Longboat Key
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2006 by Captain Steve

Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - It always works so well in the online sex stories. Married couples decided to swap. Everyone involved is incredibly good looking and the sex involves multiple "volcanic eruptions" or "fantastic orgasms" etc. But is it really that way? Will someone be jealous? Will someone get nervous and back out? A sailing trip to Longboat Key will interest the sailors also. Yes it is true as best wife and I can remembe through the fog of Champagne.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Heterosexual   True Story   Swinging   Oral Sex  

I turned into the driveway. The grass was showing brown spots in spite of my best efforts. Linda's flowers, always under attack by her enemy -- the snails—seemed to be holding their own. I had pleasant thought of a grand bottle of Pinot Noir saved for just such a Friday night. There was a strange car parked behind my wife's Mercedes.

Walking into the house, I spotted a large note taped to the banister, positioned so I would not have the excuse—I didn't see it. All husbands know that stairway and hall notes are more serious than refrigerator notes. Refrigerator notes mean weekend jobs; stairway notes indicate a meaningful discussion in the offing. Faint voices filtered down from our upstairs bedroom. I had forgotten —the car in the driveway. Linda's voice lifted in laughter.

On the first step sat an ice bucket. Next to it a tumbler with an already mixed martini, a shaker and stemmed glass containing a single olive composed a small cluster. A few steps up lay a man's shirt, then a pair of pants. Higher still, men's underwear draped the top tread. The note with a large arrow pointing upstairs read-- "I've been planning this for some time. I love you." Linda's laugh rang louder than before--she was obviously enjoying something—someone?

I'd been a faithful husband, and I always assumed the same of her. Our sex life had been outstanding in the early years, but predictably we'd settled into a comfortable routine. About a year ago, we purchased some fun sex-advice books and tried games and role-playing. She'd been the hooker in the hotel. I starred as the pool cleaner boy, and we had had sex on the beach in Clearwater. All was pretty tame stuff for 20 years. But this? Linda knew I would be home at this hour. We'd discussed swinging or involving a third person, always philosophically or jokingly. At least, I thought we were joking.

Upstairs, beyond the jockey shorts, the laughter stopped and a nice pair of female legs, wearing heals, appeared on the landing—they weren't my wife's. A female? There's three of them? I froze, but deep in my Dockers, ole Bearegard awoke and began to raise his head. The legs descended the stairs.

"Hello idiot." It was my sister-in-law Alice. Beau relaxed.

"Your car?"

"Yes Steve, I just bought it on the way back from work and brought it by to show Linda. We were upstairs looking at your new bedspread and curtains." She looked at the note, the martini glass and the spread of clothes and smiled, "Guess it's time for me to leave, Studly." We pecked cheeks as she departed.

Halfway up the stairs was another note. "Hope you like the clothes. Enjoy your martini. Use the guest bathroom. I'm under construction, beginning transformation to the goddess of love. Cocktails at 7:30 by the pool. P.S. If you can manage, the steak you marinated is in the refrigerator, and if your delicate male hands can cope, the lettuce for the salad needs shredding."

I picked up the clothes. Yes, sale tags attached in case I didn't like them—I always did. Twenty years of marriage had taught me to wear whatever was on the bed (or stairway) to avoid the subtle hints that always lead to the inevitable wardrobe change.

Later, showered and dressed, I went to the kitchen. We both like to cook, so that morning I marinated a steak with my favorite combination of two parts whiskey, one part soy sauce and a portion of Dijon mustard. (Once a week we deviate from the damn diet and have real food) I shredded the lettuce and took the steaks to the grill. Sitting by the pool, I read the newspapers and sipped another martini. My computer-like mind booted, and I reviewed the day. The office information system was driving us all crazy. Routers wouldn't route, switches wouldn't switch, and the back up server was acting strangely. I pushed the thoughts from my mind and concentrated on the martini.

Linda entered the pool area at 7:30. I powered down computer-mind and was reminded how pretty she is. At 41, she is still gorgeous with short red hair, blue eyes and a smile that could dazzle any man into submission. Unlike most redheads, she has no freckles, and her skin is as smooth as the day I met her. She'd recently gone on a six-month diet (read, we went on a diet) and she looked stunning.

"Ready useless man?"

"Of course my love."

