Written by Alex and Ann
26 Feb 2004
How Us Oldies Discovered Swinging
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I’m Alex and this is how I and my wife Ann discovered swinging – at the right old age of 60! The sexual revolution has not passed us greys by and sex at sixty is not seen as a ‘sin’. Incredibly, if anything greys are probably more sexually active than the forties couple who have slipped into a sexual neutral gear, their lives dominated by worrying over children at university, paying the bills and generally making ends meet, often sloping off to engage in illicit affairs.
Ann and I were comfortable with sex two or three times a week, depending on our energy reserves at the end of the day although I was always conscious that being very active, slim, attractive with a trim figure and superbly shaped legs, she might not say ‘no’ to a more frequent and varied bill of sexual fare. We occasionally discussed the subject, often over breakfast on a Sunday morning while mulling over the papers, and during one such discussion agreed that Ann would acquire some ‘tart wear’ – black seamed stockings, matching black lace panties, suspender belt, bra, basque and stilettos – expressly to spice up our sex.
It worked and our sex became instantly more creative with, amongst other activities, Ann enjoying providing me with fellatio and me supplying cunnilingus. We never discussed properly the suggestion - made in the heat and passion of our love-making -that we would invite a young, handsome, sexually rampant young man into our bed. It remained un-discussed, parked for future reference, something we might do on holiday in some torrid clime, should we meet the ‘right’ young man.
So, it came to us both as an interesting question when, out of blue, Joe and Pat, a couple we’d known for ages, also in their late fifties, phoned us to ask if we’d like to accompany them to a swingers’ party. It transpired that some six months previously they had attended a swingers’ party - out of pure idle curiosity – and had enjoyed the experience, with its edgy excitement of ‘sex with strangers’ and, far from recoiling from its perceived tackiness, had started to swing themselves with a number of like-minded couples. After recovering from the shock and the images of Joe and Pat participating in group sex with other couples, Ann and I too became very curious.
Our friends informed us that the couples ranged in age from late thirties through to seventies, were all professionals, well spoken, smartly dressed, healthy with active sex drives and on a mission to have some fun - and about as far removed as it could be imagined from the ‘trailer trash’ wife swapping end of the spectrum.
We didn’t answer immediately but decided to give it some thought. Over a long weekend we went from being distinctly affronted by the suggestion, through curiosity to an eventual acceptance of the idea and finally to a growing enthusiasm. We agreed to join Joe and Pat at their swingers’ party, on the basis of a cautious ‘let’s try it out, see what we think’.
We called them back and relayed our interest: “But, what do you do at these parties?” Ann asked. They laughed. “You relax, you dump your inhibitions and hang ups, you have fun, you have sex with a stranger and you enjoy it!”
“What do the women wear?” asked Ann.
“Well, it’s a bit predictable but most of us wear the black stockings, high heels, basque type gear,” responded Pat. “Hardly original, but all the men like it!”
Ever practical, Ann had to ask, “And do you all use condoms?” Joe and Pat were deadpan, “We don’t. You make a judgement. If you’re not at all sure or happy you use them. We’ve never been unhappy or unsure with any of the couples or singles we’ve met. And frankly, the damn things get in the way and harm your enjoyment!”
“And what do you do at these parties? I mean sex-wise?” persisted Ann.
Pat laughed, “You’ll probably meet another couple, you’ll talk, chat, laugh, discover you’re compatible, like each other’s company and you’ll either have a foursome or pair off and go to separate rooms. You’ll probably not spend the night with them. If they’re experienced swingers they’ll want to return to the party to meet new partners. At each of the parties we’ve been to there have been three or four single guys, nearly all thirty-ish, good looking, professional, City-types. So, Ann, you may wish to partner with a guy, one-on-one, or have him join you and Alex for a threesome.”
“Sounds all very sixties free love!”
“Maybe. Look, instead of asking us all these questions why don’t you and Alex come to one of the parties. Test drive one, put your toe in the water, see if you like it!”
“When’s the next one?”
“Saturday! Too soon for you?”
“No, don’t think so. Guess Alex is keen. I’m curious, give it a try!”
