Jazz Swinging

NOTE TO ALL: As always, this story was dick-tated by me to my husband, who's a much better typist than I am. So any typos are Mike's fault, not mine. Also as always, this really happened entirely as described; sorry, I don't do fiction.

When Mike first suggested, out of the clear blue sky, that we take a ride to a jazz club in a fancy hotel lobby downtown, the type of place we wouldn't ordinarily be interested in in a locale we never bothered about, I was puzzled at first. But then I caught him ogling me with that sort of hungry, burning intensity that I'd caught so many men throwing my way, so many times. It spelled one thing, and one thing only: somehow, some way, this was about SEX, really--about ME, being roundly fucked. Suddenly, I wasn't puzzled anymore; I was excited!

As I started to get myself dressed and put together, he gave the game away completely by insisting that I make myself look, and I quote, "as hot and sexy as possible." Still a little confused, though; Mike had insisted on it being just the two of us, without either of our newfound MMF group-sex, Hotwife-swinging partners, Tom or Zach, along to help us, ummm, more fully enjoy the outing. So what exactly did my dirty-minded man have in mind for me tonight, anyway?

But never mind, no matter; I let my thick, curly locks fall loose and wild across my shoulders the way he likes, and slipped into a VERY scanty and revealing little dress, with my favorite black stripper-pumps completing my little cum-hither, cum-one, cum-all ensemble. I was eager to see what developed, just brimming with raw lust and anticipation.

We went into the cocktail lounge in the Radisson lobby, walking past a jazz trio sawing away at something completely incomprehensible to me, being careful to keep several feet distant to maintain the pretense that we weren't together as a couple, making me more approachable. As we reached the bar, though, the staid lobby atmosphere seemed to have changed radically, provoking me to swing and swivel my wide, curvy hips quite outrageously under the thin fabric covering them--a display of sexual fireworks I wasn't even aware I was setting off at first. We took seats at the end of the bar, which was nearly elbow-to-elbow with well-put-together, obviously on-the-prowl men so horny you could practically see the pheromones coming off them in waves.

Yep, looked like this WAS my kind of place after all!

As I looked our surroundings over a little more closely, I started to feel that familiar, swoopy little tingle in my stomach and between my legs that signaled the ramping-up of my own incurable, insatiable horniness. I had already scoped out several likely prospects who might be worthy of admission into Christiana's (Not) Secret Garden of Carnal Delight tonight. The lust I felt grew quickly, making my head swim and my face flush. Unbeknownst to me just then, Mike had booked a room for us while I was getting (somewhat) dressed, well aware of how this was likely to end up, according to his Slutwife's well-known proclivities. I was beginning to plot the practical aspects of how tonight's hot sex scenario might unfold. I was confident that my naughty husband had definite ideas himself on that already, so I was content to just sit back and follow his lead.

For now. But if you'd told me how quickly my sit-back-follow-lead interlude was going to come to its abrupt end, I would never have believed it.

I had just downed a big swig of my first cocktail, amounting to fully half of it; struggling to choke it all down, I looked up through watering eyes to see the bartender watching me, throwing me a coy smile and a suggestive wink, making me blush even harder than I already was. Maybe my interpretation of that wink as suggestive was no more than wishful thinking on my part; Lord knows, I desperately wanted to believe he'd sussed out what I was here for. He was an attractive man, young and virile and nicely built, leading me to assess him as a primo anony-fuck candidate before I'd even checked out anyone else. As an incorrigible natural-born exhibitionist, the thought of him knowing all about what kind of cock-whore I really am was a tremendous turn-on for me, however unlikely a fantasy it may have been.

On the other hand, though, how could he NOT know? Here I was, sitting at the bar guzzling whiskey on the rocks like water; wearing a clingy, tight-fitting, nearly transparent little dress and stripper-heels; I was to all appearances unburdened by any male companions; I had given him an unmistakably flirtatious smile when I ordered my drink, even going so far as to lean waaaay over the bar when he came back with it so he couldn't help but catch himself a bodacious eyeful of the enormous, braless boobs veritably falling out of my sweet nothing of a dress. I might possibly even have batted my eyes at him; in fact, now that I thought about it, I KNEW I had, several times. I believe I licked my lips in a lewd and lascivious manner for him also.

Ideally, this hot barkeep was hip and learned enough to know what a '20s Flapper Girl was. Whether he did or not, he had just observed a note-perfect recreation of the 21st-century version, with especial emphasis on the wanton, hedonistic penchant for sexual profligacy the originals had been notorious for.

As I was turning all this over in my dirty little mind, that's when I felt a strong, male hand take hold of my upper arm. I spun the stool around all set to chew some poor fool out for grabbing me unawares, thereby interrupting my absorbing rumination on bartenders being transformed into random fuck-buddies, stopped short by the sudden realization that I was face to face with one of the most handsome, bedazzling smiles I ever had the pleasure to behold. Thick, wavy black hair, cut short but not too short; clear blue eyes that seemed to dance as he made a production of looking me over from head to toe, sloooowly; tall, lean but not skinny, quite obviously bedazzled his own self by the vision of lovely, scantily-clad Hotwifeliness returning his bright smile with interest.

