Exhibitionist to Swinger: Chapter 16
Renée had a mixed reaction when she discovered I had pushed Poppy into researching her options for commencing her nursing training. She had been quietly pushing her friend to further her career and to “grow up,” and those comments had fallen on deaf ears, so my girlfriend was impressed that I had succeeded where she had failed. But regular polls often show that female healthcare employees have the highest rates of promiscuity and infidelity, and given the reputation my sweetheart was not surprised that such a profession would appeal to the young blonde.
I always felt that it was unfair to direct criticism to Poppy for her sexuality; Renée had seduced one of her female colleagues, slept with both of her lodgers, visited a dominatrix’s dungeon, attended swingers clubs and gangbangs and entered a bukkake race, and had at least three hookup apps on her phone. Meanwhile, Ben received regular blowjobs and sex from his “landlady”, took his girlfriend to orgies, and was looking at Cap D’Agde for his summer break.
Poppy was not an outlier in the house; her demanding behaviour gave her more attention, but we all had plenty of sex with our partners and others, so it seemed unfair to single her out for being more of a jezebel or a bigger nymphomaniac. We all loved getting it on.
Renée had found a private party on the other side of the river from us; the host on the “swinging app” regularly had access to an exclusive townhouse and wanted a few greedy girls or couples for his small army of “horny and hung guys.” As so often, the pictures were blurred to protect privacy, but the photos from the previous parties suggested that there was a rich variety of people and it was a classy, upmarket event.
And with so much, if we don’t try, we will never know if we like it or not. So, with my blessing, Renée messaged the organiser and asked for an invitation. And we had a busy week, so by Friday I was very ready for the party, that had cost us sixty quid to attend.
We dressed smartly and travelled to the Belgravia townhouse. Renée didn’t just enter the room; she stole attention from everyone in it as she glided into the exclusive venue. It looked like her skin-tight bodice gripping her torso had been stitched directly onto her flesh as it hugged and gripped her curves. And the long slits to her waist showed how little she wore underneath.
Radiant and divine.
The host and hostess were a middle-class couple who simmered with sex appeal. He had the look of an ex-member of a 2010s boy-band with trimmed stubble on his strong jawline and welcoming dark eyes that broke through the strongest of reticence. His tailored shirt fit perfectly, and his impeccably white teeth beamed as he introduced himself.
Meanwhile, his companion was an excellent accompaniment to her partner. Playful, energetic, and with a beaming smile, she welcomed with exuberance. Her figure-hugging dress exhibited plenty of bosom and stopped way above her knees. Her fingers lingered on Renée’s waist, and she beckoned my girlfriend to come through to their second lounge, where groups of men lounged on settees and armchairs.
Surrounded by stuffed bookcases, a fire crackled in the centre of the far wall, but its heat was no match for the sizzling atmosphere of the expectant gentlemen. Four-figure suits around their bodies, with five-figure watches adorning their wrists, these men impressed. Their beady eyes watched as the two women entered, a glass of white wine pressed into my partner’s hand, as they eyed the fresh meat.
Renée was always more relaxed surrounded by opulence than I was; I spied a rougher-looking man in another room holding a pint of something beer-like and entered that lounge, leaving my partner with her VIPs. She belonged there; I did not. His shirt and smart trousers were more Primark than Savile Row, and his younger partner alongside him wore nothing but a bright orange, skimpy lingerie set with G-string underwear and stockings. The guy with the ale grinned at me, raising his glass in a half-salute. “You look about as lost as I feel,” he joked when he saw me alone, without a drink, and glancing in his direction, his accent rough around the edges. Essex, maybe.
“Just wondering where the beer is. Champagne and wine are all very well, but I fancy a decent pint.”
The chunky bloke chuckled, nodding toward a makeshift bar in the other room where a keg of craft ale stood beside the crystal wine flutes. “I brought it. Help yourself, mate. Bloody city spivs think IPA’s just a tax form.” The pair watched me as I retrieved a drink and returned into the larger lounge, filled with couples on chairs and settees, talking in quiet whispers.
