Renée chatted with several guests and the wardens as we waited until 9am; it was a relaxed environment with runners travelling from Edinburgh, London, Bristol and Belfast for the unique event.
Three women were present, but none had chosen anything like Renée’s attire. The four dozen prisoners cast glances towards her as she stretched, bending over a few metres away from their gaze.
The moment the warden started the race, Ben sprinted from the start line, after lining up at the very front. Renée grinned as she sauntered forward, counting under her breath while her hips swayed with a lazy languor. A pair of older prisoners – tailwalkers – stayed behind us, eyes glued to the bounce of her ponytail and the way her shorts clung to her buttocks with each step. “One fifteen … one sixteen … one seventeen … one eighteen … one nineteen … wish me luck!” she said to me as she broke into a run.
Ben had already completed two-thirds of a lap, leading the group by a significant distance. Renée exploded forward, her bare thighs flashing as she tore down the course with blistering speed. I could not keep pace with her, and I watched her ponytail bounce as she chased down her pen pal. The prisoners’ ragged cheers rose around us as my girlfriend overtook panting runners, working her way through the field.
Slower attendees held her up; she needed to overtake them, and I watched a couple of inmates move to “unintentionally” block her path as she came up behind them.
They supported their cellmate and tried to slow Renée down, but she weaved between them, adding minimal impact to her race.
Ben overtook me on the third lap, panting with desperate, laboured breaths. Suffering as he stretched his body beyond its limits.
Renée was gaining on him; she flashed past me less than fifty seconds later, making swift work of the course as the thin fabric of her running shorts clung to her glistening skin, darkened with sweat.
All eyes watched the hunt; on the last lap, Ben had a slight lead over my chasing girlfriend. And Renée was relentless. Every time she got closer, there were more runners and traffic. They parted for their fellow inmate; they inhibited my lover.
But she closed the gap inch by inch—her thin white shorts clinging to her curves as they neared the finish line.
“Push yourself,” she barked to her rival, drawing less than a metre behind him as they dashed to the wardens timing the event.
Everyone watched; although most did not know the reason the pair raced, the drama captured their attention. Shouts from across the yard, willing Ben to win, as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. He stumbled, allowing Renée to draw side-by-side.
Renée’s outstretched fingers brushed Ben’s damp shirt as she fought to find a last surge of pace. Sprinting to the line. The hollers and shouts became louder as he lunged forward, flinging himself between the timekeepers a fraction of a second ahead of the chasing exhibitionist.
Ben collapsed onto the grass, gasping for air, as he stared straight into the sky, swearing as he panted. Renée stood beside him, smiling as his wide eyes took in her sweaty, skimpy apparel. “You did good,” she said, holding her hand out for him to take. “Claim our times?”
My lover pulled him from the floor; the pair of them were over two minutes quicker than anyone else, and they approached a warden with the scanner. “Congratulations,” he remarked. “Twenty two, ten. You beat your personal best by almost sixty seconds,” he said to the young man.
Ben, still panting, grinned at the news. Renée laughed. “Wow! Told you I’d make you run faster.” She patted him on the buttocks of his black shorts as they stood in front of the warden. Her soaked bra plastered to her chest, running briefs clinging indecently as he recorded their times, and they walked to a small trestle table with plastic beakers of water for the runners.
She passed him a cup. “Drink. You’ll be dehydrated.” Her fingers lingered on his as he took it, and she noticed the eyes of a warden watching the pair of them.
It was an unusual situation, and as part of the rules for the event, the non-prisoners were not supposed to fraternise or connect extensively with the inmates, except for some brief interactions. They took their water, walking towards the finish line to cheer the runners on the home straight.
Not that Renée cared much for the regulations. “You must let me know what happens when you go back to your cell,” she told him as they strolled across the grass. “I want you to tell me. And write to us with the release dates. Presume you’ll be at home.”
He hummed. “Mum’s not keen on me staying, and I don’t like the guy she lives with. Or he doesn’t like me. The flat’s not big enough for all of us. And she thinks I’ll be a bad influence on my sisters. But she’s let me put her address down on the form. They’ll tell me this week if I’ve got HDC.”
“HDC?”
