out for the statuesque blonde and make a beeline for her lol."
We see a blonde all right but she's only statuesque in the sense that elephants are statuesque. 
"Fuck me, her profile picture must have been taken a while ago," says L, taking a desperate swig of wine.
"What do we do," I whisper. "If she looks like that, God knows what he looks like."
We begin to feel the first dry claws of panic set in. We're sitting very close to the gathering hoards of the 'meet and greet' rejects - all increasingly raucous as they dry hump each others' oversized thighs and ample breasts There's a small man, barely able to sit on the bar stool who I think I recognise. If only the men were naked, I'd feel more confident of their identities. 
"Hey guys where are you? Look for the red balloons lol."
We can see the red balloons, you fat fuck. And we're not going anywhere near them.
As we walk, then canter away from that pastiche of all that's wrong with England and swinging, we consider our options.
1. We have a hotel room for the night in a beautiful part of town.
2. We have money in our pocket.
3. We have an internet connection on our phones.
4. We have been contacted numerous times through the site by various rutting males (and a few hopeful couples), urging us to a. view their profile, b. call them up for a shag, c.enjoy a facial.
We regroup in a perfect little wine bar, free of breast-shaped balloons and, via the site, let the swinging world know we're on the prowl.
By now, thanks to a mood-dampening train journey to a different part of town, an impromptu serenade from a pissed bloke on that train, and a weird encounter with a crazy haired woman intent on discussing whether my jeans are jeggings or tights, it's 11pm.
The chances of us being snapped up by a wide-awake, willing, able and local Lothario or Lotharia are remote. 
We realise this is not the night, despite our long range planning - booking the hotel, arranging for the kids to be looked after, the excited lingerie and clothes purchases, the intense shaving excercise, the fucking teal towels - for us to lose our Aussie swinging cherries.
Sexy Land is as far away as it ever was.

Wednesday, 4 July 2012

Just enough thrust


So because L works nights I'm often in the chatroom on my own, either with the camera on, or watching from behind the annonymity of the profile pic we posted.
And quite often in lieu of L's presence, I'll be chatting to Cassie on FB as I peruse the goods on offer.
Here's a small example of a typical evening's discourse.

Me: There's a transvestite/transgender/whatever on the cam tonight . . . jesus

C: Shit. Old?

Me: Not sure - called 'Sally' lol. Hang on, what's going on here? FriendFUCK appears to be naked and wanking though it's hard to tell as that area is out of shot.

C: What's the tranny doing? Why am I so interested in the tranny?

Me; No cam so I can't see. Just an odd profile pic of a man in a dress. FUCK is typing in a twattish sort of way, all fingers and thumbs.

C: Lol

Me: He's standing on his bed. Wanking. It's fucking hilarious. I wish you could see it. I wonder why he's doing that? I haven't put my cam on so he can't see me. He's essentially performing to an empty auditorium.

C: So you can see his gear of course!

Me: FUCK - it's the size of a child's arm!

C: woah

Me: That ain't coming anywhere near me . . . He has an impressive six pack however if I can just avoid taking my eye out on that giant thing. He's still wearing socks. Oh no, I was wrong. They're Uggs. Naked. Apart from Uggs. 

C: Uggs?

Me:He's just typed "I'd rather be looking at a pussy, than eating it out". I don't understand what that has to do with anything. 

C: Is he done yet?

Me: Nope. He appears to be thrusting now. He's licking the screen. May vom.

Despite all of the above there's enough entertainment to make me return night after night. Am beginning to question why.

Monday, 2 July 2012

Taking a dip


Major excitement. We've booked a bed and breakfast so that we can go to our first sex party.

An older couple (in their 60s) posted an event on the site, inviting interested parties to lobby them for an invitation to one of their 'encounters' - something they appear to host on a relatively regular basis. God knows what the neighbours must think, as various couples turn up, park on the median strip, and totter into the respectable pensioners' 4 x 2 in various states of undress.

I imagine the encounter will involve the guests sitting around in the giant spa, drinking shots and who knows what else.