His partner, with her orange lingerie straining against her lithe body, traced my forearm with her fingers. “Is that your girl in the black dress?”
“Yeah. She’s in the other room, I think.”
“Ah, all polished shoes and no idea how to use what’s in their trousers?” She suggested with more than a hint of derision.
The Essex bloke snorted into his pint. His companion introduced herself; I had a faint recognition of her, and when she spoke her voice was strangely familiar, but when she told me her name, Annabelle, it clicked into place. “Are you Annabelle Wright?” I asked, and she grinned.
“Oh, so you watch Naked Dating then!” And the host of the controversial Channel 4 show looked back at me.
“You know, you’re never filmed nude on that programme,” I said. “Your contestants are, but you always wear … something!”
I watched little television, but I had seen enough late-night episodes of her show to state that confidently. “Well, in my new series I get my clothes off. It’s called The Love House, which is filming at the moment. And it’s a group of swingers going away for the weekend at a country retreat. The cameramen loved catching me nude!”
“I’m sure they did. And I shall look forward to watching it. But I’m sure the camera cannot make you look any sexier than you are in the flesh! You are divine!” She bit her lip and chuckled. Her husband was a brewer and owned an award-winning artisan brewery in East London. I complimented him on his lively ale, just as I had lauded his wife on her physical appearance.
He downed his drink and left the room to refill his glass, and she patted the spare sofa cushion next to her. “Won’t he be back?”
“Sit with me,” she demanded. “Unless you have another girl to be with right now?”
Her voice sparkled with unspoken promise, and I sat beside her on the two-person sofa. The beautiful television hostess wasted no time, sliding her hand over my thigh, fingers tracing the seam of my trousers, edging inward. “Your partner is gorgeous,” Annabelle murmured, lips brushing my ear. “What’s your dynamic?”
“We swap and play together and separately.”
“Full swap?”
“Yeah, you?”
“Of course,” she replied with a wide grin. “There’s no point otherwise? I’ve been swinging since I was eighteen.”
“Oh, three years then,” I teased. She looked as if she were in her late twenties, but I knew she was probably older than that. I guessed her beefy partner was in his forties. Her fingertips climbed higher, brushing against the zip on my suit trousers.
Annabelle’s fingers hovered, her smirk widening as she glanced toward the doorway where her partner had disappeared. “He’s taking his sweet time on purpose,” she promised, her nails scraping lightly over the fabric, as she bent her head, pressing a kiss against my cheek.
Annabelle’s lips lingered near my ear, her breath warm. “He likes to watch people,” she murmured, fingers over my belt. “But I like to screw.” Her husband reappeared in the doorway, pint in hand, watching his wife with amusement. Her mouth moved to mine, forcing a kiss as my hands slid over her lingerie-clad body.
Annabelle’s embrace tasted floral, either from her drink or her lip balm. Her fingers worked my belt buckle, her thigh pressing against my growing hardness as the chatter of the party faded into background noise. Her husband’s eyes never left us, but he made no move to interfere; he looked across the busy room, ogling the sight of his high-flying wife undressing another man. I fondled her half-naked figure while he caressed his beer.
A body that thousands of men had masturbated to. A sexual icon who had introduced hundreds of nude contestants to national television. My hands cupped the bosom of a woman whom Playboy listed as one of the sexiest people on TV, and she was frantically undressing me.
Annabelle’s fingers had just popped the button of my trousers when Renée, naked apart from her lacy thong, stockings and heels, stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, lips parted in amusement. Behind her, three men in tailored suits hovered like impatient shadows. “Tom,” my girlfriend drawled, “I see you’ve made friends.”
Annabelle looked up, turning her head toward Renée. “So have you!” She purred, thumb stroking the fabric just below my waistband.
“Of course. I’m very friendly.” Her eyebrows rose as she pushed away from the wooden frame. “We’re going upstairs to find a playroom. If you want me.” Her voice trailed as she turned, patting the suited buttocks of two of the men – one with each hand – and strode from view.
Annabelle tensed for a moment, her fingers freezing over my trousers; I don’t know if she expected I would follow my partner into her private gangbang or the sudden appearance of Renée would dampen my ardour, but my hands grasped at her skin once more and I resumed kissing her.