“Home detention curfew,” he said, cheering as his cellmate crossed the line.
“You win?” he panted.
“Yeah,” Renée replied for him. “Beat me by a good second.”
“Nice one, fella!”
Ben blushed, smiling as he got a rough slap on the back from his fellow inmate.
Most of the prisoners did the same, congratulating the young man on his victory. I shook Ben’s hand. “You’re the first guy who’s kept up with her wildness,” I joked. I lowered my voice. “We’ll see you in a couple of weeks?”
He gulped, nodding. “Yeah. Hope so.”
We waited, chatting to the other runners and prisoners. Renée gave each guy a hug when we were ready to leave, squeezing Ben’s butt as she wrapped her arms around him. He copped a feel too.
Then, with a wink, she sauntered off toward the gate, swaying her hips deliberately, her shorts gripping her buttocks with every step.
I should have felt outrage and anger about her behaviour. Any other boyfriend would have been furious, and we’d been together for over two years as she flaunted, teased and offered herself to the young man.
But I was excited and energised. Eager for the fortnight to fly past until the errant prisoner would feel the sexual touch of my wild Renée.
We drove back in near silence, lost in our thoughts. “You know,” she mused as we pulled into the little car park of the B&B. “Ben didn’t just beat his time. He obliterated it. That boy had serious motivation. He ran like his life depended on it.” She twisted in her seat, grinning at me. “And now he’s in his cell. Probably thinking about my shorts riding up. I hope his wrists are as strong as his hamstrings.”
She giggled, but as soon as we entered our hotel room, she tackled me onto the bed. Her lips pressed against mine, disrobing as we kissed.
Inflamed and impassioned. Wild and visceral, she whimpered as her mouth moved down my body, swallowing my prick and bringing me up to hardness.
Renée needed scant effort; she had my cock straining in seconds, her tongue swirling with practised precision before she climbed atop me, her wetness coating my shaft. Her thighs trembled as she rode me, her sweat-slicked skin catching the mid-morning light filtering through the lace curtains.
She groaned, rolling her hips in circles. “Did you see his face when I touched him?” Her hands pressed against my chest as she looked directly into my expression. “He’s probably knocking one off right now, imagining me just like this. God, I felt how hard he was through those shorts when we said goodbye.”
Her words pushed me closer to the edge, as her teasing always did. I gripped her thighs, holding her still as I bucked into her. The thought of another man locked in a cell, fist pumping furiously to the memory of Renée’s sweat-slicked body, sent a jolt through me. My grip held her waist, pulling her down harder with each thrust. “Not yet,” she growled.
Renée leaned backwards, her hands braced against my knees, rolling her hips in firm circles against my prick – slow, then torturously fast for long enough to bring me towards my peak. And then slower to back off.
Teasing, making me desperate. She smirked down at me, her breathing ragged. “You’re picturing him watching, aren’t you? Standing at the foot of the bed, stroking himself while I ride you?”
I grunted, pressing my finger against her clit. “Fuck,” I muttered, feeling her cunt tighten around my cock.
“Poppy’ll get him ready for me. Her lips are sliding over his dick, and mine’ll be soon enough.” Renée’s words sent an electric thrill through me as she voiced her dark fantasy, arching her back and riding me harder. “God, I want to taste his prick, feel it, play with it. I want him to fill my mouth, touch my pussy, my tits. I want him to come over me.”
She bounced her body up and down, grinding her wetness against my shaft, gasping as I frigged her clit. “Fuck, Renée!”
She stared at me; edging me towards the point of no return. “And one day, you’re going to let him screw me, aren’t you?” Her nails dug into my thighs as she leaned backward. “Watch him stretch me open, fill me up and make me orgasm around his filthy prick.” The fantasy spilled from her lips, as her cunt pulsed and squeezed, teasing me.
I groaned, bucking upward, needing my release, but she lifted herself off me, denying me my pleasure. “Not yet,” she panted, crawling forward to straddle my face. “Eat me first.” She lowered her musky, sweaty wetness onto my mouth, smothering me with her taste. Her thighs trembled as I worked her clit with my tongue, her moans pitched higher with each flick. “Oh God, just like that …” Her body arched violently, her cunt clenching as she came with a shuddering cry.