"You can go into separate rooms if you like," they wrote. "We try not to impose any rules beyond the fact we insist everybody treats each other respect." So no shouting "Suck this, bitch", then.

After a bit of email to-ing and fro-ing, we were told we had made the cut and were urged to bring our own booze, as well as 'towels'. Somehow the request to bring towels dampens the sexual ardour somewhat.

I'm fervently hoping it won't just be me and L who turn up because I'm not sure I could do a 60+ bloke, no matter how magnificent his spa is.

"What does one wear to a sex party," I email Cassie. She's busy at work so doesn't reply. I'm thinking it should probably be pretty slutty gear, but I'm only basing this on my relatively limited knowledge of porno movies in the 'gang bang' genre. These mostly seem to involve a plump German frau being humped in an industrious fashion by moustachioed Claus and his mates. 

Sometimes the women are wearing just stockings and shiny red stilettos. Sometimes they'll be wearing a complicated looking corset with ribbons and attachments which, knowing my luck, would get caught in the spa filter resulting in an awkward 'encounter' with the rescue services.

As we're staying in a local b and b, L and I thought we'd take our time to get ready in a leisurely way rather than rushing from home, with the sound of our mewling children still ringing in our ears.

In the meantime, L suggested I take a sickie tomorrow. "We could invite someone round," he said. "From ten til one, and then go to the Dome for brunch."

Brunch swinging. The new cool.

Camera on, macintosh


There was a woman on the cam the other day who kept producing various masks, scarves and coats for our viewing entertainment. Not sexy ones - although she was pretty and wearing nice underwear, her add-ons were things like hockey masks, duffle coats and the like. I have no deep insights into this, but I just thought it made for a good, if a bit obvious, post title.

Sunday, 1 July 2012

Daytime telly


T leaves early for work in the morning, out and gone before sunlight has clocked in at this time of year. My hours are far more sociable - unpredictable and with no real pattern, but never wanting me at my desk before noon.

I, then, have the gift of regular mornings to myself, during term time at least. The pay-off is that the drudgery of chores falls in my lap - school run to start then an unwritten agreement that I will return the house to some kind of vacuumed and polished order before T returns with the brood after a long day doing what she does. Hey, it's the 21st century, there's no room nowadays for traditional gender roles. I need to be as adept at loading the dishwasher and washing machine, mopping floors and changing sheets as any 1950s housewife or our little corner of domesticity would quickly fall into disarray.

There is, of course, downtime. As much as I appreciate the heavy workload of the stay-at-home parent, I'm also aware of the benefits of their autonomy. Self-management is the key, so you get to pick your break times, work at your own pace, meaning that if I fancy downing tools and having some, to use the popular, overused parlance, 'me-time', I can.

I, then, get to read more books, have my hair cut more regularly and catch up with correspondence more than T. And now that we're back in the swinging game, I get to spark up the computer and delve into the world of the site on my own.

Only, I don't.

I did, of course, during the first couple of days. After a night enjoying the benefits of a new toy that moves you to new, exciting sexual landscapes, the temptation to dabble a bit on my own was strong. And I hold the carte blanche negotiated through the agreement that T and I will always let each other know what we're doing - this is not knocking out a sly one to youporn and then deleting your history afterwards, this, suddenly, is part of our sex life.

So after the first couple of nights, I'd punch in our details and nose around, check messages, answer flirts. I even dropped in on the chatroom to see what was going on.

In the cold light of day, however, our portal to new sexual realms looks like your favourite late-night bar at ten in the morning. Yes, it's still the same place, but the chairs are up, the lights are on and the remnants of last night's hedonism are strewn across the floor waiting for the disenchanted cleaner to shuffle in and tidy them away. It's a 24-hour bar, of course, so there are still punters propping up the bar, but with the watery winter sunshine creeping through its dusty windows, the ambience has simply left the building.

The cam chatroom has a good three dozen souls logged into it. There's even a couple of couples in there - one of which actually has, glory of glory, a woman sitting alongside her man. He's naked, leisurely stroking his semi-hard cock, she is half dressed. They're attractive, but she looks bored when she does peer into the screen. When she gets up and leaves shot, I imagine she's probably gone to fetch a nice cup of tea rather than a frightening, jewel-encrusted sex toy. The other couple is a man in a hoody and tracksuit bottoms. His missus is nowhere to be seen, but I give him the benefit of the doubt that he does actually have one.

