You walk cautiously towards the door, pausing briefly before the long mirror on your left. A fusion of fear and excitement ripples through your body. You carefully smooth down your full-length velvet skirt and brush a couple of stray hairs away from your face.
Ready or not, here I come.
You open the door.
The attractive couple standing outside smile warmly, if a little hesitantly. They appear just as they did when you met them for a couple of drinks in a bar on the edge of the city. The woman’s long, blonde hair cascades about her shoulders, shimmering in the lights in the hallway. Her blue eyes are liquid cobalt.
You invite them inside. Their appreciation for the suite is evident, and gratifying. You lead them into the living area; your husband rises from one of the leather couches to greet your guests. He pours drinks – vodka on the rocks for him, a large gin and tonic for her – and then refreshes your Black Russian. You swallow more greedily, grateful for its sweet strength. You will it to quell your nerves, to free your passions.
You sit, free now to talk openly, to explore – verbally, at least – your mutual desires. The setting is perfect: the lights low, the music soft and sensual, the lights of the dusk city shimmering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The alcohol is working, its liquid warmth coursing through you.
Darkness blooms outside.
Tentatively, secret longings are revealed. There is no condemnation, no scorn. Just a patent need to listen. You shift in your seat, the words beginning to stir your flesh. You can feel heat gathering between your thighs; your sex feels moist, swollen, stifled within the confines of your black panties. A part of you wishes that you had left them off.
You glance across the room at her. She wears a dark blue full-length dress, buttoned down the length of its front. As the eroticism of your conversation grows, you notice her slowly uncross her legs, seemingly unaware that she has parted her dress to mid thigh. Her legs are bare, her skin the same cafe-au-lait colour as your own. You find yourself mesmerised, staring at her flesh, imagining the hidden mystery of her sex, unable to stop yourself from wondering how she will look, feel, taste.
You draw yourself out of your reverie. As you look up at her face, your eyes meet hers. She has been watching you watching her. She smiles with warmth and a hint of coyness. You smile back, your cheeks burning. Your sex is hot and wet now, no pretending otherwise. You yearn for the touch of slender, knowing fingers.
Whenever you have fantasised about this, you have often wondered how the encounter would begin. Would each couple start to kiss, to touch, as the sexual tension built to the point where it could no longer be contained? Would one couple be bolder, begin to caress and undress for their audience, until the watchers could not resist joining in? Would she make a direct approach to you, or would be seduced by the occasion into crossing the room to her?
In the end, it is something else entirely.
Your husband cups your cheek in his palm, turns your face towards his. His kiss is warm, firm without being rough. His tongue teases your lips, coaxes your own tongue into the swirling dance.
As you melt, his hand slips onto your thigh, over your flat belly and onto the soft swell of your left breast. He cups it carefully, almost reverently. You arch yourself slightly, pressing your taut nipple against his hand. Unconsciously, your thighs drift apart, your sex eager to be caressed, to be kissed.
Instead, he breaks the kiss, stands up, offers you his hand. You accept it, confused as he guides you to your feet and leads you into the middle of the room.
His eyes locked with yours, he begins unbuttoning your blouse. One button, two, three, four, five … you count each release, then stiffen slightly as he opens the blouse wide, slips it from your shoulders, slides it down your arms. Your skin prickles with goose bumps and you half-suppress a delicious shiver of expectation, as you are undressed before two virtual strangers.
You glance down at yourself. Your stiff nipples are obvious behind the semi-diaphanous cups of your black basque. When you look back up, it is to see both of your guests watching you intently. Her gaze holds yours, and as it does so, the tip of her tongue traces the edges of her mouth, and she slips her hand onto her husband’s thigh and grips it tightly. You watch as she slides her hand higher, until it rests atop his loins. You can only stare entranced as she slowly eases the zip on his trousers downwards, as she reaches inside his open fly and draws out his stiffening cock. It is impressive: a thick, heavily veined shaft and a broad crimson head. She rings the shaft with thumb and forefinger, and you see with a flood of excitement that she cannot bring her digits to meet about his tumescence. She draws the circle languidly upwards, and a pearl of pre-come appears at the very tip of his glans. Your breathing catches as she smears the liquid across his burnished flesh with a fingertip, then raises the same finger to her mouth and slips it inside.
Her eyes never leave yours.
You shiver, once, twice, three times. It is her kiss, her touch, that you ache for … and yet there is some dark, secret recess of your mind that wonders what his prick would feel like in your hand, what his nectar would taste like on your tongue, how it would feel to have that thick cock parting your cunt.
As you continue to watch her stroking her husband’s cock, you feel your husband’s hands busy with the fastenings of your skirt. He stands behind you as he unzips it, easing it past your hips, leaving gravity to carry it down your legs in a soft hush, with a delicious hiss of cotton against silk.
Both of your guests smile lasciviously at the sight of your outfit. Black basque, black panties, sheer stockings and black leather ankle boots. When you were dressing, your husband said you looked like Emma Peel, attired as the Queen of Sin in the Hellfire Club episode of The Avengers. You told him not to be stupid, but it was all you could do to deter his amore. Now, given the slavish way your guests are looking up at you, you permit yourself the conceit of thinking that your husband may have been more right than wrong. It is a thought that empowers you, emboldens you.
Your husband stands close behind you, cupping your breasts, running his palms across your belly, tracing the protuberant outline of your sex. With great deliberateness, he draws your panties to one side, revealing the neat triangle of hair you had shaped especially for tonight. Then he goes further, opening your labia with one hand, revealing the glistening moistness within. As he circles your aching clitoris with his fingertip, he speaks directly to the blonde.
“I want to give my wife to you,” he says in a low voice. “For a while.”
The blonde smiles at you again, all coyness gone. She gets to her feet and begins walking slowly towards you, unbuttoning her dress as she comes….