Exhibitionist to Swinger: Chapter 11
Unsurprisingly, we didn’t wake early and had more of a brunch than breakfast. Gemma messaged my girlfriend as we prepared to go to the beach, inviting us to the yacht party leaving from the harbour in an hour. A couple that were due to attend couldn’t, and the French teacher had suggested to the hostess and organiser that my lover may be interested in an afternoon of uncomplicated sex with scores of fit black men at a private orgy.
It wasn’t our sort of play or our dynamic, but Renée was keen to meet with the Mancunian couple again, and the photos Gemma sent of the venue were enticing. The yacht was pure maritime elegance, with a sleek white hull sparkling in the bright sun. The interior was immaculate, with polished wood and soft leather furnishings throughout the three decks of impeccable craftsmanship.
I agreed, with the promise of reclamation sex on our return, and erotic adventures together on our final full day. Gemma met us on the dock, and the atmosphere aboard was decadent. The organisers, a middle-aged wealthy Dutch couple, greeted us warmly and told us we were the last to arrive! The nude woman and casually dressed man offered champagne flutes, and the husband summarised the yacht’s etiquette: “Husbands wear swimwear and do not play. Hotwives and studs are naked and have fun. Condoms, lube and toys are about. No means no.”
The hosts had their fetish; all the “bulls” were well-built black or biracial men – and there were over a dozen of them at Maarten and Elise’s party. Many had tattoos, bulging muscles, and deep skin tones that contrasted with the lily-white wives and girlfriends scattered across the deck. Gemma discarded her sundress immediately, tossing it to Gareth as she joined the handful of Caucasian women on the boat.
Renée hesitated, glancing at me for permission. I nodded, squeezing her hand. “Have fun,” I murmured, watching her slip out of her bikini, her pale skin glowing under the Mediterranean sun, and tossing her garment to me. Elise was a diminutive woman with short white hair, a trail of pubic fuzz, and fulsome, drooping breasts that seemed awkwardly large for her frame. She placed her fingers on Renée’s naked butt, guiding her to the front of the craft.
“Almost ready to go. Get changed?” Maarten said with a Dutch twang to his voice. “And leave the bag upstairs.”
The top-covered deck, with the captain, another young man, and the boat controls, had a mass of rucksacks and bags stacked neatly in one corner, and I stuffed my T-shirt inside our backpack, placing it near the back; my bottoms were swim-shorts, but Maarten passed me light blue fabric. “I guess you’re a large.”
I hesitated as the casually dressed host removed his shirt and bermudas and slid a pair of cyan speedos to his waist. “100% Cuckold” printed on the front, and I saw the same design on mine.
I didn’t want to wear them, but it was a cost to come to the party, and after pulling them on, I went downstairs to find Renée already surrounded by three men, all taller, darker and better endowed than me. She giggled as one cupped her breast, another kissed her neck, and the third ran his hands over her waist, gripping her hips. Gemma was on her knees, sucking off a muscular guy with tribal tattoos across his pecs, while Gareth sat nearby, his turquoise speedos tented awkwardly.
The boat rumbled as I watched; the yacht moved, easing away from the dock. Elise, completely naked, stood at the bow, her arms outstretched as a black bull cuddled her, gripping her sagging breasts from behind. Renée giggled as her trio of admirers manoeuvred her towards a padded sunlounger. One pressed her down gently while another spread her thighs, his thick fingers sliding between them. The third leaned down, capturing her lips in a hungry kiss, with her hand already between his legs, stroking his prick lazily. My stomach twisted, but my cock throbbed against the tight speedos as I surveyed the decadence.
Six women, all of them surrounded by and being touched by horny naked black men. The young redhead, the older brunette, the pink-haired goth, Elise, Renée and Gemma were all being pleasured, sucked and fingered by the bulls, while the cuckolds sat awkwardly to one side. The pair of husbands, or boyfriends, to my left spoke in French. Gareth grinned as his wife surfaced from sucking off her tattooed bull, lips swollen, and winked at her partner before bending over the railing. Two guys lined up behind her, their dark hands gripping her hips. She moaned into the breeze as the first penetrated her cunt, her body jolting forward with each thrust while he possessively smacked her buttocks.