There are a sprinkling of single women too, but all bar one have their cameras off. She though is quite pretty, dark haired, late 20s and is peppering the chat with suggestive come-ons. But then she takes out a home-made bong and takes a long hit. The spell, for me at least, is broken.

The rest are single men, about a third of them cammed-up. They range from staring, fully dressed browsers, to naked slow-strokers, to full-on, hard as the Krays, wankers. Just what the latter section are getting off on evades me, but each to their own.

And then I realise that, because I have my cam on, right now I fall into the single men category. Yes, I'm not showing the world how I have one off the wrist, but I'm no longer that lucky bastard who gets to feel up the beautiful T, the one that everyone knows is actually going to get some tonight. I am, without her, just one of the sea of single men staring at a screen, hoping something sexy will happen. 

So I log out. That's so not where I want to be.

Suddenly, though, I realise the pull this new distraction has for T and am sure that the cold light of day would be considerably warmer if I had the power she has. If could log on, sit at a cam in just my boxers and have a dozen women, some dressed, some naked, some already furiously masturbating, stumble out one-handed messages urging me to unleash the beast, then perhaps daytime cam might be a better break than coffee, toast and marmalade.

But, no, that's not going to happen. The site's magic doesn't work for me when I'm not me and T. Anyway, I've got to hang the washing out and iron a shirt for work.

Saturation point


It's probably appropriate at this point for me to introduce my best friend, Cassie, to you.
She is a pleasing combination of all that's right about being blonde with a bit of brunette sass thrown in for good measure. When I started texting her about what L and I were getting up to, her replies were on the sad side.

Marooned in the sidings of a partnership gone staid, she listened longingly (if listened is the right word to receiving a barrage of overexcited texts from me) as the enormous leap in my sexual activity with L via the swing site became apparent.

She even probably got off on it a bit, which may have been the reason when, out of the blue, an old flame tapped her up on FB, she wasn't exactly unresponsive.
However even she would probably be the first to admit that his enthusiasm to get back in touch was, even by her experienced standards, of the overly horned variety.

Her texts became increasingly extremely fruity.
"I just told him that I had to finger bash myself before I went to get waxed so I didn't come on the beautician's hands. Cum shot!"

Apart from the fact I'd never heard of the phrase 'finger bash' before that exact moment, you've got to admire the girl's style.

Her guy specialised in bringing himself to a crescendo, so to speak, by sexting Cassie over and over again.

"I've had another one," she said, referring to a pic on her phone from FB guy. "This time with cream on top."

I may puke, I wrote.

"Well I'm not puking, I'm a walking, saturated hot fucking mess. I can't handle it."

This wasn't exactly true. Moments later she texted to say she'd told him to rub his cock along her back - a virtual request as they aren't even in the same city, but cute all the same. She was very much in control of her text fuck, with just a few carefully place flicks of the finger.

"He's at work and about to cum I think, ha ha," she said.

It's not all finger bashing and fruit salad. Unfortunately Cassie is discovering that her refound beau ain't exactly Shakespeare.

"Dude I'm so bored with him already," she wrote. "This morning's conversation went like this: 'morning', 'morning', 'I'm licking your slit right now'. 'Boss is here, gotta go'. Lol"

Later on that night I sent her a text, as I was enjoying the rapt attention online once more of men in their 20s to one in his 50s who disconcertingly held up his iPhone to the screen to snap me - delete, delete!

"I am the queen of all strangers cocks," I wrote, lapping it up.

A little later she wrote "My tins. Rock." This was quickly followed by "Damn you, predictive text."
Her tins, however, were indeed hot - as L and I witnessed thanks to a grainy pic she sent through.

You know you're in Sexy Land when of an evening your best mate sends you a porno shot of their tits and you flick one back for their interest too.