Before I could catch my breath, she slid off my face and met my gaze, holding her sweaty Lycra briefs. “Now close your eyes,” she demanded, pressing her musky underwear against my face. “Fuck me,” she ordered, sliding onto my prick. “But imagine Poppy, Angelica, or anyone else.” She said, rolling her hips in slow circles.
Her arousal smeared across my face, her taste and her scent filled my nostrils as she ground against me.
“You’re going to have them soon, aren’t you? And let me have Ben! Imagine it, Honey.” Her filthy words slammed into my imagination as she held her running briefs to my face; I couldn’t see anything, but I smelt her lust as she bounced on my prick, riding me.
In my mind, I saw Poppy slamming onto my cock with her cherub-like grin and bouncing bosom, in place of my partner. “Oh, fuck!” I squealed, bucking my hips as she writhed on me, eliciting the most powerful orgasm I’d had for months.
My body spasmed, flooding Renée’s tightness with cum as she milked my prick, before she pulled her garment from my face, temporarily blinding me. “God, that was incredible.” She murmured, her breath ragged against my neck. “You came so hard.” Her eyes met mine. “Did you imagine Poppy or Angelica, or someone else?”
I blushed a little. “Some absolute filth bag called Renée,” I lied as she rolled onto the bed, and we embraced. Too exhausted and too lazy to move, and enjoying the warm sunshine streaming through the window.
We had a lovely day in the national park before driving down the country to London. Renée had a running race on Sunday, and I travelled to see my children for my youngest’s birthday.
But then it became our usual madcap week; my girlfriend would leave the house at 6am and arrive home around 8pm. She needed food, coffee and sex, and I’d provide all three of her basic needs.
Our intimacy varied; she rarely mentioned or teased me about Poppy or Ben, saving those comments until we had hours to play. I signed up to multiple “swinging” or “wife-sharing” forums and found a range of dynamics, reading lots of experiences and stories. It was a road that Renée wanted to travel down, and despite my initial reticence, I had become curious.
Some couples adopted a cuckold or wittol relationship, where the promiscuous “hotwife” denied her partner sexual relief but sought multiple lovers, often publicising her infidelity and humiliating the husband. Penis size, poor bedroom performance and many sexualised weaknesses were used to degrade and punish the submissive man.
The stag/vixen partnership is where the female partner, or vixen, explores heterosexual experiences with the consent of her husband or boyfriend, the stag. These had similarities to cuckolding, but involved more respect and would be more of a “wife-sharing” agreement than anything humiliating or degrading.
Swinging, where couples swap partners or engage in group sex for mutual pleasure and excitement, centred on the couple, where both receive carnal release and enjoyment.
The forums fascinated me, with so many dynamics and dozens of possibilities. Renée was desperate for me to screw other women, but I didn’t know how I’d feel about seeing her in the arms of another. I also did not want to lose her, and the online threads were a minefield of warnings and missteps. There were multiple examples of relationships ending in divorce and recriminations. But that’s true of all partnerships; there was always a risk that it wouldn’t last the distance.
On Wednesday, my girlfriend received a letter, and she read it out while I dished up our tea.
Dear Renée,
Thank you for coming up on Saturday. It was a wonderful surprise, and I loved seeing you. Your outfit blew us away, and your offer really inspired me to finish my best run. I am writing this on Monday morning, and the entire wing has spent the last two days talking about your attendance and your running gear.
Most of the guys have come to my cell to ask about you. Your photographs have been inspirational, and I keep being told that you are too good for me. You said that you wanted to know, but I think every guy who ran on Saturday has imagined you, and your raunchy photos have helped us all. You have legendary status on the wing, and I have recounted the past six weeks dozens of times.
I’ve thought about your shorts riding up. About the hug you gave me. About Poppy’s lips and your body, and what you promised. I end up hard every time I imagine it. And I’m not alone.
Today, they told me that my HDC has been approved! I am going to be released in ten days on Thursday, and I have to report for probation the day after. My curfew means I need to be at my Mum’s flat from 7pm to 7am, but otherwise, I’ll be free to come and go. I don’t have a phone. I’ve put Mum’s address at the bottom of this letter. Your offer was very generous, and I have thought about nothing else since Saturday. I hope you’ll still want to see me when I am out.
