Exhibitionist to Swinger: Chapter 14
Ben tensed as we pulled into the misty car park. A shade above 12 degrees made it chilly in the autumnal climes, rather than cold, but I was glad I had a long-sleeved athletics top.
Poppy exited the vehicle, followed by Renée and then Ben; the girls had tried to “outdo” themselves with skimpier running garments that hugged their bodies, and we walked past the checkpoint, with the wardens checking us for any illicit electronic devices.
It was a little surreal for us; it must have been weird for Ben. He’d spent months within these four grey walls, and a fortnight after having his tag removed, he had travelled back to his former prison for their weekly run. Only this time, he came with Poppy, his girlfriend.
Her tight running briefs and sports bra would have been scanty even for the Olympics. Ben greeted his old cellmate, and his partner followed; she laughed at a couple of their comments, and then stretched in front of them, tightening her hamstrings as she bent at the waist.
Renée took my hand and squeezed it, whispering in my ear. “She’s such a fucking slut,” she said, grinning as Poppy adjusted her running top. The surrounding men’s gazes flicked between the two exhibitionists.
“You did the same,” I pointed out.
“I was graceful!”
“Your letters weren’t,” I reminded her. “They were fucking explicit!”
We had the familiar briefing, and when the run started Renée and Ben surged to the front, adopting their own race as they chased each other. There was a bet on, and Ben’s running had improved dramatically since he trained with my partner five times a week.
Poppy was happy at my pace; I was a middle-of-the-pack runner, and she chatted away to the prisoners that matched our cadence, the subject of the conversations turning immediately to ruder subjects, delighting the incarcerated lags when Ben’s girlfriend answered their queries candidly.
“Of course it’s an open relationship,” she replied.
“I’d not let anyone touch my Marie,” an older voice barked. “They’d be ‘ell to pay if some guy ever does.”
“But last week, I was out with a couple of my friends. We came back, and we had a threesome. Two birds and Ben. You don’t get that by shutting the door to your bedroom. Sometimes we find girls, or guys, or couples,” she added. “It’s all fun. Like last night.”
When Renée ran with them, she teased the prisoners with erotic stories; she used the power of suggestion to evoke sensual or exotic situations. Poppy was a lot more explicit and direct with her replies.
“Last night?” A Cockney voice asked.
The nymph grinned. “So much. Me and Renée took turns riding him while Tom watched.” She didn’t even glance back at me as she described her sex life. “Then I was spitroasted by the two guys as she ate me out, and Ben did me again this morning. It’s fun to share!”
The inmates exchanged glances, their pace faltering slightly as Poppy adjusted her running bra mid-stride, revealing a lot more than strictly necessary. Ahead, Renée and Ben sprinted neck-and-neck, their rivalry understandable as they lapped up and entered their last lap. Renée’s ponytail whipped behind her, and Ben’s arms glistened with sweat.
However, the inmates ignored that drama, and kept pressing the nymphomaniac running alongside me for details. “You ever do more than just threesomes or foursomes?” one asked, breathing hard. Poppy smirked and glanced back at the guy asking the question. “Oh, plenty. Last week, Renée and me took Ben to a swingers’ club. Watched him fuck two other women and got a blowjob in the hot tub.” The inmate stumbled, nearly tripping over his own feet. “And then we had a threesome with cocktails.”
Up ahead, Renée and Ben fought a brutal sprint finish. She dug deep, legs burning, but he surged past her at the last second, raising his hands victoriously before he stopped, bent double, gasping for air. My partner collapsed onto the grass beside him, laughing breathlessly. “You bastard,” she wheezed, punching his shoulder. “I let you win.” He wiped sweat from his forehead, grinning.
“Bullshit. You were trying.”
“No,” my girlfriend panted. “I backed off.”
“Well, I get anal tonight then,” Ben reminded her. “From you!”
We still had another lap to go, and Poppy’s stories continued. “That’s the thing with Ben’s curfew. He had to be in the house between 8pm and 6am. There were a couple of exceptions, like two weeks ago when we were in Manchester, but mostly it meant we had to be together and we got bored. So we just fucked and fucked and fucked. There wasn’t much else to do.”
“Fuck,” muttered a bald inmate beside her. “He was locked up with you?”