We had cocktails and talked of anything except work. I peeked down her top. Linda is a classy woman who never dresses in anything trashy, although I like trashy. But tonight, she had on a long green skirt with a slightly lower décolletage than usual. It's the type of dress she usually only wears at home for me, although it's perfectly suitable anywhere in Tampa. She caught me looking and did her fake, "Watch it buddy routine." But, I always figure if women dress like that; you're supposed to look. It's all the more fun when they show up "on display" and get huffy when you glance into the valley. Anyway, I enjoyed peeking and she enjoyed showing. In my pants, Beauregard shifted.

Linda produced the California Pinot Noir. I stepped to the grill, threw the steaks and listened to the satisfying sizzle. After dinner, I was completely at ease. Thoughts of the office banned from memory, the wine danced on my tongue, the meal had been delicious, my wife captivating, the world perfect--"Honey can we talk?"

Oh hell, meaningful discussion. I turned on computer-mind and stumbled through a number of intricate scenarios—it wasn't her birthday, not mother's day, I had said nothing bad about her mother...

Seeing my face she laughed, "Don't worry it isn't one of those talks."

I relaxed and let computer-mind wander to the pool pump, that had been acting strangely lately. Maybe if I changed the seal...

"Are you listening to me?"

"Yes honey."

"What was I saying?"


Rolling her eyes she continued, "I was saying, do you remember Maggie Schmetterling?"

Computer-mind searched my data banks. Maggie Schmetterling was a cool, efficient, but good-looking woman that my wife used to work with. We had been very good friends for years with her and her husband Roger. Maggie always seemed secure in her role as high-powered executive, complete with protective shell. Efficient, direct, in charge, she had all the assets that marked her as an up-and-coming person. (Speaking of assets, computer mind dug into the archives and remembered she also had a great ass, but that was a hidden file and not to be displayed at this delicate moment.) Roger and I partnered many times at charity golf events and had been quite good friends.

"Yes, but it's been some time since we saw them."

"Well as you remember, she and Roger moved to the Fort Lauderdale office last year."

My mind returned to the pump seal. Just to be cautious, I directed a subsystem routine to monitor Linda's comments.

"She and I ran into each other at the convention last week in Miami and spent some time together. We had lots to talk about."

Computer-mind centered on the pump's main seal.

"Do you really love me?"

Alarm bells, code red--I'm fully alert now, "Honey, you know I do."

"I want you to promise to still love me, after I make the next statement."

This, of course, is one of those no-win situations husbands dread. "I will, I will."

"I never thought I would be saying this, but Maggie and I had too much wine one night, and we sort of discussed our sex lives, and well, we both thought it would be sort of fun if the two couples sort of took a uh 'adult'weekend sail." She picked up some dishes and quickly went to the kitchen.

Adult weekend sail? What the hell does that mean? Adult weekend sail? I switched on computer-mind and thought of Maggie. Tall, dark hair, she had blue eyes that looked right through you. But then there was that good body, long legs all assets. On the other hand, hair perfectly coifed, tailor made business suits, executive bearing, large strong husband, there were plenty of deficits to ponder. Then computer-mind came up with the answer; there is more than one meaning to adult.

Linda returned with coffee, and sat quietly. Switching off computer-mind, I ventured, "By sort of adult, you mean no kids."

"No, I mean sex with them."

I missed the table with my glass, spilled a ruby dollop of Pinot Noir on my pants and spent a minute with a napkin moping my lap.

"You two did drink a lot of wine."

"Sure, but you do like the idea, don't you?" As usual, my computer security system failed and she could read my mind. "We've talked about it before, and so did Maggie and Roger. We compared notes, and it seems safer to find a couple that doesn't live in the same town. It's not like meeting strangers, since we've known them so long. I checked with her, and we both have an open weekend in May."

There is one thing for sure about my wife. She's often slow to take to new things, but when she does embrace a new idea, sport or activity she goes all the way. She hated snow skiing. But, setting her mind to it, she practiced and became better than I. The same holds true for sailing, our latest passion. When I purchased my first boat, a Catalina 22, she was terrified when the boat first heeled. But soon, she got completely into the sport, and I couldn't keep her out of the boat. Now, we own a 40-foot Beneteau named "Hammerhead," or at least the bank owns it.

