The Network Ch. 01

Part 1: Quintet Rising.

I originally posted this piece, intended to be the first of a sequence, while writing as JackieH. If you read the earlier version and didn't like it you won't like this one any more; it's changed only very slightly in this version, mainly in respect to some of the names used, to make it consistent with what follows, and in some of the details.

*

"Remember at all times, Jayne, that The Network is exclusive. It's invitation only. It has strict criteria for you being accepted and it has rules; there aren't many of these but they are rigid. If you break the rules you don't come back a second time. Do you want me to go on?"

"I'm intrigued. Why were we invited?"

"We choose our 'friends' very carefully, and we research their backgrounds thoroughly. Some members of The Network are professionals who have access to more information than you'd think possible; you'd also be surprised -- maybe alarmed -- at how much data is available about you out there in the public domain ..."

"OK ... but why choose us?"

"You were recommended by a 'friend'. You won't find out who that was, unless she chooses to tell you of course, and you won't meet her at one of our gatherings either. That would be bad planning on our part and potentially very risky."

"So, tell me how we 'qualified'."

"To be acceptable to us there are boxes to be ticked. Aged 30+? Yes. Married? Yes. Childless? Yes. Any evidence of infidelity or marital discord? No. Financially sound? Yes. Beautiful? Not necessarily. (We don't want to rule out 95% of the population before we start.) Attractive? Yes. (Within reason ... we don't want to 'frighten the horses'.) Open-minded about sex? Yes (We wouldn't be having this conversation if you weren't, would we?) Track record of 'Swinging'? Definitely not. (Too big a security risk.)"

"And we fit all those criteria? Any more?"

"The most important one ... we have to like you."

*

The divan bed was extremely comfortable and obviously expensive. It was firm in support yet rich in feel to the skin. Unusually, it had been moved well away from the wall behind it and there was no headboard. One sheet only covered it, while three generously fluffed pillows allowed the woman now lying on it to rest her neck comfortably while still being able to see everything else in the room.

"And," thought Jayne, "everyone else in here... How completely bizarre to be on my back, on a bed, fully dressed, in a strange room, in an unfamiliar house, with seven other adults of similar age grouped round in attendance." Like the bed, and like the rest of the house, the room itself spoke of expense; tasteful, understated and rich. No harsh overhead lights, just a diffused spread from under pelmets and low-placed wall lamps. Restful, but plenty of light to see by. And the seeing, over the next hour or so, was going to be very important. No visual distractions either, she noted for the first time. Nothing on the walls to tempt the eyes of the others, even for a moment, from the woman on the bed.

There was soft music from concealed speakers, she noticed too; nothing she recognised, not vocal, maybe some easy jazz with a low, pulsing beat, crafted to relax, to reassure. Is that what she needed, reassurance? Slowly, almost dream-like, she turned her head to look round the room for one last time before The Quintet started. "And not a musical quintet either," she reflected. "The instrument to be played here is me..."

*

"You'll be guest-of-honour on your first night, so you can pick the arrangement. There are eight to choose from, since there'll be four couples involved. Hardly any new friends choose the first two, Solo and Duet, but feel free if that's what turns you on. Trio and Quartet are probably the most popular. The others range from Quintet, through Sextet (and don't choose it for its name alone!), Septet to Octet."

"Do I get to pick the composer too?"

"Oh my lovely, we're the composers in these arrangements ... we're not talking about music now ..."

*

To her right, sitting on the edge of the divan and holding her hand -- more quiet reassurance -- was her husband, David. Except that David wasn't his real name, any more than hers was Jayne. Nobody in this room was using real names this evening, even though some -- like those of the hosts -- were known. Network rule number one: anonymity. David was smiling at her though, with a hint of what could have been pride in his eyes, as he gave her right hand the tiniest of squeezes.