Five Alive


It's been a while since I've had sex five times in one night. Back in the day, when I was a young man learning my trade, it was de rigeur. In fact, I went for quantity alongside my quality whether I liked it or not, the competitiveness of youth pushing me on to make sure I left the arena with as close as a perfect six from my opposite number as possible.

And, of course, when T and I met, our attraction was based as much on shagging long into the night as it was on talking til sunrise. The gradual progression from lover to partner to parent to spouse, though, took its toll on the run-rate, so marathons went from rare to virtually non-existence.

A brief Indian summer blossomed during our short dallience with the UK swing scene - a couple of the successful encounters had me back in the big leagues - but when that petered out T and I settled into the familiar low-impact lovelife common among people of our type.

But on Tuesday, I was back. It was T who told me we'd hit five as we added a sixth before she left for work the next morning and I braced for the school run with a slightly smug smile.
We didn't even start the first til close on 11pm. I was on a late shift at work, a dull one, the kind that would normally have had me staring into space or internet banking. Throughout the latter part of this one, however, T was in front of the cam, toying with her audience, dressed in tiny, pretty things that apparently didn't always stay on. 

I knew that, because text updates of her evening kept me in the loop.
When I finally left my desk, then, I had to hide my half hard-on and force myself not to break too many traffic laws as I fled home.

But once back, I found myself cooling my boots - not through a dampened ardour, but due to the sudden realisation that our bedroom was in the public domain. So, instead of bursting in and directing my cock straight into her mouth, I went first to the family bathroom to freshen up.

I straightened my tie, smoothed down my hair, cleaned my teeth and took a deep breath before entering our once-private hideaway in what I hoped was an appropriately cool way. 

T wasn't at the desk, she wasn't on the cam, her show was over. She was waiting on the bed, wanting to talk about the site, about her night.
I coughed, readjusted myself and tried not to let the embarrassment at having thought I'd need to slip into the green room before saying hello to my wife be too obvious.

Saturday, 30 June 2012

The 1st Saturday


I'm sitting in my underwear, with the webcam running, as half a dozen strange men wank themselves to varying levels of frenzied excitement, and all because they are watching me. 
I know this because as the webcam goes on and I appear in a live stream, their webcam icons appear in the column that denotes they are following my every move.
It's the most powerful I've felt in a long time. 

All eyes are on me, as L and I kiss, his hand slipping under my bra. I keep turning back to see what's happening with the cocks. There are various versions of wanking going on from the frantic, oh-god-it's-going-to-come-off, to the leisurely fondling of the lazy lob-on.

They're all writing to us too, suggesting things L should do to me, what they'd like to do to me themselves if only they were in the room with us. They say it in secret, so only we can see, and it's all I can do to keep my mind on typing as L makes my heart beat increasingly faster.
I'm thinking for the first time in my entire life that I'm about to take my clothes off - all of them - on camera, in front of a bunch of strangers.

There are women in the chat room too. I don't care about them. All I want is the men's attention solely on me. And for now, that's what I've got.

"Take your knickers down, slowly," says M-crike67.
"L, make her suck your cock," says M-lookib4pussy.
"T, how wet are you?" says another.

I look at L who by now is hard as a rock, who nods and moves behind me.

I stand up and attempt to take them off in a style which I hope is something approaching sexy. It's been a long time since I've taken my knickers off in any way other than thinking 'well, that's another thing that needs to go in the wash'. I try to think like a porn star. It works. The hands begin to move faster on the screens, as we click from webcam to webcam, trailing each guy's progress.

I haven't wanted sex this much since the day I met L. There are no second thoughts. I'm bending over, holding onto the desk, my face filling the screen of our webcam, my hair falling about my shoulders, onto the tips of my nipples. L fucks me from behind and the men go into freefall, cumming one after another, a tsunami of jizz caught on film. 

I'm laughing now, singing to Coldplay as L bangs me harder, harder until we both cum together.
The adulation from those who watched is the reason why I'll be on the site tomorrow. It's better than sex. Almost.


The night we actually registered wasn't golden. We'd had a long day of doing the things married people with children do, pleasant and fulfilling as always, but laced with exhaustion and tedium. 

