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Fantasy - The First Time Hers

The weekend lay ahead, 4 more days. "You slut," I thought, reflecting on my expectations. It was a first date, and I was ready! Ready to . . . .

My husband brought flowers after work, stomping in the house as always, he handed them to me as I sat with my wine. They were pretty fall colors, from the grocery; mums mostly, in oranges and golds with a half-dozen yellow roses for drama. "What's this for?" He just smiled, leaned down and kissed my forehead.

He brings flowers often, a couple of times each month. He is a special man and loves me a lot, never hesitating when I come home from a shopping trip to model a new dress or new lingerie. He likes to show me off, and I readily oblige. At more than 6 feet tall, his head is above mine, even when I wear heels, which I often do to accentuate my above-average stature. My legs are long and, although I've passed the 6-decade mark, still have a nice shape. I'm "of a certain age," but heads on much younger men still turn my direction as we walk into a restaurant, particularly when I humor my husband and wear one of his favorite low-cut dresses. I'm still laughing after last week. The outfit, a dark blue lacy number, exposed a generous helping of cleavage and was slit to my waist, offering a lot of leg when I sat down. My husband beamed as he pulled back my chair, and, as I sat, a waiter stumbled into the next table, spilling water everywhere. The men at the table continued staring at me, laughing at the hapless waiter. They bought a round of drinks for our table.

I don't think about it, but it's easy to agree with my husband, who compliments my looks quite often. My long black hair contrasts with my very light skin tone, making a classic "Winter" color palette. I can be striking in black or navy, with silver dangling from ears and wrists. But I don't really think about it except when he wants to do a photo shoot.

An accomplished amateur photographer, my husband's camera quite often finds his favorite model: ME. There is something about the camera that makes me come alive. Everything works. My skin tightens, my face glows, and my sex starts a familiar tingle. When I feel the moisture between my legs, I know the photos are going to be good. Photos of my breasts, framed with an open blouse. Photos of my sex, peeking out underneath a short tee-shirt. Photos of my nipples in silhouette. Photos of me, head thrown back, arms up, gloriously naked. Anyone looking at the photo knows what I'm thinking: "Come on, Big Guy. I WANT it. Give it to me." Unfortunately, almost no one ever gets to see these photos. My husband likes to show me off, but not THAT much.

But back to the flowers . . . "Honey?" I turned over in bed to face him. "Um-humm?" "You ever thought about swinging? You know, trading partners?" "Maybe. But you are my man." "Yeah, but you are so incredibly sexy. It might be fun to see you with another guy." "Go to sleep, you old fool!"

But I couldn't get it out of my head, and obviously, neither could he. The topic came up during one of our photo sessions, then again as we were fantasizing during sex. And now it was almost real. This weekend. Four days more . . . .

I had a new teddy. Navy with peek-a-boo lace and white lace accents. Navy panties that were little more than a triangle of lace attached to strings. They covered my lower lips, but not much more. He had met a couple and we were going to their house for drinks and . . .

The 4 days went by without notice. Then it was Saturday. My stomach was churning, my heart pounding as we rang their doorbell. Then, WHOA, a strikingly handsome man in his 40s and a gorgeous woman had opened the door and were reaching for hugs.

Inside, we made drinks and moved to an open airy room. She motioned for my husband to sit on a sofa, then she nestled in beside him, folding her legs to expose creamy thighs. Her husband took an overstuffed chair to the side, and patted his lap for me to sit with him. My left arm went to his shoulder, my knees drawn up, dress falling open from my waist. Neither guy needed much encouragement. I felt his hand on my thigh almost immediately. Small talk opened, as did her blouse. My husband didn't hesitate his quest to fondle her now-exposed breasts.

I was trembling all over and the Kegel muscles in my sex were in constant spasm when she suggested that the girls go to the other room to change. I brought the tiny bag with my new Teddy and followed her. Stripping what remained of her skirt and blouse, she turned to me. My dress, mostly undone by her husband, was on the floor. I had gone commando, and stood naked as she approached. I wasn't surprised by her kiss, our breasts pressing together. I was surprised by my response, which was to thrust my tongue deep in her mouth, tasting the excitement flowing between us.

Without thinking, I followed her onto the bed, clinging, grasping each other as our mouths locked together. She maneuvered me until I was on my back, legs apart as her tongue dived deeply into my sex, pressing my clit and bathing in the cum pumping out from the instantaneous orgasm. Moans and supplications, from both of us, followed. I slowly returned to post-orgasmic reality, to see my husband, naked, on the bed and caressing her skin. Her husband had thrust his hand between us and was rubbing my clit, almost setting me off again.

So THIS is what swinging feels like, I mused, happily exhausted and relaxing into the next phase of the experience. My "swinging cherry" had been delightfully destroyed.