Her left hand was being held gently too, by the second male in the room, sitting on the other side of the bed, opposite her husband. For a moment she felt suddenly disconcerted by the fact that this was the hand where her wedding and engagement rings were, until with relief she remembered that she'd left them at home on their own bedside table. This man too, smiled encouragement; she struggled unsuccessfully to remember the name he'd been introduced with. A third man was sitting behind her head, out of sight unless she craned right round, which she had no inclination to do. Having had the details of The Quintet explained to her, she knew exactly what his rôle in it was going to be. The fourth and final man -- their host -- was sitting on the floor, leaning slightly sideways against the foot of the bed; he was in some very quiet conversation with the three other women in the room who were on low chairs further away from the bed. They each held wine-glasses from which they sipped, occasionally and slowly -- Network rule number two; very light drinking only, and strictly no drugs -- , and smiling at Jayne whenever she caught their eyes.

"Everyone's smiling but me," she thought, "it's like a convention of Cheshire Cats in here. But that's just nervousness, because it's the first time and I'm not sure how I'll react when it starts." And yes, the adrenalin was surging now, her breath slightly ragged, her heart thumping so that she feared they'd hear it. No-one took any notice.

The three other women, their conversation stopped, now settled themselves more comfortably to watch what happened. They were all, Jayne noticed, dressed in similar style to herself. She'd followed exactly the advice she'd been given about clothing. Make it elegant and tasteful and do the same with your choice of make-up and perfume. Make it a skirt, not a dress, and don't let it be tight-fitting. Make the top a blouse, something that opens down the front. Give the 'backman' a little easier time by making sure your bra is front-opening. Underneath you might like something satin; a petticoat, even if you don't normally wear them. Stockings always work well, rather than tights. And make the choice of panties just right, that's most important. Never anything blatant or outrageous or obvious. Same theme as with everything else. High-class. Tasteful. Not a hint of wantonness. And slutty would mean no further invitations, ever. The word 'bizarre' came back to her again, since she'd also been told that what would be said during her coming experience would have no such inhibiting rules of taste. It was an essential part of the fun, they'd explained, that the sophisticated and even demure surface trappings hosted a very different and more crude underside.

*

"Do you have a problem with 'Anglo-Saxon' language?"

"My English is pretty good I think..."

"I'm sure it is ... what I mean, though, is how you and your husband speak to each other when you're having sex. Is it clinical? Coy? Euphemistic? Or just 'raw'?"

"It depends on our mood, I guess. Normally I don't like swearing or bad language of any sort, but when things get hot we quickly get into the 'F***s and C***'s'."

"Effs and Cees. Said like that?"

"Oh no ..!"

*

There was no way of knowing if the other women were following the 'rules' for underwear. But she'd find out before too long, wouldn't she? The Quintet was nothing if not imaginative. Before the evening's end , if they played it right through, each of the men would have fulfilled each of the four male roles; each of the women would have had her turn on the bed; and all would have orgasmed.

Gail, the hostess this evening, stood up quietly and adjusted the dimmer switch down ever so slightly, the music volume up a touch. Jayne knew that those actions would gradually be reversed as The Quintet played through, with everyone wanting to see her and hear her. Gary, the host, kneeling now at her feet, reached out and touched her ankles very gently, and said, equally softly:

"You ready, Jayne?"

She nodded, dumbly.

"You have to say, Jayne, so there's no mistake. You have to say it out loud."

"I'm ready," she whispered, knowing that the time for going back was really long past. "Let's do it..."

There was no sudden rush to action, no unseemly hurry. At the bed's foot Gary gently stroked her calves, slipped off her shoes, ran the back of his hands along the soles of her feet, half-tickling, half-teasing. Her husband and his opposite number (Jayne was no longer even half-trying to recall the man's name) kept their light grip on her hands, and with their own free hands caressed her bare arms; a gentle, repetitive motion, fingertips only, from her wrists up past her elbows, then down the other side. The 'backman' concentrated on her long, dark hair, brushing it gently with his palms, over and over, using the tips of his fingers at each of her temples in that ancient gesture of calming and healing.

Everything was paced and timed, she registered, almost in rhythm with the music, but slowly building. The strokes became longer, still gentle, still comforting. And their movements were equally careful and considerate as they started to undress her...

*

Her husband first. Planned, she wondered, or spontaneous on his part? It didn't matter. David let his free hand move over to the front of her blouse, climbing up the ladder of buttons, a gentle press on each, then back down.

"Yes?" he whispered, and leaned forward to kiss her softly on the mouth. "Yes?"