But I have to be honest, I’m nervous. I’ve never understood what you saw in me, especially as your boyfriend is so great. I think I’ll disappoint you. In the bedroom, I have never been naked or with a proper woman before, and certainly no-one like you. Confident, beautiful, and successful. The thought of Poppy being there makes me so excited and aroused, but I know I won’t last. Please tell me what you want from me, as I want to make sure I do everything right.
On the other side, on the first run you did here, there were twenty-two prisoners who did it. There were sixty-eight on Saturday, and there will now be a waiting list. This is the Renée effect. We all want a taste of normality, away from these four walls. And you will never realise how much influence you’ve already had on me. My local college has a part-time accountancy and bookkeeping course, and I have applied for it. Your letters and photos have helped me in the past couple of months. I’ve had more communication from you than from my family.
Your boyfriend is a lucky man, and I’m envious of him. But I am eternally grateful to have met you both.
Kindest regards,
Ben
Renée read the home address of Ben’s mother; the suburb was a dozen miles from our house, but the areas couldn’t be more different. “He won’t get very far in life staying around there,” she mused. “And he’s terrified he’ll disappoint me. The poor boy doesn’t realise I don’t want or expect perfection. I want fun and desperation.”
She folded the letter neatly, placing it into the envelope. “I’ll write back tomorrow,” she said, sipping her tea. “Tell him he has nothing to worry about. I don’t care if he lasts ten seconds or thirty minutes the first time. As long as he enjoys himself.” She smiled at me. “And I need to arrange for a phone.”
I gestured to the drawer under the television. “There are bloody loads of old phones there.”
My partner licked her lips. “Small favour. Can you send one to him?” I scoffed, reminding her that sending a mobile phone to a prison – where they are expressly prohibited – was not a wise move.
I took her old device, wiped it, and added a “pay as you go” SIM card with £10 of credit and packaged it in a box, knocking up a letter that went with it.
My partner laughed as she read the correspondence from the “Young Persons Reintegration Project” introducing his personal mentor of “Renée” to him. It promised his guide would demand and assist with rigorous self-improvement and that an all-day rendezvous would be scheduled in due course.
Her letter to her pen pal was succinct.
Dear Ben,
Your release is good news!
And stop worrying. Nervousness is half the fun, and we don’t bite. Everything will be on your terms. As for lasting? I don’t care. You’ve been inside for months. A bit of overexcitement is bound to happen. And it’s hardly a vote of no confidence in your female lover? Sorry, you were too sexy and amazing, and I couldn’t control myself.
This will be my final letter to the prison. There will be a parcel waiting for you at your mother’s house that will have everything you require.
And I have one last task for you. I do not want you to come from the day you receive this. Wake with morning wood. Feel desperate and itch for a female touch. Suffer from blue balls. Whimper and wish you did not have to do this, but know the reward will be greater for your pain.
I need you to lie awake at night, picturing my fingers, my lips, my thighs and my tongue working your cock with slow, teasing strokes until you’re whimpering into your pillow. I want you so pent-up that when you arrive at my door, you’ll barely last ten seconds before you explode.
So do not worry about disappointing us. I expect to ruin you. You will last mere moments, and I intend to savour and enjoy every single one. You will learn stamina in time, but for our first meeting? I want you desperate, leaking, and shaking with need. I don’t know if you are a virgin and I don’t care. But you will enjoy yourself.
And a bit of news from me: I had a meeting at work today. I have earned a promotion, so I will be the Chief Operating Officer of a billion-pound company. I even have my own Wikipedia page now!
Take care.
See you soon.
Desperate regards,
Renée.
My lover sealed the letter with a kiss in red lipstick, and the next morning, I dropped it in the postbox while out shopping. We went for a run when she arrived home as darkness approached and stopped at a pub for a meal. “I’ve asked Poppy to stay Saturday and Sunday,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
I suspected her motives as she ate the linguine, but explained that her friend’s cousin was feeling lonely and wanted to move out of the posh Berkshire area but could not afford it.
