Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll take a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne."
Song by Bobbie Burns, national poet of Scotland.
Auld lang syne literally means "old long ago" but might better be translated as "times gone by."
1993 was a sad, bad year. The tattered and torn fabric of my marriage to Barbara came apart like a sail in a hurricane. It wasn't the sex - that part was still great. It was the lack of love-the feeling of being one-half of a complete being, of belonging to each other. By Christmas, the marriage was in its death throes with only inertia and memories keeping us together. Fortunately, Beth, our elder daughter, spent Christmas with her new husband's family, and Ginny, our younger one, went skiing with her college gang.
Barbara and I planned to attend our dance club's annual New Year's Eve dance as we had for sixteen years. We liked to dance and socialize with our friends. At least, we still had that in common. That and the kids and our law profession, although we practiced at different firms.
Barbara was a stunning woman who appealed to me from the first time I saw her. Tall at five eight, her legs were long, even for her height, and muscular, and her ass high and hard, all maintained by hours of weight-training, running, and the Stairmaster, for she was a fitness addict. She was short-waisted and her breasts were perfect C-cups, thanks to an expensive plastic surgeon. Her hair, originally black and kept that way at the beauty salon, fell down her back when we met and now was worn in a shorter cut to frame her face but not reach her shoulders.
On New Year's Eve, as with many others before it, I finished dressing first and sat down in my chair in the bedroom to talk with her and watch her dress after her bath. This time, I was sadly bemused by the dichotomy tearing at me. I wanted her sexually and the inertia impeded a spilt, but a large part of me knew our marriage was headed for the divorce court. When she walked naked from the bathroom, her hard, appraising stare quickly changed to a cocked eyebrow and semi-smirk. She posed for me as she slipped on black thong panties to cover her hairless crotch. One day years ago, she'd announced she preferred her pubis to be bald and had worn it that way ever since.
Panties in place, she sat on the edge of the bed to put on her stockings. She didn't like pantyhose, although she sometimes wore them to work. She preferred a garter belt and hose, or thigh-high stockings that stayed in place. She lovingly rolled sheer black, thigh high stockings up her legs, almost caressing herself with her touch. She slipped on her open-toed pumps with the four-inch stiletto heels and fastened their straps around her ankles.
She stood, walked to the full-length mirror, and turned on tip-toes to see herself. I watched, too-watched her ass to be specific. I looked up to see her smiling at me in the mirror.
"Like what you see, Rick?" she asked in a sultry voice.
"I do. I always have."
"I like you, too," she replied. "You turn me on." She opened a dresser drawer, removed a garment, walked to me, and turned her back. As she turned, her hand brushed the fly of my trousers. "Please fasten this for me," she said.
"You're wearing a corset?" I asked.
"It makes my dress fit better."
The corset was black lace and fastened in back with hooks and eyelets. As I fastened it for her, her perfume wafted up to me and my fingertips tingled from the heat of her skin. She walked back to the mirror to admire herself. The effect of the corset was eye-catching. It lifted and emphasized her breasts, raising and rounding them, and narrowed her waist, not that either her breasts or her waist needed the enhancement. She stepped into her walk-in closet and returned wearing her evening gown, a strapless, tight, slinky number that fell to her ankles and had a slit up her right leg to allow her to dance.
"Zip me," she said as she turned her back to me again. I fumbled only a bit with the zipper. She then stepped away from me and slowly twirled. "How do I look?"
She kissed me hungrily. "So do you. Ready to go?" she asked.
The dance club always held the party at the Hilton and many of us rented rooms for the night so we wouldn't have to drive home in an alcoholic haze. We arrived at nine. I checked into the hotel while Barbara went directly to the ballroom. When I entered the ballroom, I looked for her and saw her on the dance floor with Tim Hutchins. I stopped several times to visit with friends as I made my way to the bar.
Barbara and Tim left the dance floor and I joined them at the table we were sharing with them and two other couples, Larry and Patty Smith and Mike and Sally Johnson. Marla, Tim's wife, joined us. We passed small talk until the orchestra struck up another number. Larry asked Barbara to dance and I danced with Patty.