Her mouth beside his cheek, in the smallest voice she answered, "Yes," and on sudden impulse added, "You know how much I love you darling?"

"I know how much we love each other", he smiled back; but as his fingers returned to the buttons of her blouse and started to undo them, she could feel a tremble in his movements. On her other side the man -- Mark, yes, that was the name she'd been told -- reached over to help, as they shared the task of opening her top, easing it up and out from her skirt, spreading it at her sides. Her stomach bare now, the two men switching strokes immediately from arms to midriff, tracing circles on her skin, around her navel, up to her bra, down her flanks, back to her tummy, insistent, unceasing, relentless. Almost hypnotic.

Then she jumped slightly as two more hands almost joined them; the backman reaching forward and cupping her breasts through the thin fabric of her bra. And somehow it seemed natural, not invasive. His mouth was beside her ear. He whispered, "Jayne? May I?"

"Oh ... yes, please do..." followed by an involuntary giggle from her, because her response had seemed so ludicrously formal. His hands busied themselves now, gently squeezing and rolling, feeling her respond through the silky, flimsy material, fingers seeking nipples, finding them, gentle pressure between thumbs and first fingers, the slightest twisting, careful pulling, playing, teasing.

"My husband's holding my hand and stroking me like a cat," she thought, "and watching a stranger play with my breasts. And he's loving it. I can see he's loving it. And, so help me, so am I ..."

The backman's hands moved inwards from her nipples until they met, just touching the central clasp of her bra. His face still beside hers, his voice persuasive and enticing. "Do we go on, Jayne? Your breasts are beautiful, you know that don't you? And your nipples are so stiff now. Would you like them played with some more? You just have to say ..?"

"Yes, I ... Yes."

"Tell me what you'd like me to do then, Jayne..."

"Unclip my bra."

"Why would I do that, Jayne?"

"So you can play with me..."

"What would you like played with, Jayne?"

She remembered in time the advice she'd been given about the language to be used.

"My tits," she whispered. "I want you to play with my tits."

The clasp was opened before she'd finished speaking, the bra parted and she spilled out. A moment of extreme embarrassment and uncertainty. She was big – 'buxom' was how David described her – but at 42 she knew she was fighting a losing battle with gravity. Unsupported, on her back, her breasts spread to the sides and she wondered if the others would be turned off.

*

They weren't. There were three pairs of hands playing with her now. The backman's attention was constant, exploring each breast in turn with his fingers, his palms, and – finally, leaning over her shoulder -- his lips. He was, Jayne realised, an artist at this. He'd lift a breast with one hand, squeeze gently with the fingers, kneading, extending the nipple, caressing it with the fingers of his other hand, twisting slightly, pulling slightly, toying with her; using just the tip of his tongue, then lapping with it, then pinching her between his lips. Jayne started to melt.

As he moved from one breast to the other his hands and mouth would be replaced by first her husband's and then by Mark's. No part of her upper body went unexplored, uncaressed, unkissed. Involuntarily, too, she moved slightly to meet their touches, wriggling gently, pushing upwards with her breasts, responding. Her breasts had always been especially sensitive. When she and David made love he'd play with them for what felt like hours before moving the focus further down. She wasn't porn-star sized, nor boastfully big, but big enough to drive her husband wild when she used them on him. One of his favourites was when she rode him, leaning forward, offering them to his mouth or just letting him watch them swing and bounce. They were the first part of what they called in their bed-language, irreverently, 'The Unholy Trinity', the 'Three T's'. The first 'T' was 'Tits'.

*

"And they're still fully clothed," she thought, moving her right hand the fraction needed to touch the front of David's trousers, registering his stiffness immediately, taking pleasure in it, holding him lightly through the cloth, squeezing a little, letting him know she wanted him happy too, even though this first part of the evening was really for her ... and almost immediately, realising what was expected of her, reaching down for Mark also, finding his cock, gripping it, and wondering almost dispassionately whether either man would come in his pants from just her softly wanking grasp and the games they were playing with her tits.