She's also an inveterate planner. Checklists, how to books, videos, discussions with her sisters are all standard practice for any of her endeavors. I love sailing for the challenge, the navigation problems, the wind, the sea and the topless women. Linda is the brain who makes sure we have exquisitely planned meals, an itinerary within reason and all the proper guide books, towels, sheets, etc. on board.

In other words, she had the weekend planned. I thought about Maggie's nice rear end, but caution prevailed.

"Well, I guess."

Computer-mind turned to Roger--damn he's big. One day, while he was putting, I'd noticed how large his hands were. We played well together and with his massive hands and big wrists he appeared to lazily stroke the ball off the tee for routine drives well over 220 yards. But he couldn't putt, and I can. His hands just never seemed to cooperate as his putting stroke consisted of stabbing vainly at the ball. I remembered the old locker room bromide--big hands or feet mean a big cock. Of course there isn't any truth to those old sayings—I think.

Linda broke the silence, "I'm really not sure about all this, I just brought it up to talk. You're not upset are you? After all you started this."

"Me? I was just sitting here enjoying my wine."

"Yes but, you were the first to bring up the subject about a year ago." True to form, just when I thought I knew where we were heading, she did a 180-degree turn and left me hanging.

"Well, it's an interesting thought—let's think it over and come to a rational decision." Which is always a good way to stall.

So, we spent a week rationalizing, meaning the first three days, we acted like the question hadn't come up. Then we talked around it—careful never to close on the actual issue. We had discussed sex with others, mostly as a joke. We both agreed, just for discussion purposes, of course, that cheating was bad because it way lying. Swinging was in a different category, since all involved know what's going on. After all, the whole point is a little sexual experimentation for fun, which has nothing to do with love. Linda had never actually agreed to the last two last statements. But, she hadn't disagreed either.

The next Friday, as we left for work, she said, "I told Maggie we would call her tonight, so I guess we better make a decision." Oh crap, I thought, a real test of "husbandmanship." I spent the day acting like I was listening to the young computer whizzes explain our latest configuration problem.

By cocktails that evening, I had my plan. We were enjoying an excellent Mosel from my favorite wine stube on the Saar -- "Honey it's decision time."

"Yes," she looked worried. "You first"

I've been down the "you first" trap before. No dice this time. I handed her a piece of paper. "You write down what you want to do, and I'll do the same. Then we'll hand the notes to each other and read them aloud." She frowned, but took her slip and the pen I offered. Aware of her trickery, I added, "No ambivalent statements. You either write—I want to sleep with Roger, or I do not want to sleep with Roger. On second thought, I always hated that word sleep. It's either I want to have sex with Roger, or I do not want to have sex with Roger. I'll do the same. Agreed."


With a studious, look she wrote on the paper, folded it in half and handed it to me. I did the same.

"Ok, "she said, " for once, me first." She opened my slip and read, "I want to have sex with Maggie." She looked up, and to avoid her gaze, I looked down to read her answer, "Can we make this decision later?"

"Damn, you did it to me again."

She grabbed her slip back, wrote more and handed it to me. "So sorry, I want very much to do it with Roger."

"Do it?"

"What happened to the rule."

"I followed it."

"Is doing it, sex?"


"You're sure this is all ok?"

"It's fine."

"So, you like Roger?"

"He's so cute, I always want to pat his head, except I can't reach it."

"Roger turns you on?"

"Well, just a little?"

"What's just a little?"

"Well, we sort of danced at one of the office parties once. And I was, sort of, thinking, what I would do if he, sort of, tried to kiss me. But he's so nice he would never try that."

"And you, sort of, hoped he would?"

"Sort of."

"And what would you have done if he had, sort of, tried to kiss you?"

"I would've let him. Nobody, except you, has tried to kiss me for a long time. Does this upset you?"

"No, not talking about it."

"If I had let him kiss me, and later told you and even said I encouraged and kissed him back, what would you say?"

"I'm not sure. Did he kiss you?"

"We went around a corner and were out of sight. I enjoyed it, so I kissed him back. It was fun."

She watched me, " So, it does turn you on, I can see it."

"Well, uhhh not really. Did you make this up?"

"No--Yes, you're so easy."

My head spinning, I thought of Roger kissing her, but then he really hadn't-- then I thought of Maggie. I felt a rustling in my pants, ole Beau put in a vote.