“Great stuff! Look, don’t think Joe will mind me telling you - since we started swinging our own sex life has improved massively. You know, we’re both now a lot more experienced than we were, and our one-to-one lovemaking has taken on a totally fresh and new life!”
In the event we both took to it like ducks to water. It was almost as if we’d been swinging for years. We became acclimatized very quickly and after attending three or four parties we both found it very natural that we should partner with a couple we’d not met before or engage with a single guy for a threesome. Nor did either of us feel uncomfortable separating at the parties to do our own thing, once we’d successfully partnered on arrival with an initial couple, returning to the party to seek fresh sexual excitement, to enjoy whatever was ‘on offer’ – a ‘husbandless’ wife, a ‘wifeless’ hubby, a threesome with another couple or, for Ann, one-on-ones with young single guys.
Despite all the discussions with Alex about swinging I was still very nervous at the thought of going to a party and having sex with a stranger - or indeed two or three strangers - while Alex was very confident in himself, of course, and very confident in my ability to be sexually alluring, relaxing, in command, and thus enjoy ‘fun’ sex with strangers. I mulled over my underwear and my dresses and skirts. I shaved my pubic hair away and made my legs smooth.
Since our first ‘swingers’ party was to be an evening affair (not a Sunday brunch as Joe and Pat had first thought) I put on my ‘tart wear’ – black seamed stockings, matching black lace bra, panties, and suspender belt, black high heels, black cocktail dress, knee length but with a side slit that I’d lengthened to reveal my stocking tops. I’d put on some red-edged Cuban heeled, very sheer 10 deniers, fully aware that they’d probably be badly snagged by the end of the evening. Alex had bought me matching gold ankle and waist chains (and a neck chain for himself) and decided to clip the chain to my left ankle, before I put on my nylons, claiming with an authority that I didn’t dare question that - on my left ankle - it would state that while I was married my hubby did not object to my being fucked by other men. NB: once we’d been swinging for a little while we both slipped very easily into the lexicon of sex – ‘cock’, ‘pussy’, ‘quimm’, ‘fuck’, ‘cunt’, ‘blow job’, ‘rubber’. ‘cum’, ‘anal’, ‘mouth fuck’, along with ‘straight’, ‘bi’, ‘tri-way’ – and our language would be modulated by our company. At swing parties and with our sex partners ‘fuck’ and ‘cunt’ et al came very easily.
My first ‘swing’ partner was Malcolm. Apprehensive, Alex and I met him and his wife, Jennie, soon after arriving at our first party, held in a large detached house in a leafy suburban crescent. Our hosts, a well-dressed, professional, mid-age couple, welcomed us like long lost relatives, thrust glasses of champagne in our hands, and swept us into a substantial, dimly lit room, busy with a dozen or so couples all fully engaged in earnest conversation. They embarrassingly announced us to the room as a ‘newcomers to the swing scene’ rushing us towards a number of couples. With too many names and faces swimming in our heads, we eventually stopped at Malcolm and Jennie. They, too, were fifties-somethings, both were physically attractive, Malcolm, in slacks and blue, button down, short sleeved Lands End shirt, was tall and well-built, slight paunch, and Jennie, shorter in black blouse that revealed a half-cup lacy bra, teamed with a tartan mini that allowed a fulsome glimpse of stocking tops.
I immediately learnt that ordinary conversation was not possible. My prospective sex partner would not discuss with a stranger his life’s history, career, profession, employer, nor his wife’s career, employer, or life history. We discussed instead hobbies and interests, holidays, sport, cars, politics, traffic congestion, his taste in women, my taste in men.
When a couple vacated a sofa we eagerly grabbed the opportunity to sit. Malcolm became more relaxed and that made me less tense. He was very engaging, a good conversationalist and knew a little about a lot. I said nothing as he stroked my knee, nor when he became a little more adventurous and his hand landed on my stocking top, fingers playing with suspender hooks. Quite the opposite: I suddenly felt very excited sexually, very sluttish, very keen to be fucked by this stranger. In short, I felt very much part of the ‘scene’, almost like I’d been to countless swingers’ parties before.