Poppy grinned, bouncing slightly as she jogged. “Yeah! That was the joke we made. He went from banged up at eight to getting banged at eight!”
The prisoners erupted into laughter, some nervous, all envious, but Poppy barely noticed, adjusting her sports bra again with theatrical casualness. Ahead, Renée and Ben had recovered enough to walk back toward the finish line, their arms slung over each other’s shoulders in a sweaty truce, cheering on the finishers one-by-one and high-fiving them as they completed the course.
I pitied the wardens who had ten visitors to monitor, along with six dozen prisoners. Poppy had latched onto a couple of young men, no older than she was. “Hiya,” she said to Ben as he approached her, tensing her hamstrings. “I’ve promised to write to Sammy,” she told him, and the tattooed youth looked nervously at the former inmate. “Letters and pictures. If he can continue to set personal bests. Just like what Renée did for you.”
Ben chuckled. “You’ll corrupt him before he gets out.”
“Renée corrupted you before you were released. And I don’t corrupt, I merely inspire. If I can encourage him to run a better time next week, I’ll send some photos and a letter.”
My girlfriend summoned the pair; the wardens were keen for the non-inmates to leave when they had finished and the four swingers were close to outstaying their welcome. “Hey, good luck, Sammy,” Ben called. “She wants to be an exhibitionist. She just needs an excuse.”
Poppy pouted, but Ben’s summary of his girlfriend’s behaviour was succinct and accurate. His fingers drummed against her thigh in the back seat as I drove away from the prison, and she soothed contentedly as her lover reassuringly patted her bare flesh.
There was some tension in the car to the accommodation the night before; Renée had been explicit that the living arrangements of Poppy and Ben were not a long-term thing. She desperately wanted them to be thinking of the next phase in their lives, and while she had no intention or desire for them to move out immediately, she implored them to think of a plan and a strategy where they could have their own space and do their own things.
Which meant Ben and Poppy needed to be thinking about budgets and, after ignoring her pleas for several days, when they were trapped inside the travelling car, they couldn’t escape. So, she set up a plan for them both, of how much cash they should save each month and instead of paying rent to her, they’d bank that in a special high-interest savings and investment vehicle; when they did eventually move out, the pair would each have a little sum of money.
As it was, Renée also had another plan afoot. A local estate agent had listed an ex-rental two-storey and two-bedroom apartment sited over an art gallery, in a street close to Putney town centre. A five-minute walk from her house.
It needed new carpets, and extensive renovation, but the property was sound. She’d enquired about purchasing it from the fruits of her bonus, with the idea that once restored, Renée would either rent to Poppy and Ben or allow them to buy it from her for the price she paid over a 25-year period.
But that was a long way and £300,000 away. And until she had the keys in her hand, she didn’t plan to say a word to our friends in the back seat.
We changed at our accommodation and drove onto a two-bedroom apartment near Manchester Airport, at the southern tip of the conurbation. Poppy and Ben slipped away to a nearby country park to “start collecting photos” and it gave Renée and me some time alone.
“Freddy rang last night,” she said as she stripped naked. “I didn’t want to say anything around Ben and Poppy. But my offer’s been accepted and the solicitor’s started the searches and stuff. Two-four-five.” It was a lot more out of my price range, but I brought in a measly forty-eight thousand pounds a year as a coder and developer. A job that was in danger with AI advancements! But Renée earned a six-figure sum, and her bonus took her into seven figures. She worked incredibly hard for her money, but still could buy a two-bedroom flat in Zone 2 London from her wages feeling no strain.
“Oh, so what happens next?”
“Searches, survey, contract,” she replied, looking at me with a wild glint. “And I spoke to Angelica while we were away.”
“The trip to Paris where you shared a double bed.”
“The hotel was out of twin rooms,” she countered, sliding her fingers over my sternum. Her sultry look always made me erect. “We were saving the company money by sharing a room. And a bed.”
“Of course you were,” I muttered, rolling her nipple between my thumb and forefinger until she gasped. “Just like you had to test the stiffness of the mattress springs with her, and the soundproofness of the hotel walls, and so on.”