Barbara and I only danced together twice that evening. While I danced about half the time, Barbara never left the dance floor. She danced with many men, but most often with Tim. They looked like lovers. I danced with Patty and Sally, but I spent most of the time with Marla. Being with Marla wasn't a bad thing. She was pretty and sexy, with teasing eyes and a lush, feminine softness that contrasted nicely to Barbara's chiseled form. She danced close to me with her bountiful breasts on my chest and her crotch against mine.
I had only one drink that night, foregoing my usual multiple bourbon and water for just plain water and a few soft drinks. Being stone-cold sober and in a detached and analytical mood changed my perspective and my perceptions. As I watched the partially alcohol-induced merriment of the crowd of middle-aged couples, I could see those among them who were still in love, those who were not in love but satisfied with each other, and those like Barbara and me-hanging on to marriage for some reason or the other.
I was dancing with Marla about eleven thirty when I saw Barbara and Tim sneak off the dance floor and go toward the elevators.
"What's wrong?" Marla asked, raising her head to look at me.
"Barbara and Tim just left together," I said.
"Oh," she said and she snuggled closer against me.
"Doesn't that bother you?" I asked.
"No. Does it bother you?"
It bothered the hell out of me, but I didn't reply to her. A cold, dead feeling settled in me and I shivered.
"I thought you knew about them," Marla said.
"I didn't know," I said. That wasn't a lie. I thought Barbara was cheating on me, but I didn't know.
"They've been lovers since Labor Day," Marla said with no more emotion than if she were relating the weather report.
"And you don't care if Tim and Barbara have an affair?" I asked.
"Why would I?"
"He's your husband."
"Sex isn't love. He always comes home to me, and I always go home to him."
"You've had affairs?"
"I've had sex with other men, but I don't think of them as affairs." Her arms slid around my waist to hold me tightly against her. "I've never had the one guy I've always wanted. That's you, Rick. I want you to fuck me and I want it tonight," she said.
Rumors abound in any social circle. In ours, Tim and Marla were reputed to be wife-swappers, a rumor Marla just confirmed. The rumors included the Smiths and Johnsons in that group. That would explain why all three wives seemed to come on to me all night.
Since my wife was enjoying her husband, I saw no need to deprive myself of her. "I've wanted you, too," I replied.
Her giggle seemed phony. "I know," she replied. "I've felt your cock on my belly and seen the way you look at me."
"Let's go upstairs," I said.
"I'd love to," she replied.
She took my hand to lead me toward the elevators. As we slipped through the crowd, I watched the other couples. Most were lost in themselves and their mates. Some were dancing in a friendly way. A few watched us go, and, of those few, most were rumored to have open marriages. I wondered if tonight was planned by Barbara, Tim, and Marla, or by a larger group, and if my staged seduction was an introduction to a different lifestyle.
Marla was obviously aroused as she held tightly to my hand and pulled me into the elevator after her. The elevator doors closed with a clank that sounded like a jail-cell door.
"Do you want to go to your room or join them in our room?" Marla asked. She adroitly unzipped my tuxedo trousers and retrieved my cock, which immediately hardened as her fingers wrapped around it. "Barbara wasn't lying."
"About what?" I asked.
"She said you had a nice cock, and she said you knew how to use it." She stroked it back and forth and we kissed until the elevator doors opened. "So, which room?" she asked.
"Your room," I said.
Holding my cock with one hand, Marla guided me to the door to their room, which was five doors down from my own. She slipped the electronic key in the lock, whispered, "Be quiet," and stealthily opened the door.
Barbara and Tim were on the king-size bed. Naked except for her stockings and heels, she faced the headboard with her arms locked to brace her and her knees spread widely. Tim was between her legs, holding her hips with his cock in her ass. They looked like a scene from a porno flick and I wondered if they fell into that position naturally or had posed it for my benefit.
"God, I love you back there," she moaned.
"You love having me in any of your holes, don't you, slut?" Tim said.
"Any of them, anytime."
.... There is more of this story ...