Relaxed, happy, enjoying Malcolm’s company, I began to exude sex appeal, a growing wave of self-confidence enveloping me. I was really enjoying this man’s attentions – a complete stranger to me – and silently urged his fingers to go higher, to feel the lace of my panties and stroke my pussy. I wanted to unzip his slacks and pull out his cock, stroke it, kiss it, suck it.
Then, of course he had to ask the question: why were we, Alex and me, at the party. I took one of Malcolm’s Super Kings. My first cigarette in donkey’s years! Shaming, but I was suddenly very nervous! I looked at Malcolm. I had to be honest. I explained to him, slowly, clearly, that Alex and I had two close friends who we’d discovered had been swing for some little while and they had invited us to try it out – ‘dip our toes in the water’. He looked at me, “Well, there’s only one thing I can say – let’s have some sex!”
I looked at him, straight in the face, “Yes, let’s” totally unaware of where the words had come from, completely lost in a torrid, sexually and sensually-fired mix of reality and fantasy, but – despite Alex and my earnest discussions and all my fears and apprehension – I now really wanted, eager, hungry, to be fucked by a man other than my husband: Malcolm, a complete stranger. I felt wanton, irresponsible, horny, free, promiscuous. In short, I felt very good.
Malcolm led, I followed, up the stairs until he found a small dimly lit bedroom with a narrow single bed. As we entered the room, he shut the door, and lent across to kiss my neck, his hands on my hips. He moved his head and we kissed. His breath smelt of cigarettes and alcohol. I brought my arms up and rested them on his shoulder. But, despite my sluttish eagerness to have him fuck me, Malcolm’s tongue, like some revolting crawling serpent, slid into my mouth. Ugh! A hand fell to my thigh then slid inside the slit of my dress, fingers playing with my stocking tops and suspender hooks. He broke away, “OK? Let’s get on the bed. More relaxing.” He took my hand and we walked across the floor to the bed side. He stopped and pulled his shirt out of his slacks, opening the buttons. His body was tanned, firm, not musclely, a little overweight but not gross by any means. A heavy gold chain hung across the black hair on his chest. “Unzip me?” I asked turning. He unzipped my dress and as I slipped out of it he brought his mouth down on my shoulder and bit hard, a hand sliding unceremoniously inside the front of my panties. “Shit!” I said loudly. “Sorry!” I turned. “Sorry, Malcolm I didn’t really want to go back to my husband covered in love bites!”
“Umm…why not? What about him being covered in love bites? Or him covering Jennie in bites or some other lady he meets tonight?”
“He doesn’t do love bites.”
“Tonight he’s a different person, You’re a different person. You both left behind the old, boring you when you come to a swingers party!”
I looked at him, intrigued. “Really? How come I’m a ‘different person’?”
“You’re here because you want some excitement, something different, live on the edge for a few hours, get some fresh experiences in your life, have some really good sex, not with your husband but with another man, a stranger, someone you may never see again, perhaps not want to, but for a half hour or so you’ll be on the edge, enjoying an experience you’ll never able to repeat…”
“Yes! You’re an attractive woman and you’ll probably have sex two or three times tonight, more if you’ve got the energy. Each experience will be different, unique, an experience that will take you to the edge where you’ll be in ecstasy, moaning in glorious ecstasy and whether it’s your pussy or your anus, a fuck or a blow job, each experience will be different. Believe me!”
“Why don’t we fuck then?” I laughed. Why don’t we fuck then? Said like an old timer!
He slipped off his slacks and joined me on the bed. We kissed. His tongue this time went into my mouth without a hint of revulsion, real or mental. His hands played with my stocking tops and suspender hooks, and at the front of my panties, while I stroked his head with one hand and another stroked his jockey pants. He felt big. Very big. Malcolm dropped his head and kissed my nipples through the lace of my bra. Suddenly I was moaning as he mixed a gentle biting of my nipples with a deep suck, an action he repeated seemingly endlessly as I heard my moans growing louder, more frequent and urgent. Then I felt his forefinger ease its way into my panties, show its surprise at my cleanly shaven state, and then into my pussy and, as his finger found and stroked my clitoris, my body shook. We kissed and, as he eased my panties away, I pulled at his jockeys, the heavy weight of his cock finally falling free. I broke away to take a look, feed my curiosity.