“Oh fuck,” Renée gasped, arching off the sunlounger as one man slid his fingers inside her. The second pawed at her breasts, flicking her nipple, while the third stood over her, feeding his cock into her mouth. Around them, the yacht sped through the calm waves, making the naturist town smaller and smaller in the distance.
The Mediterranean breeze was refreshing. “Renée’s enjoying herself,” Gareth muttered, but the young, petite goth had stolen my focus. Black eye makeup, with several nose and ear piercings, nipple rings and many colourful tattoos on her slight frame. And two studs with incredibly thick pricks spitroasted the youthful woman. Elise knelt between a pair of guys, taking turns fellating their dicks with a wide grin.
And that set the tone for the first hour. The men traded positions between the women, alternating between groping, sucking and fucking the wives and girlfriends relinquished for their enjoyment. Maarten brought food and refreshments, and it was a greater humiliation to help, taking the bucket of chilled beer cans around the well-endowed entourage as they slammed into my girlfriend.
But all the “cuckolds” had erections; we all talked awkwardly to each other, but as our women moved about the boat, enjoying the smorgasbord of dicks, tongues and fingers, we couldn’t resist but be aroused. Even as the yacht slowed and anchored a few miles outside the bay, and play stopped as Maarten put on an incredible spread of food from the cool boxes, I was still horny.
Gareth licked cum from his partner’s skin as Renée sat beside me eating olives, pizza, bread and cheese and sipping rose wine. “Good?” I asked.
“Yeah, those guys can really fuck!” she said, making eye contact with a tall, youthful bull, watching her. The men lounged, drinking beer as the sun beat down on us. Often, one or two would get up, touch the skin of a hotwife, and a small bout of action would start. Gemma leaned against the railing, curtailing her conversation with the young goth as a thick erection lined up against her.
Renée groaned as she lay on her stomach on the sunlounger, and an older biracial man had her buttocks spread and his face between her cheeks, tonguing her butt. She relaxed, melting into the cushion as his fingers slid underneath her; his middle finger slowly curled inside her pussy as he worked her whorl with his tongue. She whimpered, lifting her hips to give him easier access.
Anal play had never been something she wanted or enjoyed; we hadn’t played with it, but the firm, calming touch of the older man surrendered her resistance. Renée’s fingers dug into the padding, her legs trembling as he coaxed sensations from her body. His free hand kneaded her thigh and swept gently over her skin, while his tongue pressed deeper, insistent and rhythmic.
Renée squealed, swearing into the cushion as his finger curled inside her, and she shuddered with her toes curling involuntarily. Her lover withdrew his intrusion and pressed the tip of his thumb against her puckered entrance. She tensed, but he murmured something low and soothing in French to her, stroked her lower back until she relaxed again, and then he slowly slipped past her muscular ring.
I watched spellbound and enchanted as he smoothly enticed my partner into an anal orgasm; Elise passed him a bottle of lube, and he coated one, and then two fingers with slippery goo, before plunging it deep into her butt, while his other hand massaged her cunt and clit.
After her sharp squeals and gasping groans, the bull withdrew his fingers and replaced them with the tip of his sheathed thick cock, pressing against her loosened hole. Pressed against the sun lounger, the stud inched his dick deeper into her, sodomising my girlfriend.
But the black bulls had buggered Elise, Gemma and the goth on deck too; the hostess had taken the thickest, longest prick and orgasmed loudly into another one only a few minutes previously.
Renée’s sodomy was gentle and relaxing. In the hot afternoon sun, her lover motioned as the waves kissed the boat, calmly rocking into her butt with smooth, sensual motions. Their bodies – almost completely skin-to-skin – moved in rhythmic harmony as she gave this stranger sex that had never been on the menu for me.
But he whispered into her ear, rolling his hips to penetrate deeper, sending my partner into breathless, shuddering groans. Renée had surrendered, and I watched as they both came, him filling a condom deep into her butt.