My prestissimo barstool about-face brought him so close I could catch subtle hints of an expensive, pleasant-smelling cologne or aftershave; his overall affect was of confident, entirely charming manliness, leaving me breathless with desire and anticipation. Who WAS this attractive, sexy stranger? How DARE he beguile a jaded, experienced trollop like me so thoroughly, so effortlessly, before either of us had said a single word? How had he penetrated my womanly defenses? Speaking of, how fast could I get naked for him, lie down, spread my legs, and have him penetrate ME?

Although by then I was no longer a newcomer to the ranks of confirmed Slutwives, and I had freely confessed how much I enjoyed my newly-awakened sexual wildness and freedom to both my husband and the men he had shared me out with--at this point, mainly just our friends Tom and Zach, excepting the amazing trip with Zach and his wife Janelle to the Glory Hole bookstore I've recounted here before, along with our likewise-gratifying topless-bar Amateur night--my emotions were still somewhat conflicted and confused about all this. Even in the middle of the festivities, I would now and then feel a twinge of doubt, almost guilt, over the forbidden acts I was indulging in.

Not that I was hindered by those feelings, of course. Honestly, I enjoyed them too; on the infrequent occasions they'd put in an appearance in my head, I noticed how much stronger my orgasm was, how much less time it took to surge through me. Before long, I came to appreciate those feelings, then to actually look forward to them. They soon became another important part of the thrill, a welcome enhancement of my Slutwife journey.

But not today, or at least not yet, anyway. I leaned in closer still, pressing my bodacious boobs against First New Stud's chest and made a try at speaking coherently to him, something assertive, inviting, and brassy, letting him know I was no run-of-the-mill bar babe, no ordinary temptress. Unfortunately, all I managed to gasp out was a weakly-moaned "Yes! Yes! Yes!" into his ear. I was mortified by my atypical discomposure, particularly since I had been in full-bore Predatory Slut mode up til that moment, reduced from seductress extraordinaire to gibbering, clumsy buffoon by a pretty face.

I put a hand over my mouth, astonished at this sudden belly-flop into tongue-tied sexual neuroticism. Try as I might, there was absolutely nothing at all in my mind in that delicate moment but an overwhelming desire for this stranger's cock--I wanted it, badly, more than I'd ever wanted anything in my entire life! I hoped it was a big one. The instant that thought appeared, it was brushed aside as just ridiculous. I mean, really now, how on earth could a specimen as perfect as this be anything BUT deliciously well-hung? It was impossible!!

Before I even realized I was doing it, my other hand had found his sculpted thigh, climbing to his crotch on its own initiative, rubbing his stiffening Christiana-pleaser through his tailored slacks.

OHHHH yes, he had a big one all right! I KNEW it! My confidence and aplomb fully restored by having been proved right, I licked and sucked his earlobe, murmuring sotto voce pleas for him to please, please, PLEASE take me up to my room this minute, get on top of me, and fuck me positively stupid. He plowed me under with that wonderful smile of his again, gave me a long, probing tongue-kiss, stood up and pulled me up and into him in a fierce embrace.

Draining our drinks, he then marched my ready, willing, and oh so available self over to the elevators, still not having uttered Word One to me yet. I turned my head for a quick look back at my grinning husband, who was watching this warp-speed-seduction take place with obvious glee. I gave him a weak, boozy smile, holding my new stud's hand as he pulled me along in trail. Finally he spoke to me, asking, "Who's that guy you were looking at just now? Do you know him or something?"

I blushed almost purple and made a full confession: "Yes, he's my husband, actually. Don't worry though, it isn't a problem; we do this sort of thing now and then, by mutual agreement. He actually gets off on it almost as much as I do. Maybe even more than, in fact." My new man snorted a laugh at that, then said, "Oh, so THAT'S what kind of woman you are, huh? Maybe he'd like to come along with us and watch me fuck his hot, sexy wife silly? If he did, I'd be okay with it, it would be a lot of fun for me too."

I stammered, "Yeah? You sure? Because honestly, I really get off on having an audience. Having Mike watch me taking a stranger's cock and knowing how much it arouses him makes the whole experience just crazy-hot for me! You really wouldn't mind? Because if you don't, I'll go back and tell him to come on up. Taking you both on, either one at a time or together, would be INCREDIBLE for me!! Hell, just the thought of walking back over there and telling him is making me wetter than I already was!"

With that, New Stud released my hand, kissed me again, squeezed my butt, and then gave me a gentle little shove in that direction. I have to say, my pre-walk-of-shame Walk Of Shame, public as it was--a whole room full of horny men now knowing beyond doubt exactly what I was up to, right before their very eyes--had me practically delirious. This was an erotic buzz like none I'd ever experienced before.

Mike's knowing, wicked smirk as I wobbled and weaved my way over to his table made it all the more intense, more exciting for me. I moaned, "You coming up too, or what?" He stood, gave my ass a firm squeeze of his own, then kissed me so damned roughly I nearly fell over. I knew full well why he'd done it: he was making good and sure that everybody in the joint knew full well that his pretty, shameless Slutwife was about to take on two men at once. They'd all just watched me kiss one man and then another, in a manner no one could mistake as "just friends," both men apparent strangers to me, and clearly I didn't care who'd seen me do it. Mike had made a statement with his kiss/grope, a blatant declaration of sexual intent. He knew me well enough to know what an exquisite turn-on this public exposure and humiliation would be for me.

He was right, as usual.