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.