"Then it's settled. I'll call Maggie. She'll be so excited." Linda zipped off after the phone. I just sat there, out maneuvered again.

The two weeks before the sail were nerve testers. I had some second thoughts, but the visions of what must be under Maggie's tailored suits pushed them away. At least I think there's a real woman under those clothes.

Again, I thought of the stupid old golf joke. I wondered exactly how big is Roger's "putter?" But then, I'm not sure how long my putter is either. In a ridiculous moment one evening, I decided to measure ole Beau. Now, getting hard was easy as a teen. Just saying the word "girl" out loud did the trick. But at 42, it required some stimulation. I dragged out our only porn movie. (A real camp piece called Flesh Gordon.) So all six feet, two hundred pounds of me stood in front of the TV, putter at hand. Sometime after a flock of "Penisaurus's", controlled by the evil Emperor Wang, attacks Flesh and Dale, Beau got the idea and rose majestically. Unable to find a ruler, I took up my trusty, yellow, retractable-tape measure. Where the hell does one measure, I thought, on the top or the bottom? I laid the cool metal atop Beau and eased the metal head into my stomach to obtain the maximum possible results. Unfortunately, I also accidentally pressed the retract button. The metal clip on the tape caught Beau's head and the pain caused him to drop immediately for cover. Somehow, I lost interest at this point.

The day before the sail, Linda was going crazy over the details of boat supplies, food, and water. I inventoried the rum and beer supplies and packed my bag. Minutes later, she unpacked my bag and threw all my underwear in the drawer. Back in went recently purchased, brand-new underwear. They were washed, of course, as there is some rule, known only to females, that one can't wear things straight out of the plastic wrap. She gave the explanation, "Well, you never know. I want you to look good."

On the day of the sail, we went to the boat early and later watched Roger and Maggie walk down the dock. Maggie was perfectly dressed as always--every hair in place, color-coordinated outfit, matching bag, expensive shoes, her manner regal. In spite of her dark hair and tanned skin, she looks like an "Ice Queen" I thought. I, on the other hand, felt a bit shabby in my worn boat shoes and khaki shorts, but I was sporting a set of my spanking new underwear.

Ice Queen's stride was purposeful, direct and strong. She carried her own bag. Ambling next to her was all six feet three of Roger; his graying brown hair blowing in the wind. He was obviously in a mood for a sail, as I saw him check the direction of the flags on the marina building, glance at the wind arrow atop our mast then slowly lower his gaze to Linda. His handsome face broke into a smile, and beside me, I could almost feel her melt. Ice Queen exhibited a dazzling smile and her blue eyes sparkled. She extended a hand with manicured nails. "So good to see you again." It was high tide, so I pulled her up to the deck. Next Roger reached up, damn what massive paws that bastard has. But what the hell, he can't putt.

On Tampa Bay, "Hammerhead," handled superbly. Both Roger and Maggie are good sailors, so the four of us made a smooth series of tacks to the Skyway Bridge. The heading changed into the wind, and we turned on the "iron genny" (motor) and made the Gulf at the head of Tampa Bay. Turning south, we settled in for a long beam reach towards Longboat Key. Sailing conditions were perfect, and we managed to engage in a number of matches with other boats. "Ice Queen" was coolly efficient and paid strict attention to sail trim. After two hours in the wind, her hair was fashionably mussed, but still stylish. She changed into a conservative one-piece suit, and her lithe body showed the hours she spent in the gym. Beau did note the outline of nipples protruding from her small breasts.

On the other hand, Linda with hair flying wore my favorite bikini. When she turned the winch, the muscles in her back flexed, her breasts spilled over the top and an occasional half a nipple showed. Soon, sweat built up from exertion molding her suit to her pretty cheeks. Ole Beau constantly checked both women and was "a little stiff" all day. The four of us worked the boat extremely well, and the joy of a good wind made the day memorable. Roger was as good-natured as ever and kept the beer coming. Ice Queen worked hard during sail changes and perfectly popped the spinnaker during a crucial turn in a match with the crew of a Hunter. I almost hated to see the day end, as the beer was cold, the women beautiful the wind a steady 15 knots. What else could a man ask for?