“Lucille’s nice, but Poppy doesn’t drive, and there aren’t many buses or trains around there. So she’s trapped. She has to cycle three miles just to get to a train station.”
“How is she getting here?”
“Coming after work on Friday. Going on Monday.”
It was Renée’s house, and she made the rules; when I said this, she pooh-poohed, saying it was “our home.” Which it was; but it was my girlfriend’s property. And with her impending promotion, her annual salary would be twenty times mine.
Much like Ben looking at us wondering what we saw in him, I still had pangs of imposter syndrome when I looked at Renée. Her confidence radiated, her intelligence dazzled, and her ambition intimidated. She could have had anyone, yet here she was, choosing me. Choosing our relationship.
The weekend soon came around quickly; Poppy travelled to our house as Renée arrived home, and we ate a lasagne, before the girls watched a film; I had already made plans to meet up with some friends and walked to the station to travel across the city to the pub.
Saturday was different. Poppy entered the kitchen naked, yawning and wiping sleep from her eyes. “I cycled. I can’t carry a suitcase on my bike so I have just a minimalist amount of clothes,” she explained as she poured muesli into a bowl. The sun streaked across her bare body as she took a cup of coffee from Renée’s ridiculously complicated machine. Unbothered by her nudity, she ate breakfast as my girlfriend went for her run, and then a further 16km run along the river.
Poppy brought up swinging first, and I explained how far I wanted to go with Renée. At least initially. I didn’t want a cuckold or wittol relationship. The idea of softer swapping and voyeurism interested me, but I’d set oral sex as our initial limit.
She nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “Renée really wants to fuck Ben. And she is desperate for you to screw me,” she observed. “It’s up to you, but that’s where she wants to go. She loves her sexual freedom. It’s always been there, but it’s never been so obvious.” Poppy finished her coffee, so I made her a fresh cup. “Between boys, she was a slut. But in relationships, she’d rein it in. But now, she’s keen to make up for lost time and let loose.”
I sighed. “I hate saying no to her, but we can’t rush into this. If we get it wrong, we are in trouble. She needs to be patient.”
Which caused Poppy to laugh. Renée returned home after two hours, ran upstairs and had a hot shower, and then took a coffee in a takeaway mug and drove into London. While she was away, I posted the parcel to Ben, ensuring that it would arrive on Wednesday or Thursday, and then visited the gym, working off my calories from the night before.
It was a cool afternoon, and there had been heavy rain showers throughout the day, but my beau still spent a four-figure sum in London boutiques and shops before returning home.
“Where are we going to eat?” I asked. “You wanted a restaurant.”
“Giovanni’s. 7pm. Poppy and I have new frocks. Wear your shirt and trousers.”
The girls took over an hour to ready themselves, but the two short summer dresses, cut high to the upper thigh and with plunging necklines, displayed their youthful beauty to devastating effect. Poppy’s was cherry red to match her nails, and Renée’s a cobalt blue to accompany her piercing eyes.
The two women turned heads as we ate at the Italian eatery, before we had a couple of drinks at the cocktail bar. I limited myself to a single beer as I was driving, but the girls got increasingly tipsy before we returned home, both showing me they had ventured out commando. Renée’s dress pooled on the floor before we reached the lounge. Poppy wasn’t long behind as my partner and her friend embraced, sliding their naked bodies against each other as their lips kissed.
They moved apart, and Renée looked directly at me. “You want to touch her?” I nodded. “Then do so. Squeeze her butt.”
This was a line that we had never crossed. Since I met my girlfriend and shared a bottle of wine, I had not touched another; looked at and admired and enjoyed the view, but this was a Rubicon. And the girls waited for me to decide what to do.
Poppy smiled welcomingly, her cheeks flushed pink from alcohol and anticipation. When my fingers pressed into her soft buttocks, she gasped, pushing herself further into my grip as I ran my palms over her bare flesh. Renée pulled her guest, drunkenly kissing her again. But deeper and more passionate, pulling her onto the sofa.