Renée bit her lip; she knew I’d given her carte blanche to enjoy herself in the bedroom, outside of the relationship. “Well, we were talking about the Christmas party. It’ll be Scotland this year.” She hummed. “Our offices are London, Manchester and Edinburgh so we stick it on rotation. But I’ve found an aparthotel complex and we can get a three-bed apartment for the weekend. I was going to book a suite in the hotel, but if Ben and Angelica stay with us, then the amount I’ll claim back from the company means I’m only sticking a hundred quid out of my pocket.”
Once again, she understood financial expediency. “Sounds fine. What did your lesbian lover say?”
“Ah, just there. Perfect. Oh, My God. Christ. Harder. I need this. Don’t stop. I …”
“What did she say after you stopped being filthy lesbians?”
Renée smiled. “She said it sounded great. I told her to make sure her boy has a suit. I’m not fucking a scruff.”
“You fuck me.”
“There have to be some advantages to being my boyfriend.”
“I’d say there are many,” I replied, running my hands over her naked form. Renée’s laughter curled into a groan as my fingers traced the damp heat between her thighs.
“Save it for tonight,” she muttered, squirming against my touch. “C’mon, we need to get suited and booted.” She picked up her phone and messaged Poppy and Ben, reminding them they had a rendezvous later in the evening. Predictably, we were ready – and dressed – before the young couple arrived, and then the uncontrollable blonde fretted as she had less than twenty minutes to shower, style her hair, apply her makeup and then dress in her outfit of choice.
The pub in the Cheshire village was warm and welcoming; a roaring fire billowed bits of smoke and a lot of warmth into the mock Tudor-beamed establishment that teemed with life. The server positioned us in an alcove, close enough to the crackling inferno to feel the heat and smell the sweet aroma of the burning wood, but also far enough away to ensure that those around us could not intrude on their conversation.
Gemma hugged me, and then Renée, holding onto my girlfriend for a little longer than needed. The buxom brunette introduced herself to Poppy and Ben, eyeing both with hungry eyes. Gareth towered over everyone. Still dressed in an outfit that suggested he was a supply geography teacher, with a plain knitted Gillet over a checked shirt; he looked a caricature of what he actually was.
The tavern served typical English pub food. I chose halloumi fries and a burger, but our table also ordered pie and mash, hot dogs, curry, lasagne and pizza. The Mancunian hotwife was her bashful self, and combined with our partners, the three women dominated the conversation, with sexual adventures taking the fore.
Gemma and my sweetheart recounted their experiences and exploits in Cap D’Agde for the young blonde, who squirmed with arousal and whose eyes sparkled with envy. My girlfriend discussed her successful and blossoming “friends with benefits” situation with Angelica and showed them many pictures I took after the apprentice evening ceremony of their lesbian encounter. Poppy’s adventures had been mostly with Ben, Renée and myself, but their sex life had included multiple excursions to shopping malls, pubs and more for public exposure and exhibitionism, and they had met up with a few swingers from the apps.
Varied, promiscuous, licentious, fun-filled sex lives that were much wilder than 99% of the population. But they were almost nun-like when Gemma spoke; we were on our main course when the Mancunian updated the table on her news.
First, Gareth’s brother now lived with them permanently, and she was providing sexual relief daily to her brother-in-law. Her group of regulars also included three neighbours in their cul-de-sac: one widow and two single men. They were all much older than she was.
Second, the head of languages at her college – her boss – had seen her at a sex club, and they were now involved on a weekly basis in his office, when their teaching timetables allowed. She stopped wearing bras and started dressing in shorter skirts on Wednesdays due to the hard fucking she’d receive. Because of this arrangement, this had a noticeable impact on the attention given by her male students in her classes on these days.
Third, with this amount of sex, and what she found on the hookup apps, she needed little intimate consideration from her husband, so they played with chastity and Gareth is now locked up 24/7, with her chaste cuckold only likely to be granted relief at birthday and Christmas.
Last, both of them are exploring their bisexual sides much more, and Gemma attended a date with a young lady the previous night that started with popcorn and a film at a cinema and ended up in a bedsit, eating the apprentice plumber to orgasm.
Ben, sat opposite Gemma, leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers resting under his chin. “So,” he said, with amused curiosity, “your husband’s locked up indefinitely, and you’re fucking your boss in the staff room, his brother in his house, his neighbours in your street and anyone else you can find on a dating app. And …” he gestured vaguely at Gareth, who was methodically dissecting his steak pie, “… he’s just… fine with this?”
