Browsing the Internet for porn late one night, as single men with fast download speeds are apt to do, I followed a link to a swingers site. I read through some of the postings and sat watching the chat room messages scroll by for a bit, then I went to bed, thinking about what I'd seen and read before dropping off. I kept popping back to the site for a look-see over the next few days. It didn't take long for me to realise that the vast majority of postings were from single men like myself. This was quite disheartening so I never bothered to compose my own advertisement. What would be the point? It would only get lost amongst the crowd. I did think to myself though, rather snobbishly, that if I were to write a message it would probably be somewhat more literate than many I'd read.
I fell into the habit of perusing the site occasionally over the next few months. I'd usually just check the most recent "Women seeking Men" or "Couples seeking Men" adverts. One day I noticed a message from "M and C" who were advertising from a town not far from where I live. I opened their advert in another window and subjected it to careful scrutiny. They were a couple in their early 30's, hadn't advertised before and wanted to meet single men who definitely wasn't gay or bisexual. They wanted educated men, slim, neither too old nor too young and a photo without wedding-tackle in it.
A single photograph accompanied their message; a down angled shot of a woman sat on a bed. She was side on to the photographer, looking away, nearest leg crossed over the other, hands held gracefully in her lap. Long brunette hair hung to the small of her back. She was wearing a black bolero style jacket over a black dress. An inch of creamy thigh was visible and then black stockings encased long, slim legs out of the frame. Her left cheek was the same unblemished creamy colour of her thigh. A long, elegant neck descended gracefully into a beautiful cleavage. The swell of her breasts pushed against the material of her dress and the camera angle allowed a clear view down into the shadow between them. She wore both engagement and wedding rings. Around her neck she wore a slim, unadorned gold necklace.
I spent a long time looking at that photograph. It was like one of those arty photos from an upmarket porn site; the type women like to browse because they don't cater to the lowest male denominator. This photograph was probably proof that even the most amateur of photographers can produce a work of high art by accident. Nothing could be seen of the woman's face beyond her cheek, but looking at the photograph you could just tell that she was extremely attractive. I decided to answer their advert.
It was fortunate they didn't want a cock shot. I don't have a digital camera and I didn't fancy handing an x-rated role of film over the counter to a teenage assistant in the chemists. Instead, I flicked through a shoebox of photographs that hadn't made it into an album and selected one from a recent holiday in Greece. A cheerful shot of me in a panama hat, squinting happily at the camera whilst Russian tourists clambered over the Parthenon in the background. I spent a moment thinking what a jolly handsome chap I was, then scanned it onto my computer and sat back whilst I thought about what to write. On the assumption that "M and C" would be inundated with replies, I rattled mine off rapidly, a fairly honest biography laced with flattery for "C", then sent it before I lost my nerve.
I wasn't really expecting a response. Hoping for one, yes, but not with any real expectation of receiving one. After a week without I'd given up completely and no longer checked my e-mail account several times a day. Then, on a Thursday evening, a message from 'M and C' arrived. Sorry for the delay in getting back to me, but would I like to meet them for a drink that Saturday? I responded immediately with an affirmative and asked where they would like to meet up. Ten minutes later another message arrived. Their names were Mark and Caroline and I would be able to meet them in a pub I was already familiar with, from nine 'o'clock onwards. Caroline would wear the same clothes she had on in the photograph. They'd be willing to put me up for the night if we got on all right.
Well, I was extraordinarily chuffed with this turn of events. It took an incredible effort of will not to masturbate there and then as my fantasies ran wild; I wanted to save myself for Saturday in case things turned out well. I slept restlessly that night and, needless to say, wasn't concentrating as much as I ought to at work the next day. In fact, I left early so I could get a haircut and then buy some condoms, expensively, from a pub vending machine. There's no way I could ever pluck up enough moral courage to buy them cheaply over the counter.