We made Longboat key and navigated the difficult channel under the drawbridge. A few miles down the intercoastal waterway we arrived at the Pirate's Inn, a waterside motel- nightclub, restaurant complex. Normally, we would have anchored and slept on the boat, but this was not a "normal" trip. The Pirate's Inn is a favorite of the locals and boaters, as it has deep-water slips, good food and entertainment. We pulled into our slot, secured the boat and went to the front desk. Both Roger and I pulled out our credit cards and filled out the registration forms.

There was a moment of hesitation. We'd been sailing all day and not one of us had actually discussed the evening arrangements. Sure Linda and Maggie had talked on the phone, but Roger and I never discussed it and... We all four just stood there. None of us looking the others in the eyes. Moments passed. Decision time, were we going to chicken out? I decided to break the ice.

"Come on Maggie," I took her hand. "See you guys for cocktails in a bit."

Maggie's mouth opened slightly as if to say something, but nothing came out.

Linda looked a bit shocked then took Roger's hand.

After grabbing two of the luggage carts with wheels that never work (how could we have this much for an overnight trip?) we all went to our rooms. I struggled with the damn credit card key and finally got the door open. Once inside, I turned and looked at the Ice Queen.

"Well, let's unpack, change and go for drinks." The efficient businesswoman began to organize the room. With my wife this process was all second nature, but with Ice Queen, several important decisions had to be made--one drawer for her, one for me and one for dirty clothes. Lastly, a delicate discussion ensued as to the all important-- which side of the bed do you prefer, so as to know where to put little stuff like car keys, wallet and purse. We solved these vexing situations, all the while chattering like this was a normal motel check-in.

I stood for a moment. I was in a hotel with another woman, and my wife was next door with her husband. I saw Maggie bend over to put clothes in the lower drawer, Beau moved—I moved quickly.

I showered and changed, while she busied herself in the living room and wandered on the balcony. Then she locked herself in the bathroom showered, changed, and on schedule we walked down the hall to the bar. We'd accomplished everything in a nonchalant manner without actually "seeing anything." As I followed Ice Queen down the stairs, I noted that she looked damn good in a long, black dress belted at the waist. Of course, it was buttoned to her neck. In spite of the modest outfit, Beau stiffened. Christ I thought, just like high school. The lump in my pants must have been visible even to NASA through satellite imagery. I imagined a "woddie alert" deep in Cheyenne Mountain as military brass contemplated the potential threat.

When Linda entered the room, I saw she was wearing the same green dress that was usually worn only at home for me. She looked wonderful. Roger guided her to the table, and we all stopped. None of us were sure of protocol between two couples that later planned to jump in the sack with the opposite spouse. I kissed Linda's cheek and Roger Ice Queen's, just like we were not married to the opposite person, or married to... whatever. Ice Queen slipped in the booth, and I sat next to her.

I looked across the table and caught a glimpse down Linda's top as she dug something out of her purse. They had had time. I wondered if Roger had already had his hands on them.

Dinner was my favorite a lightly breaded Florida grouper. Unfortunately, Maggie chose the wine. Linda and I looked at each other for an instant as she ordered a California Gewürztraminer, far too sweet for our taste. I asked for french-fries with my fish, and Linda, for once, seemed too engrossed with table conversation to mention the fat content. The four of us talked about sailing. I sampled the wine and found it softly sweet, with silky pear and spice flavors. However, it was difficult to concentrate as I looked across at my wife sitting next to Roger. I marveled at the erotic situation. Later, we lingered over after- dinner drinks. Jealous, I watched Linda and Roger turn to each other, share jokes and touch. At one point, I was sure he was feeling her leg under the table. I could tell she enjoyed it.

Ice Queen and I talked politics. I always loved her quick intelligence. Unfortunately, we agreed on most positions and the conversation was uninspired. I was beginning to feel a bit insecure over my seduction techniques, especially after an errant french-fry managed to leap off my fork and stain my shorts. (Hopefully not leaking through and ruining my second pair of new jockey shorts.) She and I managed to sit through dinner, crammed into a small booth and never actually come in contact, not even our elbows. I felt as inept as when I used to ogle my English teacher in eighth grade.

After dinner, we went into the bar. The DJ was quite good the dance floor crowded. Roger and Linda were soon dancing. I racked my brain for a cool comment. I wondered if I should just be bold and put my arm around her. I did neither. After all, I reasoned, I'm just a little out of practice. A couple of times I saw Roger's hand on Linda's rear. Once during a slow dance, I caught her surreptitiously exploring his zipper.