The cuckold swallowed a forkful of pastry before responding with unnerving serenity. “It’s a question of happiness. She fucks whoever she likes, and it makes her happy, so I am thrilled. Meanwhile, I cook, clean, and devour her creamy cunt when she lets me. Sometimes, she’ll peg me or play with my prostate, which is the best feeling in the world. And I give blowjobs or there is a pussy to lick. I live for giving oral. So I get sex. Plenty of it. I just don’t use my dick. So many people think I must be miserable or unhappy. I’m locked up while my wife gets with twenty guys before lunch. But I’ve never been more content, happier, or satisfied. I love it. And I want to go further with it.”
“Careful, or she’ll have you doing housework in a maid’s outfit. Stockings, suspenders, feather duster!” Poppy teased, finishing her glass of wine and reaching for the bottle to refill it.
Gemma’s laugh punctured the air. “I’ve already threatened him with that. Maybe one day we will.”
Whatever we said and did, Gemma was the wildest, most adventurous of the three women. I still believed that I would never want the sort of marriage Gareth had with his wife; Renée and I had used her exhibitionist streak to fuel her need to play outside the relationship, and I very much enjoyed our new sex life. We’d been to swingers’ clubs, but her extracurricular male-female sex had mostly been with me present. I was never denied action; I just watched my partner get more than me. And she already had a “hall pass” regarding her bisexuality.
The meal was the first stop in a fun-filled evening. After finishing our food, we travelled to the nearby all-male sauna in a sleepy Cheshire town that hosted “bi nights” once a month, from 7pm until 2am. The small car park was almost full, and I took the final space down the side of the huge, sprawling venue. It used to be a large working mens’ club, but the two-storey pale yellow building was a rectangular Lego block on the corner of the junction with the main road.
Whereas the swingers’ club in South West London was in an inconspicuous location, hidden from view, the sauna was in a prominent position on the route into the town, proudly advertising its presence. Inside two sets of double doors, the small reception smelt of chlorine and cleanliness. Carpet on the stairs that wound to our left and right, encircling us as we entered, dressed in smart casual clothes. “Entry for four, please,” I said to the muscular, shirtless, and welcoming man, who took the banknotes from my outstretched hand and gave me eight condoms, packets of lube, my change, a quartet of towels, and a locker key each.
The female changing room was upstairs, and we agreed to meet in the bar when Gemma and Gareth arrived in their car; they were regulars at the venue and knew their way around the complex.
The male rooms were next to reception; four rows of lockers and two small benches. Closer to the sauna area, the smell of cleanliness was stronger, but several men – of all shapes and ages – were disrobing as we entered. It felt a little weird to be getting undressed for sex around so many people, but we’d all come for the same reason. They weren’t judging us.
Ben and I stripped naked, tossing our black towels over our shoulders as Gemma’s husband sauntered into the changing area. Gareth wore a pink jockstrap with “Locked, don’t bother!” on the front, the fabric stretched over his cage, and the words “FUCK ME” printed in white on the dark waistband. His attire wasn’t subtle about his desires. We stashed our clothes in our lockers and went to the bar, ordering a drink each. The confidence that the young man showed as he strode around the sex venue was unreal, especially as he’d been a virgin a few months previously. But Poppy and Renée had fucked the reticence out of him.
Gareth struck up a conversation immediately with another patron; almost all the revellers in the bar were male, and the chatter took a quick turn to the homoerotic. While I don’t have an issue with that at all, I have no bi-curiosity. I came to share Renée, and play with some other women. Nothing more.
Poppy entered first; she’d selected a white “monokini” – two thin pieces of fabric that rose from her mons, over her bosom and shoulders and down her back. It covered her nipples and her slit. But nothing else. Renée had chosen a black mesh gown with a spiderweb pattern and matching hosiery; it hid little, but looked strangely classy despite its obscenity. Gemma wore pale, glow in the dark stockings. They each carried a small bag, stuffed full of condoms; they weren’t settling for the limited number the venue provided.