I didn’t know I felt about it; it was raw and painful, but also incredibly arousing. My cock had leaked a wet spot into the dark fabric, and I knew it wouldn’t take much to make me cum.
But the entire boat switched between extreme debauchery and pleasant afternoon naturism. Gemma came and sat with Gareth, myself and the goth on the upper deck for a nice chat, and we went for a swim in the Mediterranean from the back of the yacht; ten minutes later, the two women were 69ing each other, while a man plundered the pink-haired beauty from behind.
Elise, though, floated amongst the guests, encouraging the hotwives into more revelry or the bulls into more play. She reminded me of a benevolent queen, overseeing her court of sin, and joined Renée and myself on the deck, in front of the captain and a young man with him, watching the threesome below us.
Renée stretched, rolling her shoulders, and Elise stroked her thigh. “Lovely boat. Amazing party,” I said.
“Yes, we love the Cap.” The Dutch hotwife gave my girlfriend a potted history of the pair of them running and then expanding a restaurant into a small chain of eateries before selling up and retiring a year before the pandemic. The eight-figure lump sum meant that their middle-aged retirement allowed them to live out their fantasies and hobbies, and interracial cuckolding was their favourite leisure pursuit, which was how they met Gemma and Gareth.
Maarten came up the steps and Elise spoke to him in Dutch. He smiled, agreed, and then asked if I could help him with “Antoine.” Renée answered for me, and he summoned the young man – I’d guess in his very early twenties – from the Captain’s side. Slightly built and only 5ft8in in height, the brown-haired, pale boy wore a white football shirt and navy shorts. He had deep blue eyes that matched the Mediterranean waters and a nervous expression as Maarten called him, guiding him to the lowest deck in the bowels of the ship and into one of the cabin bedrooms.
A pair of white speedos waited for him on the duvet with the cursive script in red lettering of “100% Virgin.” The boy swallowed hard, glancing at me as if seeking rescue. I shrugged, unsure of my role here.
“You OK?” I asked, not knowing if Antoine spoke English or understood.
He nodded, answered in his mother tongue, and with shaking hands undressed. “Antoine’s first time today,” Maarten said. I couldn’t think of a more daunting introduction to sex than to do it at an orgy. His anxiety must have been crippling, but the Dutch cuckold took him onto the deck, and Elise shouted, speaking in French, as she stood next to him, her arm around his shoulder.
A few smiles, a bit of laughter, from the assembled libertines. I didn’t have anyone to translate, but Renée and the goth girl strode towards him, each holding one of his hands and escorted him back to the cabin with a bulge in his virgin speedos.
The two women emerged from the bedroom flushed and smiling twenty minutes later, their bodies streaked with sweat and cum. Renée’s thighs gleamed with moisture, her lips swollen from relentless kissing, while the goth girl’s piercings glittered under the late afternoon sun. Antoine trailed behind them, dazed but grinning, his speedos now discarded—his initiation complete.
Maarten gave him a can of beer, and – despite not being black – received a blowjob from Elise and screwed Gemma as the yacht sped into port.
The boat docked, and the party closed. We thanked our hosts and headed back to our apartment to shower and change. We’d barely made it in through the door before I had Renée pinned onto the bed, eager for reclamation sex.
I was not a cuckold; I shared my partner, not surrendered her. I didn’t outsource her sexual enjoyment, but that day I played the role of a wittol, watching for five hours as stranger after stranger plundered and used my lover. But now it was my turn.
Renée gasped as I slammed into her, gripping her hips as she arched beneath me. The scent of suncream and salty seawater lingered on her, mingling with the musk of sex, other men’s cum, lube, sweat, and more. But none of it mattered. She was mine again, as her body yielded to me. Her fingers twisted into the sheets, her breath groaning as I drove into her with possessive fury.
We were not making love; this was wild, unfiltered, desperate sex. Raw, instinctive, primal marking of my territory as I rammed into her with relentless ferocity. With each thrust she became mine again. With a cry, I emptied my balls deep into her, and she smiled through my body’s shuddering.
“If we have sex like that every time we go to an orgy, we’re going to need to go much more often,” she teased, kissing me on the forehead as I panted, rolling from her.