I watched as my girlfriend parted the legs of her friend and pressed her mouth into Poppy’s folds. My girlfriend’s hands ran up her friend’s thighs, gripping her hips, tugging her closer while her tongue traced slow circles around Poppy’s clit, drawing ragged moans. My cock strained in my trousers; fingers twisted in my sweetheart’s blonde hair, holding my lover’s face into her slit. “Oh, that’s nice,” Poppy muttered. “Get right in there.”
Renée looked up at me, smirking, lips glistening. “Taste her,” she demanded. “She’s delicious.” I couldn’t resist and knelt between Poppy’s legs, replacing Renée’s mouth with mine. Poppy tasted sweet, musky, like warm mead, and I explored her folds with my tongue while my girlfriend watched, biting her lower lip. “Make her come,” she whispered. “I want to see her climax.”
Poppy’s thighs trembled against my shoulders, her fingers running over my short hair as I circled her clit with slow, deliberate strokes. She arched her back with a strangled cry, her cunt pulsing against my tongue as she climaxed.
As my girlfriend watched.
And it felt amazing; the tremble of her pussy and the quiver of her muscles as she peaked, with a surge of excitement sweeping through her. I slid my finger into her slippery hole, pressing against her insides. A favourite of Renée, I pressed against her G-spot, rubbing it with one, then two fingers, as I savoured her clit once more. Poppy was a non-stop slurry of obscenities, squealing as her body sizzled.
My girlfriend watched, breathless, her hand pressed against her own wetness. Poppy arched her back, shuddering, crying out as she came again. Renée pulled me away from Poppy’s quivering thighs, kissing me deeply, tasting her friend’s arousal on my tongue.
Her fingers toyed with my belt, and I unbuttoned my shirt as we kissed. And then pushed my girlfriend’s face into the lap of Poppy. And as she brought her friend to another orgasm, I lined up my prick, sliding into my girlfriend with ease from behind.
I knew I wouldn’t last long, and I didn’t. Renée groaned and grunted into Poppy’s slit as I pounded into her wetness, slapping her buttocks as I took her with an audience for the first time since our Cap D’Agde adventure. Poppy squealed and moaned, pulling Renée’s face deeper into her crotch, her fingers twisting in blonde hair.
And I grunted as my delicious full-body orgasm enveloped me, resting my hands on her waist as my cock pulsed waves of cum into her cunt. I’d never orgasmed so hard in my life, as Renée’s muffled moans vibrated against Poppy’s clit, enticing her friend’s third climax, her fingers digging into trembling flesh.
Renée looked into her friend’s glazed eyes. “Now go down on me. And taste my boyfriend.” The young nymph didn’t hesitate, sliding onto the floor between Renée’s thighs and lapping at the slick mess of our coupling. My seed dripped from the swollen folds as my lover encouraged. “Swallow every drop,” she demanded. “Sluts like you need to eat their daily dose of cum!”
Poppy giggled into Renée’s messy cunt but obeyed, her tongue tracing patterns through the mess before sucking Renée’s clit into her mouth. The girls’ laughter dissolved into moans, Poppy’s fingers sliding inside Renée while my girlfriend rode her friend’s face. “Oh God, I love this!” my lover gasped, gripping the gamahucher’s blonde hair. “Don’t stop … yes, right there! It’s amazing.” Renée’s thighs trembled, her squeals climbing higher until she jerked forward with a cry, grinding as she came.
That evening, we didn’t break but shattered the ice. I had my red lines, and we honoured them, but I watched Renée and Poppy multiple times that weekend. Our young guest gave me two blowjobs, one as I ate my breakfast and the other in our garden, giving herself muddy knees as she did so. My girlfriend called it the “uniform of a cocksucker.”
Poppy watched Renée and me fuck multiple times, and I lost count of how often I ate cunt or fingered them. It was a wild, horny weekend.
But it also brought us much closer together. We played board games and watched a film. On Sunday, we went for a long walk, chatting like old friends. And on that last night, when Poppy returned to her bedroom, Renée and I kissed before we fell asleep cuddling.
Playing around had brought me closer to the woman I love. Seeing the nymphomaniac devour Renée’s clit, bringing her to a screaming orgasm, had deepened our relationship. It was completely illogical. But any lingering doubts I had over Ben were banished.