The women implored us to finish our drinks; all of them wanted to explore the upper floor, where most of the play happened, and we took the staircase from reception to the vast warren of erotic facilities. It existed to promote and encourage sex. There were the anonymous pig pens, the porn room, the giant mattress that sixteen copulating couples could fit onto, a dark maze, multiple private rooms, a BDSM dungeon, and more. We spent five minutes “seeing” everywhere and passed dozens and dozens of patrons watching, taking part or enjoying the carnival of sin.
It was like being in Cap D’Agde. But I noted the venue was about 90% male. There were many men playing with other men, with the few heterosexual couples were subjected to more voyeurs.
Ben slid his hand around Renée’s butt, patting her gently. “Don’t forget what I won earlier today.”
“Well, I douched when I was getting ready, so as long as you’re gentle,” she said. “Shall we find a private room?”
“No,” he squealed, his mouth curling into a grin. “Let’s go to the orgy space.”
On public display, he wanted to sodomise and bugger my girlfriend. Renée’s expression changed – not from fear, but from the intoxicating thrill of exhibitionism. Three entwined groups already occupied the main room’s mattress, their movements slick under the dim red lights. Spectators crowded the edges, some stroking themselves, others murmuring approvals.
The first two were threesomes with gay men, but on the far side, an athletic bald-headed man was railing a chubby young girl doggy style. Ben guided her forward with a hand at the small of her back, in the centre of the bed, holding lube and condoms between his fingers. “I let him fuck me up the arse whenever he wants. I don’t know why Renée’s so fucking special,” his girlfriend moaned. A well-built Asian guy joked to her, and she stopped, sunk to her knees and kissed the tip of his prick.
She was definitely in her sluttiest of moods.
Renée arched her back, presenting herself to her young lodger with a deliberate sway of her hips as the crowd watched. The red lighting glazed her skin as Ben rolled the condom on with quiet confidence and then slicked his sheathed prick with lube. His fingers twisted inside my girlfriend’s anus. A place my cock still had not been.
Renée groaned as he worked her open, her thighs trembling on the smooth, rubber-topped mattress. Eyes watched as he pushed in, slow and deliberate, her body yielding inch by inch to the blunt head of his cock, sliding into her most intimate of areas. She held her breath as Ben’s prick stretched her tight ring of muscle, and exhaled sharply when he bottomed out, his hips flush against her buttocks.
Renée’s fingers clawed at the rubberised mattress as Ben thrust gently, her gasps sharpening into rhythmic moans that blended with the wet slap of skin. Poppy meanwhile, now had Gemma knelt beside her, and they had a small crowd of four men, fellating them in turn.
It was only a matter of time before they moved onto the gigantic bed, passing condoms to strangers who wanted to fuck them. It was a hedonistic orgy, and I stood by the edge of the room watching the wild debauchery.
Gareth fluffed a man waiting to screw his wife; Poppy had a much older gentleman – easily aged enough to be her grandfather – screwing her missionary while my friend sodomised my partner. “God, Ben,” my lover cried, squealing.
“Remember, I beat you today!”
“I … let … you … win!”
“Because you want to be fucked in the arse. Like this!” He pounded harder and deeper for a few thrusts, causing my partner to moan louder, enjoying her public sodomy. Renée’s back arched sharply as Ben’s strokes grew rougher, her moans dissolving into wordless, shuddering cries. The crowd thickened around us; men stroked themselves as they watched the four heterosexual couples and two homosexual shows. “You’re my boss,” he reminded her. “And my landlady. I’m screwing my manager up her poopchute while everyone watches. And she wants it nastier. Filthier. Dirtier.”
Ben had clearly learned how to speak dirty to my partner when he fucked her. Renée’s cries reached another pitch; her forehead on the cool mattress as he hammered hard into her, chasing his release. He grunted, slapping her on the buttocks as he rammed into her, grunting as his dick twitched and he filled the rubber sheath.
What he did next was proof of his coming of age; he sighed, rocking slowly as he milked the pleasurable aftershocks and withdrew. He pulled the condom from his cock, tossed it over Poppy into the bin, and then presented his cum-smeared prick to my girlfriend, forcing her lips over his dirty dick. “Use a condom, mate,” he said, gesturing to a middle-aged, slightly podgy guy watching the display and stroking his shaft.
