Cake forks

Tinka

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.

Just enough thrust

Tinka

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.

Taking a dip

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Camera on, macintosh

Luke

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.

Daytime telly

Luke

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

Tinka

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

Luke

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.