I’d not see another man’s cock since marrying Alex. Well, not quite true, but don’t tell Alex: I was actually fucked once when he was away on business in the States. A dear friend of ours, Alan, a good-looking guy. We went out for lunch, just drank too much and I invited him back to sober up before he returned to the office. Alan didn’t and we ended up in bed. A simple, drink-induced fuck. But it was enjoyable. It remained our dark secret until Alan sadly died in a car crash.
Malcolm’s cock was big, obviously much more well-endowed than Alex’s, longer, more girth. Ten inches? Jeez, how did a guy this advance in his years acquire the cock of a younger man? Well, Malcolm was a younger man once wasn’t he? He may have grown older but his cock had just refused to get smaller! I now felt even more sexy, sensuous, torrid, and wrapped one set of fingers around the large upright cock, transfixed in admiration of its length and promised potency. It was thick, hard, majestic. I pulled the foreskin back to reveal the large head and brought my mouth down over the enlarged tip. The taste was amazing! Behind the large head where the foreskin had provided its protection, it was a dusky, sweaty, dirty taste that all too eagerly I kissed and licked away. Sucking Malcolm really felt good! The first time I’d had another guy’s cock in my mouth since my little bit of ‘nookey’ with Alan many years before. I didn’t need any tips on how to give a guy a blow job! I gave Alex a ‘bj’ almost every week and knew how good I was by how much I’d take him into an uncontrollable ecstasy! Now it was Malcolm’s turn.
But Malcolm didn’t want to cum in my mouth. He wanted to fuck me. “No, babe. Not this time. I want pussy.” What Malcolm wants, Malcolm gets. Yes? I brought my head up as he pulled my panties away over my knees, leaving me to slide them away over ankles and stiletto high heels. I didn’t ask, he didn’t request, but as he was flat on his back, I brought my legs across his hips and brought my pussy down over his obviously eager, very substantial length. Shit! I gasped as the ten inches slid effortlessly, sensuously, in and carried on and endlessly on deep inside me. Jeez! Would it end? It felt like I’d put a litre-sized wine bottle inside me, it was that big! I slowly raised my hips up and down in a gentle, I’m-not-going-to-be-hurried-with-a-quick-fuck, if you don’t mind kind sir.
It didn’t take too long before the two of us were moaning in our mutually exciting, growing ecstasy as I crashed up and down on the small of Malcolm’s sturdy well built stomach, my head back, eyes closed, mouth open, moaning in a crazed excitement. Malcolm’s busy fingers alternated between squeezing my nipples through the flimsy black lace of my bra, playing with my waist chain and the hooks that held my stockings. “Fuck me! Fuck me!” The two of us shouted out, almost in unison, our conjoined ecstasy. “God Ann, you’re one good fuck!” I shook my head violently in the agony of my ecstasy, my eyes closed shut. “You bet Malcolm! I’m one good fuck!” He moaned in agreement, “Shit Ann, I haven’t had a fuck this good in months!” I opened my eyes. The ceiling was a fog. “Malcolm, I haven’t had a fuck this good in twenty years!”
Suddenly Malcolm’s body froze. I brought my head down, my eyes focussing on him. What was wrong? Nothing! Malcolm was about to orgasm. And he did. Majestically. I felt his cock whiplash four or five times inside me, quickly followed by the wonderfully erotic sensation of the sensual heat of his cum, its torrid warmth slowly radiating out from my lower stomach to my hips, to my thighs and beyond. Malcolm was out for the count. Head back, eyes closed. “That was so good babe! We gotta do that again - sometime soon!” I liked the ‘sometime soon’ bit. I eased off his cock, still big, and finding my panties, slipped them on just as his cum ran out. Having had a hysterectomy there was no place for hubby Alex’s cum or Malcolm’s cum – any guy’s cum – to rest inside me in a warm, friendly place. Sad.