Gary's hands were moving higher now, too. Still the same gentle up and down sweep of palms and fingers, but increasingly more up, and up. Under her skirt. To the tops of her stockings. Finding the softness of her thighs. Up further. Finding her panties. Deliberately tracing round them, not centring, not probing, tracing their outline, stroking with thumbs across her covered mound, exploring the hair beneath through the expensive material, hooking thumbs under at the sides, easing them down, down further, past the stocking tops, past the knees -- kept close together -- down to the ankles, over the feet, and off. Taking her skirt by the hem and gently lifting it to her waist, and she still covered by the petticoat. Then that too, in its turn, lifted so slowly, laid across her stomach, revealing her, ("Unveiling me!" she thought, catching her breath) her legs still closed, her dark pussy-hair just visible above her hidden mons.

The women behind Gary stood up now, quietly, and moved forward; wanting to see what followed, inevitably. Gary slipped his hands under the tops of her thighs and eased her down the bed just far enough to bring her bottom to its edge; eased her legs apart; lifted them slightly until she felt David and Mark take over there, each supporting one of her thighs, lifting and separating, opening her, spreading her, spreading her wide, supporting her like stirrups, revealing her fully. There was no restraining here, no forcing. Her exposure was voluntary, their grasp supportive only. She felt the shivering pleasure of her situation increase, move up a gear. The hands, lips and tongue on her tits built the pressure further and now she was showing herself, blatantly, mischievously, to four almost complete strangers -- and three of them women, now murmuring appreciatively. Never before in her life had she exhibited herself in this wanton unabashed fashion for anyone other than her husband. In her head she heard again David's voice, reciting the litany: "The Unholy Trinity. The 'Three T's'. And the second 'T' is Twat."

"It's not the sight of my pussy," she realised. "The women are not being turned on, as Gary certainly is, by this wide-spread flaunting of what's between my legs. For him it's the forbidden thrill of suddenly being able to see, close-up, another man's wife's cunt. But for the women it's completely different. It's what this exhibition is doing to me that they're responding to; they're getting pleasure from watching what it's doing to me."

Gary's hands slipped down, underneath her bum, to lift it slightly off the bed, squeezing her cheeks as he did so. David and Mark spread her wider than she would have thought possible. She was beginning to open down there now, the lips of her pussy so moist, the inner pinkness beginning to show. "Oysters," she thought, "No, figs ... ripe, juicy, peeled-back figs..."

"You're gorgeous, Jayne," murmured Gary, his face the closest to her spreading wetness, "your wife is lovely David. Her face ... her hair ... her smile ... her tits ... her nipples ... And now this! You are so, so lucky. I wish this game had no rules, I'd so love to fuck her now. Should we open it up more? Jayne, would you like us to explore you further? Your cunt's absolutely dripping on me! Should the girls help get you there?" Network rule number three; Always, always, seek permission.

Jayne nodded, her breathing more difficult now. "Yes, please, I'd like that..."

The Quintet moved through Sextet (appropriate!) to Septet, as Gail then Amanda moved to join Gary between her legs.

"You're so juicy, Jayne," murmured Gail. "Juicy Jayne, should we call you..? It's making me cream myself too, opening you up like this," using her thumbs on either side to spread the twat-lips apart. "Would you like Amanda to frig your clit? Would that get you there? Get you off..?"

"Oh God, yes. Amanda, Amanda, stroke my clit for me ... and Gail, lick me out, please ..!"

"Lick you out or suck you off, my lovely?"

"Oh sweet Jesus, my tits, my clit, my cunt ... get a tongue in me, please!"

*

Gail leaned forwards and down, her lips slightly pursed, and brushed – her own lips closed – the fleshy lips beneath them, opening them even wider. Slipped out her tongue and tasted, so delicately, Jayne's creaming pussy. Nibbled her slick-wet pubic hair. Ran her tongue slowly up the whole length of the vulva, then all the way back down, resting it a moment as if savouring the taste, then twirling it more strongly around the other hole. Jayne began to quiver as the tongue lapped back up, first beside each outer lip and then, as Gail used her thumbs and forefingers to take those lips and ease them further apart, so the tongue could tunnel in, and in, explore. And Gail, too, proved herself an artist. She hit a rhythm in her tonguing, now forcing deep inside Jayne's cunt, lapping its ridges, sucking deeply on the way out; then wide-open mouthed over the whole pussy, sucking harder, almost suctioning the viscous cream into her mouth.