Maggie and I danced, but didn't actually touch. We mostly stuck to the fast ones. Our only slow dance was a difficult affair as she demonstrated excellent dancing skills, and I concentrated on keeping my big feet off her sandals. We continued our political chatter. We rehashed Watergate, Irangate and Whitewater gate. Then, I cleverly steered the conversation to Monicagate, thinking a discussion of whether oral sex is really sex would lead to... something. It didn't. We both agreed that oral sex was sex and that "is" means "is." She began a discussion of eroding federalism, a subject I normally love, but not tonight.

Linda got us all together, and the four of us walked out to look at the boats.

"So, is Maggie your real name or a nickname?" Another really clever conversation starter, I reasoned.

She didn't answer, but Roger turned and said, "It's short for Magnolia."

Daggers jumped from her eyes. She stuttered, "I'm from Georgia and my mother liked the trees, and well, I hate it, please don't tell anyone." She looked at me imploringly. At last, a chink in Ice Queen's armor. I took her hand. "Don't worry, I have a really bad memory." She smiled, and I felt a little thaw as we walked in the moonlight. Our shoulders actually touched for the first time that evening. Linda and Roger took a different path and went towards the opposite end of the wharf, ostensibly to inspect a large ketch.

It was late, when we returned to the room. The light was on under the door to Roger and Linda's room, so I knew they had beat us back.

In the suite, I uncorked a bottle of champagne. Maggie stood and watched, then held out her glass and took a large sip. For once, she looked a little lost. The Ice Queen had disappeared, and I had to admit I missed her. Intelligent, strong women turn me on. That's why I married Linda. Besides I really didn't want to hurt Maggie.


"Yes, very much. I've always known exactly what to do since I was a little girl, but now..."

"I'll tell you a secret; I'm so on edge that I think my legs are going to collapse."

"Thanks for admitting that. Most men would have played the macho role. I was afraid you were going to grab me. Then I would have done something stupid like knee you in the balls. That would've ruined everything."

"Definitely." I conceded the point.

"I decided to this first, because you're cute and uh well uh, a nice person. (Whew, good to hear that part.) But I'm making such as mess of it all. I just can't handle sex stuff. I feel so sorry for Roger sometimes. It's just that I'm not good in bed. Never could relax. I don't even have an excuse, like I was molested or beaten as a child. I had wonderful parents. Since I was little, I wanted to be perfect; people's opinions mattered so much. Sex interfered with my idea of perfection. I think it's because I have to rely on someone else. I guess it is something in the female physic or maybe it's just me. Now my butt is getting too big... poor Roger I never really let myself go. He never has too much fun with sex, with me, I think. As for oral sex, I just don't know what to do to make it right."

Oral sex always looked simple to me, I couldn't see how she could do that wrong. But then, I've never been in that--position.

"Let's face it" she continued, "I'm what you guys call a lousy lay. I hope he has a good time tonight, Linda is so much fun that... Uh, I guess you didn't exactly want to hear that," she looked crestfallen and averted my gaze.

I thought, well if I know Miss Efficiency, she will have Roger's pants down around his knees by now. "Not really, I hope both of them have a good time. We've been married a long time. Roger is a nice guy, and she's a fun loving person. This is all to have a little recreational sex fun. I hope they do." I guessed that sounded good to her. I was a little unsure myself.

"You're so mature and fun about these things, I wish I was," she said quietly. Anyway, most of this started when I was about 10. Somehow, I got the idea in my head that I had to do everything right. Now, everyone's definition of what is right is different. So, I had some long talks with my friend Sue and she said...

Damn, all this talk—not even a banister note to start it off. Computer-mind switched to the problem of the pool pump seal maybe if I just lubricated it, the seal would...

She looked up. "I'm sorry, I'm going on. What do we do now?"

I thought of the comfortable bed or the couch. Maybe I should give up now and get a good night sleep. Instead, I turned on the radio to a soft rock station. I thought of how much fun Linda and Roger were probably having, perhaps just behind my head through the wall separating our rooms. Then, the sex book Linda and I had used came to computer-mind. Beau urged me on. "Do you have any fantasies or dreams? They don't have to be sexual ones, just something to talk about."