He lit two cigarettes as I put my dress back on. “I take it you were impressed? Not too bad for a novice swinger?”
Malcolm handed me a cigarette. “You sure you’ve never swung before?”
“Then you’re a natural! Before the party ends I’d like us to get it on again, if you’re willing.”
“Might be. If I’m that good I’d like one or two other guys to share the good news!”
“Your husband’s a lucky guy. What’s his name. I’ll make sure he knows!
“No Malcolm, please don’t do that. I’d rather like to tell my husband myself who’s fucked me. OK?”
With that I left the bedroom - to find a mirror with some half decent lighting. My make up and hair were shit!
Malcolm was right. I was fucked that night by two other men. One was a fifties something airline pilot whose wife I never got to meet, while the other was a late entry to the party, a younger guy whose wife wanted a threesome with another woman.
Sadly she didn’t join in the main event, just spectated, until I got off her husband’s cock when she dived on me, pushing me flat on the bed, progressing to slowly, lovingly, suck her hubby’s cum from my pussy. It was a sensual, erotic, exciting feeling that got quickly me re-started. It was no surprise when hubby lent across me with an invitation to suck on his cock. I couldn’t resist and took its limpness in my mouth and slowly, lovingly brought it up to an impressive looking hardness. At my pussy his wife now gently kissing and sucking my clit. I was back in heaven. Having just been fucked by him, hubby’s blow job took longer than perhaps his wife and he imagined. Yes, I was enjoying it. But hubby was crying out in an agonised ecstasy and it was a good twenty minutes or more before he released his hot, welcome spunk in my mouth. His cum tasted heavenly: hot of course, but dark, dusky, dirty, a hint of Earl Grey tea. I lovingly swallowed every last drop, continuing to lick and kiss the fast contracting cock until he finally got up and the two of them left me on the bed, alone with my thoughts.
When I returned to the party there was no Alex, just a few couples left in the once busy room, women on their knees tucked in between legs greedily fellating their men, presumably not their husbands! There was no Malcolm either, just two single guys whose obvious consumption of alcohol was a clear indication of what poor performers bedwise they’d be at this time of night. Shame: they were both good looking, athletic types, but there was no way I was going to engage with two drunks. Until, that is, I’d got a little more experience of swinging.
When Alex did show he looked zonked! We drove back and exchanged notes of our sexual adventures. Alex reported that Jennie, Malcolm’s wife, had been a disappointment but mid-age Rebecca and her husband had been extraordinarily exciting and satisfying, as had the decidedly younger Fiona, whose bi husband had abandoned her for some hedonistic bedroom activity with another bi hubby and wife late in the evening, thus allowing Alex to comfort her with a really good fuck, quickly followed by Fiona’s welcome, loving ‘bj’.
“I really felt good tonight, darling. I felt very sluttish, fabulous feeling, like a whore with clients, no names, no pack-drill, just a fuck, no questions asked. I was really up for it with Malcolm, I felt so horny talking to him, I really wanted him to fuck me. Like it was going from fear of the unknown though a door into the relaxed, friendly, sexy, so much so, once I was through that door, I couldn’t wait to get it on with him!”
“Yep, I know the feeling. Bit like a parachute jump. Once you’ve got beyond the point of no return, you jump and then wonder what all the fuss and fear was about.”
Not surprisingly, we were both very sexually aroused by our respective tales of the night’s partnering with strangers and as soon as we were back home we kissed passionately, pulling clothes off each other in wild sexual frenzy, falling onto the sofa in the lounge. My imagination perhaps but Alex’s cock looked and felt very big. I pulled my panties off and he was quickly, effortlessly inside my very wet, eager pussy and we engaged in a pleasurably sweet fuck, Alex releasing his sperm inside me some ten minutes later. I felt good: “That was great, darling. After being fucked by three total strangers tonight, it’s nice to have my hubby’s cum inside me for a change!” He laughed and as I dropped my head to suck his cock he stroked my legs, “A bonus darling. Your stockings aren’t snagged!”