Renée sucked Ben clean with theatrical relish, her tongue swirling around his softening cock while the man fumbled with a condom packet nearby. The portly stranger’s latex-covered prick pressed against my girlfriend’s cunt and he slid in, spitroasting my lover. Her body jerked between the two men; Ben’s fingers twisting in her hair, forcing her mouth onto him again while the stranger rutted into her with the clumsy enthusiasm and desperation of someone who hadn’t been laid in months.
Meanwhile Gareth was alongside his partner, both getting fucked doggy style; Poppy had taken a pair of young men into a private room opposite, while I watched the unfolding orgy on the large mattress.
The podgy stranger came quickly, his hips stuttering against Renée’s flesh as he gasped out a muffled apology. Ben held her head on his cock while the rotund guy pulled away, flustered, and disappeared into the crowd. So the young man gestured for another to replace him, tossing him a condom to use.
He directed my partner’s gang bang. A tall, muscular and tattooed adonis rubbered up and slid his dick along Renée’s slit before impaling her on his prick. Her body jerked forward with the inked man’s first thrust, her gasp muffled against Ben’s thigh as he kept her mouth pinned to his cock. The new stranger didn’t bother with gentleness, and his grip on her hips was possessive. His thrusts deep and punishing, with the wet slap of skin echoing louder now, blending with the groans of other couples and the low hum of spectators murmuring approval.
Which is how the next hour continued: I replaced Ben, ensuring that all of my partner’s lovers used condoms as random, nameless men pounded her. We moved to the pigpens a little later – a place for ass-up, face-down anonymous fucking, and found Gemma and Gareth there, but Renée didn’t like it too much. I’d already screwed my partner in the orgy room, and took advantage of our French teacher friend to unload into a condom for the second time, hammering into her cunt with rampant abandon while Renée watched, enjoying the sight of her boyfriend slamming his dick into her slutty friend.
We went downstairs, got another drink and then settled in the hot tub naked; the venue was vast, and it was easy to lose friends and partners in the sprawling building, and we chatted with five guys – four of whom were gay – in the bubbling warm water as my fingers caressed her skin under the bubbles.
When we came to explain our relationship, one of the gay men, a silver-haired architect from Shrewsbury, leaned forward with a wide smirk. “So you’re a cuckold,” he suggested, swirling his gin. “Mostly, you watch her have sex?”
I met his gaze without flinching, my fingers tightening imperceptibly on Renée’s thigh under the water. “I’m not a cuck,” I said, shrugging. “Or a wittol. And there’s nothing wrong with those that are. But yes, she fucks who she wants, and I’m not always there, but I also get my share of fun when she’s not there. It’s open. But more swinging than poly.” I gestured to Gareth entering the tiled space with his wife. “Now they do have a hotwife-cuckold relationship.”
“Can we squeeze in?” She asked as we bunched up to allow nine people into an eight-person hot tub. Gemma positioned herself between the pair of older bisexual men, her hands resting under the water on their thighs. The chatter was always sexual, but the French teacher’s antics were explicit, and after ten minutes, I got up to “use the sauna room” next door. I expected Renée to want to come with me, but the two women – and three of the gay guys – were having an intense chat, almost a minor disagreement, about blowjob technique, and I went alone; Gareth followed me moments later.
“I love the sauna in here,” he said as he closed the door behind him. The dry heat hit me, knocking me back in the poorly lit space. It was small: a wooden “bench” about the size of a single bed on one wall, and a higher ledge at neck height on the other. I had to push myself up onto it, sprawling out and sweating immediately.
“You OK?” I asked. “Good time?”
Gareth nodded. “Gemma’s had about twenty guys. And I’m about half that and so many blowjobs. It’s been a good night.” I didn’t know how to react and he just added. “That suits us.”
“Well, your kink and all that.”
“I’ve always been bisexual. And a lot more gay than straight. But I love being submissive and anal sex is a hundred times better than using my dick. This place is like a Mecca for me.”
“Hence, why you do not mind the chastity cage.”
“Oh, that was my idea. We’d played with them for a few hours or a day or two at a time before. But never 24/7.”
“You wanted to have your cock locked up?”
“Yeah,” he chuckled. “I don’t use it much for sex, and it’s an amazing mindfuck. And Gemma’s not the only one fucking the neighbours. I help Mr Blewitt with his gardening and his shopping. And he always gets a blowjob.” He looked at me. “You can have one too, if you want.”