Gemma and Gareth went home on Saturday, and we enjoyed ourselves at the beach. Renée’s sexual antics, except for a couple of blowjobs, were limited to screwing me in public, and I received plenty of sex to compensate for the yacht party when I had been chaste.
My girlfriend was more upset when she woke up on Sunday. We had breakfast, packed, and hurried to the airport. She wanted a few more days and was researching possible holidays the following year as we waited for our flight.
I had lost count of how many men Renée had brought to orgasm, but I’d had sex with more women in the past week than in the previous ten years put together. It had been an adventure, and as our delayed Sunday afternoon plane took off from Beziers airport, we discussed it in hushed whispers.
I was certainly open-minded enough, and had mostly enjoyed the experiences, to want to explore further, but it wouldn’t be the mainstay of our sex life, and nor would our leisure time revolve around swinging. Renée agreed with my restraint a little less enthusiastically, suggesting that “a couple of times a month” would be fine. Ultimately, with Poppy staying with us, there would be far greater opportunities for sex outside our relationship than if she were not.
We arrived at the house, spotlessly clean, and found a naked young lady sprawled on our sofa. Renée and Poppy shared a bottle of wine with her friend as my girlfriend recounted our adventures, leaving the nymphomaniac devastated she hadn’t gone.
We saw Ben at 7:30am in the morning. He took a bus to our house and had ten minutes to shower and dress in his smart suit before Renée drove them both into work. I had dinner waiting for them at 6pm and had just enough time for them to eat it before dropping him outside the block of flats in Croydon. “I’ve asked my probation officer to adjust the curfew,” he said the following day. “She needs a letter from HR. And so I have requested that too.”
Ben was excited about his new role. Orientation was a two-week process, and on Wednesday night he brought home his new work laptop, allowing him to connect securely to the office network and access his Teams account and his e-mail.
It was nice to see him so enthused; he was excited about his future and he spent most of the dinnertime recounting the amazing workplace, incredible opportunities and his fantastic new colleagues. Renée didn’t react, although I knew she wanted to, and Poppy could not hide her annoyance that she couldn’t get to spend any time with our guest because of his curfew.
On Thursday night, I stayed up late; Renée went to bed early, and I had some work to finish, and then unwound with a dram of whisky and a good book. I loved spending time with my girlfriend and our guests, but enjoying the tranquillity of solitude was also enjoyable. However, when I padded up the stairs to hit the hay, there was a frantic knock at our door. “Who the fuck is that?” I muttered; my partner stirred, the commotion waking her. With the house alarmed, I grabbed the nearest thing to hand that could be a weapon from our bedroom – a screwdriver that I’d left in my drawer – and went downstairs, tapping the code onto the keyboard to disable the alarm.
I looked through the peephole, and shivering outside on our front porch was Ben, holding a large rucksack and dressed in just a pale blue T-shirt and jogging bottoms.
I opened the door. “Ben? It’s way past your curfew. What the hell …” I asked, beckoning him inside. But his left ear was bloodied and bruised, and there were red splatter stains on his pale top. “What happened? Come in.” He entered the house, his eyes streaming as he cried his apologies. “Ben!” I called. “What the fuck happened?”
“I’ve messaged Renée. I need her help. And I’m so sorry. I know it’s late, but …”
Renée arrived on the stairs behind me, her eyebrow furrowed. “Ben,” she said again, and pushed past me, grabbing his hand and leading him into the kitchen.
My partner entered a mothering mode; she photographed his wounds, and then took the green first aid kit from under the sink, cleaning his bloodied flesh with a bowl of warm water. “What happened?” She asked as she tended to him.
“My mum’s thrown me out,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Her boyfriend said that my new job meant they couldn’t claim all their benefits. So, Mum told me I had to leave. And when I said I had the tag curfew, Lenny just started hitting me. Said he’d throw me from the window and sell my laptop if I fuck off.”
Renée sighed. “Ah, shit. You will not like this, but we need to call the police. And the probation service.”
She turned to me. “Tom, put the kettle on.”