The long list of boxes ticked, T and I had sat in the backyard, opened wine and tried to ignore the elephant in the carport politely pointing out that the rest of the evening was unlikely to hold much in the way of kicks. 

Our lives are full, you see, but full of work and children and duties - cars to get serviced, bills to be paid, plumbers to organise. As itineraries go, it's chocka. So chocka, however, that there's not much room for us to do us things.

We did, of course, love our lives. The big picture, the long term was a thing of domestic beauty. We loved being parents and we loved our jobs - so naturally when we finally got to be alone together for a few hours our conversation would revolve around one or the other. 

That night it was work. The subject of pipe-dreams came up and I offered that a literary exploration of swinging could make quite a good read.

We had history in the game - not years of experience, but a brief dabble in the UK a year or two before we upped sticks for Australia.

As the suggestion left my lips I feared a stern scowl, but instead T's eyes lit up. That, she said, eyes bright, the glaze of domestic mundanity briefly lifted, was a great idea. 

So we opened more wine, logged on, found a site, mixed vodka and tonics, registered, took a profile picture, drank a bit more, created our profile and sent our credit card details into the ether. 

Throughout, there was excited touching, celebratory gropes and titillating kisses, but, alas, there was also just too much booze as our fervour rose. As such, when we were ready to roll, I stumbled to the outside fridge for more wine, tripped on a darkness-hidden pushbike, fell and cut my lip. 

By the time my drunken mind had managed to get its drunken body to what was needed to stem the blood flow and I'd made it back to T, the mix of vintages she'd consumed had sent her into a deep, dreamless sleep. I'd collapsed into bed next to her and followed suit.

The next morning, we were registered swingers, but we were registered swingers with hangovers and kids demanding the things they demand early on Sunday mornings. And I had a cut lip. 

The site, then, was pushed to the back boiler and sat there, unvisited, for three or four months.

Until yesterday.

It was a carbon copy of the Saturday above, save one moment. Mid afternoon, as I was juggling chores and children, T passed me in the hall. She said simply: "I think we should do the swinging thing tonight." 

We'd had a dull Friday night - she'd just finished her first week in a new job and had been exhausted. We'd had a couple of glasses of wine and watched telly. She'd gone to bed, I'd followed an hour or so later. We hadn't had sex. In truth we hadn't had sex that week. 

Yesterday, then, had begun looking like another Saturday of waiting to collapse, another turn on the relentless carousel of married with young children. But those nine words changed everything. 

My answer was just "that would be nice", but the rest of the day was lighter, easier. We had an evening to look forward to, to work towards.

The house was settled by nine. Our bedroom was tidy, pretty, candle-lit, with lilies in a vase on the chest of drawers. T's beautiful work iMac hummed into life, its glow gently wafting round the room. We pulled two chairs up to the desk and logged on. 

There were messages, unanswered, a flood of them from the days after we appeared among the list of people like us that wanted to do the things that, frankly, most people deep down want to do too. 

They quickly petered out, presumably because they'd all been met with a stony silence, but once our logged-on icon lit up, greetings appeared, then a flirt, then a message. Yes, a message - from a silouette of a man with only six words to offer, but a message nonetheless. 

And then T found the webcam.

It was very, very late when we finished. By then I had revelled in strangers watching me kiss my beautiful wife, watching her touch and caress me, watching us get more and more excited. 

We'd chatted, had music on too loud, drunk and laughed. Our webcam had witness me undress her, nudged on by a sea of suggestions from cyberspace. It had sent out to the world the moment when she undressed me, when she took my cock into her mouth, when I fucked her from behind over the desk. 

I hadn't been so hard, so excited, in years. And I'd lost myself in just how wet and full of desire the woman I love was.

Our finale saw us heft the computer to the end of the bed and screw each long, loud and hard. God knows what the webcam was broadcasting, by then it was all about us fucking. I'm not even sure that we logged out. 

If we didn't the Apple's eye would have just gazed on us sleeping, until that moment when I woke up - this time with no bloody lip, just a hard, hard cock aching to find my wife again.