It sounded absurd because it was. I was in an upmarket townhouse in Belgravia, with the cream of London’s elite, and a television celebrity was undressing me while my girlfriend was in the middle of an impromptu orgy upstairs with city bankers, financiers and uber-wealthy. But Annabelle was more on my level; she came from working-class parents and attended a local comprehensive. And despite her fame and notoriety, she was not rich. Comfortable, yes. But not loaded.
“Shall we find a private room?” She whispered as she broke from the kiss. “There are eleven upstairs.”
“You know your way around.”
“I’ve been before. And they cater for every taste,” she remarked, getting up from the sofa and holding her hand for me to take. We were not the first couple from our lounge to “find somewhere more private” and her heels clicked on the marble stairs as we ascended to the upper floor.
The first room we came across, we saw Renée through the open door; she was in the middle of the bed, kneeling between two men, her throat working the prick of the suited gentleman. “I wonder if the top room’s free,” Annabelle muttered, almost skipping to the second, and then the third storey.
Pushing open the door at the end of the corridor, there was a small, intimate room. A Victorian cabinet beside the entrance, an ornate double bed, and elaborate artistic wallpaper in the style of William Morris.
It was a step back in time. A window into a bygone age, apart from the three cameras on the wall and another on the ceiling above. “It’s an exhibitionist room?” I muttered, half in question.
“Yeah,” she squealed, closing the door and running her fingers over my clothed chest. “We’re shown on the television downstairs.”
“And you love being on the telly,” I teased, pulling Annabelle closer by her hips. She arched into me, unbuttoning my shirt as I squeezed her buttocks. “And your husband will see everything that happens.”
Annabelle’s grin widened as she flicked open the last button. “Oh, he’ll watch,” she muttered, pushing the fabric off my shoulders. “And enjoy it. Maybe he’ll find some posh bird who wants a bit of rough to blow his load over. Or he’ll slide into some tart for three pumps.” Her fingers trailed down my chest, circling a nipple before sliding lower. “And then he’ll be done.”
Annabelle’s hand dipped beneath my waistband, and she shoved my trousers down as I unhooked her bra, freeing her breasts from the revealing orange lingerie. A few moments later, her G-string was on top of my clothes and she landed on the bed, face up and grinning as my lips rained little kisses over her sensitive skin. She writhed as my mouth tickled and excited, leaving a dampness over her nipple and then her inner thigh, above her stockings.
Her fingers tightened in my hair, guiding me impatiently to her slit. The scent of her arousal was sharp, mingling with the citrusy tang of her perfume. I dragged my tongue along her inner thigh, teasing, earning a frustrated groan from the brunette celebrity. “Don’t fucking tease,” Annabelle hissed, pleading in his voice.
Her demand was electric and desperate. No coyness or pretence. I buried my face between her legs, tongue lapping at her slick heat as her body squirmed. Her moans were loud, almost theatrical, but the way her thighs clamped around my head and her fingers twisted in my hair, her arousal felt brutally genuine. “Fuck, yes,” she gasped, as I worked her clit, tasting her delicious muskiness.
Her London accent became more pronounced, and her hips bucked violently as I curled two fingers inside her, her moans echoing off the Victorian wallpaper. Annabelle arched off the bed, one hand clawing at the sheets while the other gripped the back of my head, grinding herself against my mouth with abandon. The celebrity screamed profanities, her voice ragged, as my fingers and lips sent her into a violent orgasm, thrashing wildly.
She glanced at the cameras as she collapsed back onto the mattress, her chest heaving. Playing to an unseen audience. But I remembered what we did in the swingers’ club, and I enjoyed being in the video room. Almost as much as Renée.
So I gave Annabelle a few moments to compose herself, and then plunged back inside her, rubbing against her G-spot. The brunette howled, bucking against my hand as she tried to push me away, legs kicking wildly. “Too soon! Too soon!” she cried, but her cunt clenched greedily around my fingers, soaking them as I massaged her clit and her pussy.
