Swinging in the Decades

"Nice body. I think they call it voluptuous," he said, "and mighty fine tits. Really like tits you can get a grip on." A hand was cupping my mound again. "And a natural redhead. That was a surprise."

He was talking like I took football players every Tuesday and Thursday—which was probably what he believed as I hadn't objected to the plans. It didn't matter that I was too dopey and inexperienced to have tried to assert any control. I wasn't answering him, other than in moans as his fingers explored in my folds, a thumb going to my clit and two other fingers entering me and slowly moving in an out. I gasped as another of the fingers entered my ass—and then another. Brady's fetish came to mind.

"You open right away," he whispered. "You've done this before."

Yes, I thought, still gasping and taking in gulps of air as he worked his fingers inside me, I most certainly have done this before. But just with Brady. With my husband. Only with my husband.

He probably didn't require me to say anything. I was just another lay to him. Just getting his rocks off. Exercising a privilege he had as a star football player. Not exactly like my vision of just another star athlete, though. He was spending time and effort on me.

I should have been insulted by how matter-of-fact he was with it. But it helped, really. The impersonal nature of it—his feeling of victory by natural right helped me.

He went down on his knees between my thighs and he had his face pushed into my pelvis and his tongue between my folds. I arched my back and moaned all the way down the chromatic scale. I dug my fingers into the curly blond hair on the back of his head and wantonly held him close into me. This is something that Brady had never done to me—for me.

He was standing and smiling and was fingering another packet, his cock engorged again. "Guess they'll still be at it for a while," he said. "You're really nice. Nice smooth skin. Love the red hair. And I'm horny again."

He gave me a questioning look and held the condom packet up. "Why bother now?" I murmured, my mind going to the second the first condom gave way and the higher plane of pleasure his ejaculation deep inside me had given me.

This was a one-time fantasy we were playing, after all, wasn't it?

Pete turned me onto my stomach, my feet still on the floor, One of his arms encircling my waist and holding my hips off the bed at the angle he wanted. He was cupping my throat—but pretty gently for a man as beefy as he was—and arching my spine. I groaned and gave a little cry as he entered me again from the rear and began to slow pump me. The friction of skin on skin now. Nothing like it. Brady and I didn't do that, not wanting children any time soon. After he got started he moved his hands to cupping my breasts and thumbing my nipples.

This time his touchdown was synchronized with one by San Diego on the TV. He flooded me in three strong spurts, and I felt in flowing down the sides of his cock and dribbling down my thighs.

We held there for moments, I, at least, savoring the fuck, not being sure how he felt—at least until I felt him thickening again. The glorious of youth and an athlete in his prime, I thought. He took one hand from my breasts and move it to my mound again, finding both my clit and my cunt, as he withdrew his cock.

I moaned, sensing what was coming next.

"I want you the other way. You're open. You've done it before."

He waited a fraction of a moment, probably to see if I was try to deny to, to deny I'd done it before. But I had done it before. It was a favorite of Brady's, especially if he was randy where it was inconvenient to have protection. I gasped as Pete entered my ass, slowly but relentlessly. Thicker than Brady. All consuming. But when he was fully saddled and started to slow pump me, and I moved with him, giving him assurance that I would accept it. We sighed in unison as he latched his teeth onto the scruff of my neck, and I trembled underneath him.

Brady just sat there on the sofa in the living room, his shirt open and his cock laying, flaccid, on his naked thigh, a silly grin on his face, as I saw Cassie and Pete to the door. Pete had withdrawn into himself again, and Cassie was bubbly as usual, impeccably clothed in her designer outfit as if nothing had happened. The only sign in her that anything had happened was that her hair was down. It had been up, piled on her head in a beehive, the last time I'd seen her in the bedroom.

I was more embarrassed now than any time earlier in the evening. I was trying to hold the blouse closed over my tits and the skirt I had quickly pulled up my legs looked like it had been wadded up and thrown in a corner. There was no reason to be embarrassed around Pete; he had seen and handled everything. But I was embarrassed in his presence now that we were standing by the door and muttering pleasantries—or at least Cassie and I were. Pete had withdrawn inside himself again and was acting antsy to be gone. Some of the West Coast games had another quarter to play. I was finding it hard to face Cassie, though, although she wasn't having any difficulty jabbering cheerily.