"Well, I always wanted to be a professional dancer." I saw her hips swing a little to the music. "I took ballet for years and some interpretive dancing techniques classes as an undergraduate. Everyone said I was good and should go pro. Even my mother said to me one time...

"Then dance," I interrupted, turning up the sound. She was quite good, as I had learned on the dance floor. She smiled and seemed to relax. Thankful that I was no longer her dance partner, stumbling around the room, I watched as she went from tune to tune, non-stop

I could see she was lost in thought and smiling to herself. What the hell? Go for broke, "You're a good dancer. Ever have a fantasy about being a stripper?" I saw her eyes widen.

"And I thought you were a nice man."

Strike now man-- my computer-mind booted and kicked me. I turned on the radio to a hard rock, oldies station and upped the volume. In an exaggerated Southern accent (which isn't altogether fake), "Honey, I just blew into town, got a pocket full of money, let the show begin." A staged, sexy smile broke on her face; she began to really get into it. I sat, glad to relieve my knees and to shift Beau now paying strict attention. The new station played all music with no commercials. After the second dance, Maggie was still dressed.

"Take it off Baby."

"I can't."

"Hey $10 if you will at least unbutton a few on the top."

"I guess it's ah-- a little severe, I can do that." The damn dress was still buttoned to her neck. She unfastened the top three buttons, exposing at least three inches of skin. I've seen more at a funeral. I put ten bucks on the coffee table.

She danced away, smiling and happy. "This is so fun, I love to dance." I loved watching. She was having trouble with the tight bottom of the dress and paused. "Don't get too excited, but I have to do some modifications." Bending over she pulled up the dress, then ripped the seam. When she dropped the hem, I could see that the slit now went most of the way up her hip. "Oops, looks like I overdid that."

Free of the skirt's confinement, she continued.

"Babydoll, how about $10 for a lap dance?" It couldn't hurt to ask.

"Technically speaking, exactly how does that work? I've imagined all sorts of things."

"Dance real close to the customer. Put your ass over his lap, or shake your tits in his face. You just can't touch the customer or you'll get arrested."

"I wonder if Roger knows about these things?"

"I wouldn't think so," remembering the 'Tits are Us" club, or whatever the name of the place was he and I patronized a couple of times after golf.

She moved closer, positioned her ass just above my lap and gyrated. It was all I could do not to grab. "Ok buddy stand by for the boob thing," she turned, placed her hands on the arms of the chair and shook her breasts in my face. "I guess I wouldn't be such a bad stripper. More Champagne please." She downed the glass.

"Except you've got all your damn clothes on. Another $10 for more buttons."

She undid the next four or five, and her dress was open to the belt. As she swung around the room to the music, I strained to look inside, but the stupid flaps remained mostly closed.

"Come here Babe." She danced forward, and I stuffed $20 in her belt. "For the belt, gorgeous." She pulled it off and threw it at me.

Now the dress was open, and I could see her black bra. I exaggerated my efforts to look between the flaps. I could see her watching my eyes.

"Got another $20 big boy?" Luckily, I carry a lot of cash when sailing. I stuffed it in the top of her bra. Beau was going mad.

She flashed a wonderful imitation of a professional stripper's garish smile and unbuttoned the dress all the way to the bottom. As she turned to the music, the dress opened. She was wearing a black bra, and the amazing kind of stockings that somehow hold themselves up at mid thigh. And, I'll be damned, no panties. There was a beautifully trimmed black triangle of hair winking at me. At dinner she had sat, watching her husband play with my wife legs, while waiting for me "Joe Cool" to make a move--idiot.

"More Champagne please." Another glass disappeared.

The next song must have been a favorite, as she really got into it. The dress was not covering anything, and as it swung; it knocked things off tables. She dropped it. Unattainable just minutes ago, she now danced almost naked. I poured another glass of Champagne, toasted myself and took out another bill.

When she came closer, I slipped a $20 into her left stocking. She pulled off the bra and danced on. Three songs later, she seemed in a trance, as if I wasn't in the room. Her long legs and little boobs bouncing around were driving me crazy. I conferred with Beau, and we both began to plan a next move.

For once I thought faster than Beau,"Yo babe, when do you go off shift?' That sounded like a pretty good line, I thought.

"Hold your horses stud, us working ladies have to finish our shift. More Champage please."