Annabelle’s protests dissolved into desperate gasps as her body betrayed her, hips jerking into my touch despite her words. “You absolute fucking bastard,” she gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets as her cunt pulsed around me.
She suggested “69” and I had the glorious feel of the celebrity sliding her lips over my prick, before I donned a condom and fucked her sensually. Our foreheads touching, kissing, and her legs spread wide as I slowly and gently penetrated her.
The bedframe creaked beneath us, rhythmic and slow, Annabelle’s breath hitching every time I angled deeper. She arched against me, fingers digging into my back and my buttocks, her thighs squeezing my waist. But it was the deliberate clench of her cunt that felt incredible. “Christ,” I muttered against her collarbone, feeling her giggle against my temple. Annabelle exhaled sharply as I rotated my hips.
“I wanna ride you,” she panted, and I rolled onto the bed beside her as she straddled me, guiding me into her wet cunt.
“Fuck, I’m having an amazing dream,” I muttered, holding her waist as the celebrity rode my prick.
She laughed. “I should have you and Renée on my TV programme.”
“Only if I get to screw you,” I mumbled, groaning as her hips circled around my cock. “You’d want that, wouldn’t you? Annabelle Wright’s Sex Tape!”
She gestured to the cameras on the wall. “Annabelle Wright has starred in loads of home-made pornos,” she squealed, sliding down harder on my dick. I couldn’t last much longer; my arousal surged, and she sensed the throbbing in my body. “Close?”
“Fuck yeah.” Annabelle’s breath hitched as she leaned forward, her hands braced against my chest, her dark hair brushing my collarbone. She moved her hips with excruciating slowness; her warmth enveloping me in rhythmic pulses.
The cameras captured everything: our sweat-soaked skin, the way her lips parted in silent ecstasy when she came again, her thighs trembling as she milked my climax from me with experience. How I cried out as my throbbing cock filled the condom.
Then she collapsed onto my chest with a satisfied sigh, her breath hot against my neck. “That was fun,” she muttered. I tossed the spent johnny into a bin beside the antique dresser, and she stopped me from dressing. “Take our clothes into the room on the other side of the landing,” she said. “It’s small. It’s never used. I’ll be two minutes.”
This boxroom was unfamiliar and out of character for the rest of the house; almost like a corporate lounge. Four beanbags and a two-person navy leather settee and a view of the bustling London street in darkness below. Annabelle left me for a few minutes and returned holding a glass of her husband’s beer and a flute of fizzy wine, probably champagne.
“Cheers,” she said, clinking the glasses together.
“Cheers,” I muttered, sprawled naked on the sofa, as she lounged next to me, squealing as the cool fabric stuck to her warm skin. “So how many sex tapes?” I asked, breaking the silence as she stretched her stocking-clad leg over my thigh.
She laughed. “Enough to get me on the front pages of every newspaper in the land.” She shrugged. “I’ve been in a poly relationship for ten years and we filmed so much of it. I’ve been a swinger and been to clubs and cruises and more. And I’m sure all the newspapers will know what my sex life is, but it’s not newsworthy to print. But I’ve been open for years. Since my Radio Essex days.” Her hosieried foot pressed against my cock. “And there are others in the industry who are swingers too.”
“Really?”
She smiled. “Celebrities, if you want to call us that, are just real people. Some straight, some gay, some bi, some into kink, some into swinging, some into dressing up as nurses, and everything else. A variety of sexual interests. We don’t stop being swingers when we get our first telly or radio contract. But we need to be more careful than normal folk.”
“Oh, I guess that makes sense.
“Yeah!” she laughed. “So what about you?”
I told her about my ex-wife, the break-up and her new lesbian relationship, followed by Renée – and her sudden desire for exhibitionism and exploration. She listened as I detailed our Cap D’Agde adventures and what has happened since.
Annabelle’s toes curled against my softening cock as she sipped her champagne, listening with undisguised amusement. “So Renée’s the one who dragged you into all this?” Her grin widened. “Christ, she’s braver than I was. My first orgy was a disaster. I cried in the loo for twenty minutes and then threw up as I gave a BJ. It took until I married Paul to come to a sex party again. And I still prefer one-on-one intimacy.”