After they left, I marched over to in front of Brady, gave him the evil eye—which he didn't deign to acknowledge—and then flounced into the bedroom, slammed the door, and locked it. I decided that was a good approach to the feelings I wanted to get across to Brady. The locking of the door was an empty symbolic gesture, though, as we both well knew it could be unlocked with a paper clip. When Brady had popped the lock and entered the bedroom in full erection, it was almost with relief that I opened my arms to him. We coupled with an unprotected abandon that resulted nine months later, after Brady had graduated and started his first job, with me in labor with our first son, Brian, rather than resuming my college studies.

When I came out of the bedroom the next morning, slightly hung over by what I had imbibed the previous night, Brady was sitting at his desk, reading a business book, as if nothing had happened the night before.

I didn't say anything either, nor did Cassie, when I saw her at the university the following Wednesday. I didn't see Pete for another ten years. That doesn't mean I didn't think of the evening I'd been with Pete throughout that time, even though I assumed he'd forgotten all about me and just gone on to his next willing woman.

His next lucky woman, I'll have to admit, if I'm being honest.

* * * *

The letter from Cassie, addressed to both of us, but Brady had opened it, came in September of 1989. If I'd gotten to the letter first, I might have tossed it before Brady saw it.

"She asks if we remembered New Year's Eve of 1979," Brady said.

Of course I remembered. I'd never forgotten Pete—never had stopped fantasizing about Pete. That doesn't mean I'd done anything like that since, though.

I made a noncommittal noise that could mean almost anything. Brady didn't require more from me. He already was salivating.

"She says they can be in Chicago for New Year's and reminded us that we had agreed we'd make getting together on the decade New Year's a regular event."

I didn't remember any such agreement. But I was already thinking of that heavily muscled torso of Pete's and the size of his cock. And his head between my legs. Brady still hadn't done anything like that to me—for me.

It had been a mixed ten years for Brady and me. His wagon had, indeed, zoomed up into the sky. He was a vice president of marketing now for his international firm and was based in Chicago, although he made frequent trips out of town. I'd never gotten back to school after the birth of Brian, who was followed the next year by Billy. I was still doing secretarial work, although now it was for a high-level executive in a major law firm in Chicago. That and childcare were all I could manage. I had to work, though. It always seemed we never had enough of the money we needed for the toys Brady wanted.

Over the last ten years I'd had two beautiful boys—and Brady had had three affairs. That he had eventually admitted to. I was a stick-it-out sort of gal, though, and Brady had always come back to me. And there were the two beautiful boys to think about.

I sometimes had thought of cheating on Brady too just for revenge, but after that New Year's Eve in 1979, I'd decided that he wouldn't care—that he might even want to go down the swinger road with me by his side and available to other men, which I wasn't ready to do. At least when I wasn't thinking about Pete. But I'd been weak—and stupid—then. Now I had two beautiful children to think of.

"Really, Brady," I said. "The eighties didn't turn out as we fantasized them then. We've grown up, haven't we?"

Apparently not, because Brady answered Cassie that we'd love to do a repeat to ring in 1990. They could come to our house.

"We have children, Brady," I said, pursing my lips, but other lips already getting a little wet in remembrance of Pete.

"Who your parents have already said they'd love to have visit them over New Year's."

All resistance was for naught, however, as Cassie and Brady made the arrangements between them.

If it had been a little rough for Brady and me in the ensuing decade—if not financially—it had been worse for Cassie and Pete. Not for Cassie. She'd graduated, gotten a great decorating job in New York City with the help of her DuPont name, and was as bubbly and floating along in the cream as usual. Pete hadn't graduated from college. He'd failed too many courses, blown his knee out in an all-star game, wound up taking an electrician's program, and joined the army.

Cassie had carried him financially, keeping him for reasons that I well understood, even though he'd only fucked me that one night. Meanwhile, our Christmas cards from them suggested that they embraced the swinger and open-marriage lifestyle we had decided would be the earmark of the eighties. Cassie wasn't shy about noting the notches on her girdle or about being catty about some of the women Pete had laid.