Saturday dawned and then dragged by very slowly. I ran a bath, shaved and generally tarted myself up as best as I was able. I had a light brunch, checked and double-checked the train times on the Internet, repeatedly read through my e-mails and then tried to kill time by watching a film on television. Then, after a couple of sandwiches for tea, it was suddenly time to go. A short train journey and a brisk five-minute walk later and I stood outside the pub where our meeting would occur. Heart pounding, palms sweaty and with a sense of trepidation bordering upon fear, I put my head down and entered the pub on unsteady legs.
It being a Saturday night, the pub was smoky, crowded and very noisy. Mark and Caroline were sat side by side at a corner table away from the bar. Their drinks were on the small round table in front of them. Beneath the table Mark was reserving a stool, presumably for me, by the efficacious method of using it as a footrest. They'd obviously been keeping an eye out for me; Caroline was waving to get my attention through the throng. I pushed my way through to them and Mark thrust the stool out with his foot for me to sit on.
"Hello," I said to them both, reminding myself to act confidently as I sat down on the stool. Mark responded with a nod and Caroline smiled at me.
"Hi," she said, "How are you?" Stunned would have been an accurate response. She was gorgeous. Her dark, lustrous hair framed an unblemished elfin face. Beneath delicately arched eyebrows, hazel eyes twinkled through long lashes. A diminutive nose surmounted a set of pearly white incisors, gleaming from between slightly parted, generous, brilliant red lips. She was leaning forward, almost daring me to stare down the front of her dress. With a supreme effort of will I maintained eye contact and smiled back.
"I'm fine thank you. I do hope I've not kept you waiting long." I managed, hoping I sounded suitably insouciant.
"That's all right. We got here early to make sure of a table." Looking around I could see there weren't any unoccupied tables left. Most of them were taken by a large group of women in the early stages of a hen night. Apart from the bride, liberally garlanded with L-plates, none of the other women were obviously drunk yet. Around them, jostling for position, were several groups of lads waiting for time and alcohol to make the women more amenable to their advances.
"Can I get you a drink?" asked Mark as he stood and shuffled towards the bar.
"Please, a pint of London Pride if they've got it. Any old ale if not."
As Mark attempted to attract the attention of a barmaid, I engaged Caroline in small talk. We chatted about the weather, the relative merits of various Reality-TV programmes and other neutral topics. All the time Caroline kept leaning further and further towards me until human nature won and I glanced down. Her breasts were pushed upwards and together by the dress she wore, presenting a deep cleavage to which the eye was irresistibly drawn. The pale orbs almost glowed in the orange light cast by a wall lamp, the contrast with the shadow between them offering the promise of delight for anyone bold enough to grasp their opportunity. Caroline leaned back; the victorious smile of a chess player who dictates her opponent's moves playing on her lips. I blushed at having being caught staring at her breasts then, knowing that she'd wanted me to look anyway, relaxed and smiled back at her. That's when I knew I was in if I played my cards right.
Mark rejoined us with our drinks and we settled down, becoming comfortable with each other as I got to know them and they got to know me. What really broke the ice was a discussion Mark and I had about the abysmal fielding performance by the West Indies cricket team in the last test series. Mark, it transpired, was a big cricket fan and played as a middle order batsman in his village team.
Feeling a bit left out of our cricket discussion, Caroline started playing footsy with me beneath the table. Behind me, the decibel level from the hen party started rising. With most of an hour gone and the level of our drinks getting low, I drained the remnants of my pint and asked if Mark and Caroline wanted another. Mark indicated that he'd settle for a pint of whatever I was having. Caroline leaned towards me again. She smiled wickedly and spoke in a tone of voice I can only describe as puckish. "I'm a cum guzzling fuck slut and I want to drink your spunk."
I sat in shock, mouth agape. Mark started laughing. Caroline blinked her eyelashes coquettishly at me, looking as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Recovering my composure somewhat, I replied with the wittiest retort I could think of. "If I let you have some then all the other woman here will want some too. Are you sure you want to share me?"
.... There is more of this story ...