Annabelle’s confession about her first orgy gone wrong made me snort into my beer, but I didn’t know what Renée’s first experience with group sex was like; it was before she met me. “Do you get to these parties often?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not as much as I want. We are doing The Love House in Leicestershire every weekend, so I’m on location from Thursday to Monday, with swingers on Friday and Saturday nights. We’ve filmed six already and have another four to do in January. And then it’s our twelfth series of Naked Dating. And I should get the gig to present Hidden Infidelity on Netflix.” Annabelle’s fingers traced idle circles on my thigh, the hum of distant moans and laughter bleeding through the floor. “I think I may be typecast.”
“You are TV’s Miss Sex.”
She laughed at that. “And you’ve fucked TV’s Miss Sex.”
“I will remember this day until I die!” I joked. “Whenever you come onto the television, looking so unbelievably fuckable, I’ll think back to you riding my prick and know how fucking amazing you are in the bedroom.”
Apart from Poppy, this was the first time I’d forged a human connection with someone I’d swung with. Gemma was more Renée’s friend than mine, and the litany of women we had met for one-off adventures paled into the background the moment we got home. Good blowjobs, tidy cunts, but there was never any spark. We’d come together for sex and nothing more.
But the celebrity laughed playfully; she smiled and beamed as I spoke. Our hands touched each other’s naked bodies as we drank our alcohol. I liked her. Not in the same way I loved Renée, and doubtless how Annabelle loved Paul, but we’d chatted for half-an-hour post-coitally, curled up in a private room, and enjoyed each other’s company. And I didn’t want this moment to end.
Annabelle’s fingers drummed against my thigh absently; muffled moans and rhythmic thuds hinted at the debauchery below. “Renée’s probably getting spit-roasted right now by those bankers.” Her tone held neither judgement, envy, nor jealousy. “Do you want to go and watch?”
“I’d rather eat you out to another orgasm,” I confessed.
“Oh, so one session with TV’s Miss Sex isn’t good enough, is it?” She laughed, giggling as I slipped from the sofa, and kissed the inside of her thigh. “God, man. Are you ever satisfied?” She moaned, feeling my tongue slide over her damp slit as my fingers probed her wet heat.
I went slower than before, idly taking her to desperate squeals and cries, before her cunt quivered and she orgasmed, spilling the dregs of her champagne over her nearly naked skin. The sweet wine dribbled over her flesh, and I licked a slow path over her stomach, tasting the fizz mixed with her sweat. She swore again as my fingers twisted deeper, drawing another climax from her bucking body.
And then a further image and memory that will remain with me for life: Annabelle’s sultry look as she wrapped her lips over the head of my prick and sucked on my cock. Her mouth was warm and insistent, her tongue swirling expertly around my dick until I could resist no longer and reached the point of no return. Despite my gasped warning, she clamped over my glans, swallowing my cum as I pumped wave after wave of blissful relief into the country’s sexiest celebrity.
We’d been gone for over an hour, and we reluctantly dressed and walked downstairs. Renée was no longer with the six bankers being spitroasted, but Annabelle watched her husband fuck a blonde-haired MILF, or maybe even a GILF, who was in a sling in the “bondage room.”
He didn’t see her, as Paul rubbered up and shot his load inside thirty seconds. And I understood why she was so keen to attend these parties; she pushed me out of the doorway before her husband saw her, and we returned to the main lounge, quietly swapping phone numbers before I sought my partner.
Renée had had a fantastic time, and held a wad of banknotes triumphantly. “I had a bet that I couldn’t make Hughbert’s wife squirt. Lydia lost it,” she said, almost beaming. Her excited, playful demeanour reminded me why I loved her so much.
But that night I could not shake Annabelle from my thoughts. The unattainable pipedream of the Channel 4 presenter had been very attainable during the party, and I had her private number in my address book.
Renée wouldn’t care if I messaged her.
She wouldn’t mind if I met her for sex.
But I had to tell her.
We had to have no secrets. Swinging had to strengthen our relationship.