“I’ve already come twice. From the girls.”
He shrugged. “Offer’s there.” He sighed. “I need to be doing more or I’ll run out of things for our blog. It’s a secret memoir, but I need to have lots of adventures for me and Gemma to have material.”
“I’m sure you have enough. Your trip to Cap D’Agde has to be a novel in itself! Just this moment is a little surreal. Two guys, naked, are in a sauna, talking about sexual adventures, while our partners are a few feet away in another room chatting up or getting intimate with strangers.”
“That’s normal for here,” he joked; his chastity cage glinted in the tiny light as our bodies glistened with sweat. He sat up, leaning against the wooden wall, staring straight at me. “Have you ever played with another guy?”
“No,” I replied. “And it doesn’t interest.”
“But Renée plays with women.”
“Yes, lots of them.” He went to speak, so I cut him off. “She enjoys her time with girls; I do not want to play with guys.”
“Ever had anal?”
“I’ve not given nor received it.” He chuckled as I spoke and then muttered. “Well, a dominatrix stuck a finger up there when I was screwing Renée at a swingers’ club.”
“Did you like it?”
“In the moment, maybe. But it will not be a regular part of our play.”
Gareth stretched out on the lower bench, the wood creaking under his weight as he wiped sweat from his brow. “You’re missing out,” he said, voice lazy with heat. “Getting railed is just incredible. Whether it’s Gemma or one of her girlfriends with a nice pegging. Or a guy, while your girl watches. The prostate is amazing. I bet Renée would love to give you anal. Or Poppy. Wild girls, they are. I reckon there’s nothing they’re not up for.”
“I think your missus is wilder and completely unfiltered. How many times have you been to Cap D’Agde? How many times do you come here? And so on. There are weeks when the only sex we have is with each other, and maybe Poppy and Ben.”
He laughed. “We had a leak in the kitchen last week. So she called our regular plumber, and he fixed it. We pay, and then she tried it on, like she always does. He rejects her, but she offers anyway. And he says that his new apprentice is gay. So she films me sucking his prick. Which is great. He came buckets. But then, she sends it to her group chat of female friends. Which includes my sister. They knew we had an open relationship; my family did not know about my sexuality. So yes, my wife is wild. And uncontrollable.”
“Christ! Did you consent to her sharing the video?”
Gareth shrugged. “I didn’t not consent.”
“Wow! That would be totally over our red lines.” He laughed when I said this. “When you first opened up, was there ever a line you wouldn’t cross?”
He hummed. “We started with a couple that we knew, and it just went from there. What we do now is 100mph, and we did snail’s pace back then. But every leap forward was ‘well, this is fun’ and so it became our new ‘normal.’ Then it was Cap D’Agde and getting involved with some real cuckolds and hotwives. And that looked amazing. So we tried that, and I loved it so much. We both did. And we have a female-led relationship today, so I don’t mind that she did that. It’s not a big problem. You have more boundaries than me!”
The chat with Gareth encouraged me to open up; he was much further along a road I didn’t want to go down, but our beaten tracks followed a little of the same course. I liked and enjoyed the sexual freedom we had. I was very reluctant at first, but Renée was correct and the exploration and adventures had been good for us. We’d loved it. But I was not into chastity, erotic humiliation or bisexuality, and they were very strong, immovable boundaries.
And with the heat becoming oppressive, we left, and I had a cool shower before hunting for my partner. She was in the bar, drinking a Gin & Tonic with the rest of our entourage, and after a drink, we changed and returned to the accommodation.
“I wouldn’t have expected that in rural Cheshire,” Renée remarked. “We are going to have to go much more often.”
“It was 90% men.”
Poppy chuckled. “That’s fine by me. It was a place to be gangbanged. I mean, there weren’t that many girls for you and Ben, but there was so much testosterone for Renée and me.”
“A lot of them were gay. They just came for the other guys.”
“Many more were bi, which is still OK.” She looked at me in the mirror. “But clearly I’m fabulous. ‘Cause even at a gay sauna, I’ve got myself plenty of dick.”
“Poppy,” I replied. “That is the ideal comment for your epitaph.”