When I opened the door on New Year's Eve, though, it was only Cassie—not appearing to have aged a day in the last ten years—standing there.

"It's just me," she said cheerily. "Pete's with the army in Panama."

I hadn't thought about that in relationship to Panama. I knew Pete was in the army, mostly working on the electronics of battle tanks, if Christmas cards were to be believed, but I hadn't connected that with the U.S. invasion of Panama a week and a half earlier to bring down the regime of Manuel Noriega.

"Well . . ." I said.

"Well, come on in," Brady said from behind me. "Shit, you're looking luscious as ever," he added and he put out a hand and drew Cassie past me.

I wondered for a while how this was going to work out. I had no intention of sharing Brady with Cassie in bed. In the event, though, they didn't have any such intention either. They disappeared upstairs at 11:30, while I was still in the kitchen whipping up dessert. Cassie hadn't brought anything to add to supper this time other than herself.

I sat there, stirring far too much sugar in my tea and eyeing the dobosh torte I had wasted the afternoon constructing and trying to think how this had gotten so out of hand—how I let Brady push me around like this. And Cassie too.

I almost didn't hear the doorbell ring.

It was Pete, standing there in his military uniform, looking very spiffy and hunky. He had matured in those ten years, but it all had moved into a package that, if anything, was a bit more broad in the chest and narrow in the hips and more arousing than he'd been as a university football player.

He looked sad, though, and a little confused.

"We were told you were in—"

"I was furloughed for New Year's," he answered in a little boy lost voice. "Had a rough Christmas. Lost some buddies."

"By all means come in, then. There's a torte and tea in the kitchen." What a silly thing to say to a hunky soldier on your doorstep, I thought. I was flustered. He was doing things to me internally just by standing there and looking for vulnerable.

"Cassie's upstairs," I added, "with Brady." Also not such a bright thing to say.

"I didn't come for Cassie," he said.

We fucked in the guest room—Cassie and Brady were in the master bedroom and having quite a session of it from what I could hear. Or rather I fucked Pete.

We disrobed, quickly, and lay on the bed in an embrace—but we'd only started into tentative foreplay when he began to cry. Not in soft sobs but almost blubbering.

Out poured the complete story of how they were called in to try to get a tank moving that was outside of the presidential palace in Panama City, and a Noriega supporter had lobbed a Molotov cocktail into the turret. Pete's buddy who he was working on the recalcitrant tank's circuitry with only had time to shove Pete up and out of the tank before the bomb went off inside, killing two soldiers Pete had worked with for a couple of years.

"It's OK," I murmured—although it wasn't really OK. I wanted Pete to fuck me. "We'll just lay here and I'll hold you."

We rocked against each other, which turned Pete on enough that he got hard and seemed to want the comfort of sex. He had come with condoms, but I would have taken the risk, if he hadn't.

I pushed him onto his back and mounted his cock and rocked back and forth on it until he became so overtaken with want that he rolled over on top of me and took me deep and totally.

I held him close again when he was spent, listening to his breathing calm down and then regularize as he dozed. I went to sleep too. I have no idea what time of night it was—how far into 1990 we were—when he woke me, stroking my breasts with one hand, two fingers of his other hand inside my ass.

"What I really want—" he started to whisper. But I didn't let him finish. I brushed my lips across his, turned on my belly, and raised up on my knees. Immediately he was covering me, close on top of me, his lips buried in the back of my neck, a hand cupping one of my breasts, and the fingers of the other hand exploring in the folds of my cunt. I trembled and jerked a bit as his cock slid into my ass. The friction of skin on skin. No condom wanted. I hummed slightly, contentedly, as he started stroking inside me slowly . . . and then I writhed and screamed out encouragement as he stroked faster and faster until we orgasmed almost simultaneously after it seemed he'd fucked my ass for hours.

The next morning Cassie seemed surprised to see Pete at breakfast—just with a towel around his waist. But it was more a surprise that he hadn't told her he'd gotten a furlough. She continued to flirt with Brady, and didn't appear to be giving any thought to whether Pete or I would be displeased.

She flirted with Brady enough that they disappeared back up to the master bedroom after breakfast. My answer to that was to return to the guest room with Pete and demand to have my towel back.

* * * *

Brady didn't consult with me in setting up the New Year's Eve event for 2000. I didn't really expect him to, although it surprised me that we—any of the four of use—continued to give thought to that "tradition." During the intervening decade since the Chicago meeting, I had learned that many of Brady's out of town trips had been to New York City and that he and Cassie had entered into a sporadic and long-term relationship.

I, in turn, had retreated into raising my boys. Earlier in 1999, though, Brady had taken an assignment to head his firm's Paris office and had arranged for Billy to go to a boarding prep school. Brian was studying at the University of Delaware. My parents were operating as State-side home base for both of them.

"Can't very well take them to Paris with us, Ellen," he'd said. "They can't keep their studies on schedule if we do."

He was right, of course. But I didn't forgive him from taking away the only pleasure I had in life anymore. I barely spoke to him between September and New Year's Eve. And that might be why Brady didn't bother to tell me that our Christmas and New Year's trip to Zurich, partially on business, would include a traditional New Year's meeting with Cassie and Pete. It was only when we saw them walk into the lobby of our hotel in Zurich and Pete went over to the reception desk to check in that I learned that Cassie was working in Paris now too—and that she and Brady were meeting regularly.

Pete acted pretty much as always, like he was along for the ride and to carry Cassie's purchase. He was older now, and a bit stockier. But he'd managed to keep his body-builder's figure and was as blondly handsome as ever. Maybe more handsome than ever. He was out of the army and still living with Cassie and wasn't working at all at the moment, because he couldn't get an electrician's license in France and because Cassie didn't consider an electrician's job to be a real one anyway.

We ate dinner in the hotel restaurant, with Cassie and Brady chattering with each other like a long-married couple and Pete and I being mostly silent, with downcast eyes, except when we looked at each other when he thought the other one wasn't looking.

At the end of the meal, Brady pulled the key card of our hotel room out of his pocket and said to Pete, "Cassie and I will use my room. I trust you have the card to yours."

Pete looked a little embarrassed, and Cassie fished the key to their room out of her purse and handed it to him.

"You're looking good still. Still very good," I said quietly when Cassie and Brady were gone. "But, strangely enough, I don't feel like going to your and Cassie's room."

"Neither do I," Pete said, looking up at me shyly. "That pretty much explains our life now," he continued. "Cassie keeps the keys. She's the successful one. She and I—"

"Let's go for a walk," I said. "Zurich is beautiful at night in the snow. Let's walk down toward the lake."

Looking almost relieved, Pete said, "I'd like that. You're still looking lovely too. Sorry I didn't say that sooner. Redheads still get me."

And I'd love to be got by you, Pete, I thought. But I didn't say that.

We walked down the main street, lined with leafless trees festooned with fairy lights in their branches, to the banks of the lake and sat down on a bench facing the frozen lake. It was only about an hour to midnight, but there were still ice skaters out on the lake. There were others out walking, as we were, as well, all of us bundled up against the cold. Most of the other were couples and, like the two of us, were closely plastered to each other. I tried to tell myself that in our case it was for the warmth. But I knew I was fooling myself.

"I understand why Cassie stays with you," I said as our discussion on trivia was getting a little forced. "But I can't understand why you stay with Cassie."

"And I don't understand why you stay with Brady," he countered.

"I have children," I answered.

"But your children aren't with you."

"I know. But they should be. They were here for Christmas. They left just two days ago. So, I still have my children—sometimes."

"I don't have any children," Pete said. He said it with such regret that I went silent. I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to make him sad—any sadder than he already seemed to be. My mind fixated on my son, Brian, and the question I had often entertained on whether Pete really had no children. Brian was blond. There were no blonds on Brady's family tree. I couldn't help but wonder if Pete was thinking the same. Did he even remember what we'd done that night twenty years ago tonight—and that his protection had failed?

"You said that you understand why Cassie stays with me," he said after a few minutes of silence.

"You know why," I answered. "You are a divine lover. You should know you are. Cassie stays with you because you are hard bodied and have a cock to drive a woman crazy and can send a woman over the moon with your face between her thighs. I don't want to be crude, but let's be serious here. And that's not even mentioning the fetish of the ass fuck and how good you are at it."