She moved to the back of the couch and began to grind her hips against the backrest. I noticed—Holy shit, her hair is messed up. I threw out more bills.

Beau was thinking unspeakable thoughts, as Maggie leaned further over the couch. Her face all smiles, she wiggled her butt, to tease the two of us gaping from the chair. Then sticking out her tongue, "Hey studmuffin I'm off shift. Now that I've thoroughly embarrassed myself, how about coming over here before I rape this couch."

I sprang up, ripped off my shirt and pulled down my pants. Beau, not quite so nimble, had wormed, no pythoned his way through the funny little hole (that nobody uses) in my new, sparking-white underwear (that nobody's noticed.) He (I) yelped as I pulled him free. Stupidly, not having taken off my shoes first, my pants caught on my boat shoes. I had to pull them up and start again. Maggie didn't miss a beat as she continued to assault the couch, while waiting for her Casanova. Luckily, she had not given up in disgust and gone to bed, but collapsed on the backrest laughing. I followed Beau to the couch and prepared to kiss her neck, and whisper something cool in her ear.

She put her finger to her lip. "No, stupid lines. You've got to work on your pick up routines anyway. Remember I agreed to this; we're here for the sex part. Umph, what's that?"

It was Beau of course. He had slipped up against her cheeks, hoping no one would notice. She did. Her hand moved behind me, grabbed Beau and slowly eased him forward. He glided into the smooth valley...

"Ow, no wrong place. A little lower... yes, there." Beau slipped in helped by her warm hand. Damn it felt good.

"Womph," I heard her moan through clenched teeth, "That was the best thing I've done all day, outside the perfect spinnaker set, of course." Loud panting followed and every muscle in her body tensed, then relaxed.

Studmuffin is right, I congratulated myself. In for less than 30 seconds, and she's already had an orgasm. Then I noticed that, while I was my usual cool, calm and collected self, the always-excitable Beau was having too good a time. He was in danger of ruining the evening--shall we say prematurely. I booted computer-mind and ran over some of the finer points of sailboat racing rules. Beau managed to regain his composure.

"This couch is killing me, get up"

She moved through the doors to the balcony; then bent over the railing with breasts exposed to the world (and maybe that satellite). "How about here, I always wanted to be brave enough to do this."

I moved behind her and enjoyed the perfect view of Maggie's pretty ass, back and head with the sailboat basin beyond. I reached forward and cupped her breasts and felt her relax against me. Slowly I began to reenter her each inch, feeling...

"Oh god, there's two people looking at us," I heard her panicky voice. Below, a young couple rounded a corner and smiled at the two of us entangled on the balcony.

"Let em watch, I love...

"But they can see me naked and what you are doing, and oh, this is exciting isn't it?"

I rolled her nipples between my fingers. The couple stopped and he put his arms around her as they smiled up at us.

"I can't believe I'm doing this and I like it," I heard Maggie say almost to herself. I began to rock in and out of her. She responded by rotating her hips. I cupped her breasts, and I heard her moan as the man blew a kiss.

"I'm sorry I love it, but this is all I can take." Maggie wiggled off Beau and turned to the room, "More champagne."

Inside, she moved to the wet bar, "Maybe up here?" She sat on the counter and held out her glass. "Don't stop, sorry I am such a chicken, but this is turning out to be more fun than I imagined."

The bar was too high and Beau too low. I grabbed books off the coffee table and stacked them on the floor. Standing on copies of "Attractions at Longboat Key" and "Your Guide to Fine Dining on the Florida West Coast" the angle changed and Beau gained the correct position for reentry. "Very innovative, if there is a horny boy, there is a way," she laughed.

As I went back into her, she made a series of loud noises and hard breathing and had a second loud orgasm. Her hand shook and spilled champagne. "Oh, look at that, I spilled all over my boobs. Don't suppose you would help me out Steve." A true southern gentleman, I gallantly lapped the liquid off her nipples. Amazingly, I found that champagne improves when licked off pretty breasts. I filed this factoid in computer-mind for later analysis and sucked Maggie's entire breast in my mouth. I had brief thought of the bottle of aged, Port stashed at home, and how delicious it would be licked off my wife's nipples.

Then damn, she was up again and moving to the bedroom drinking straight from the Champagne bottle. Beau and I followed. Some seduction, I thought. I had hardly gotten four or five strokes in and she already had two orgasms, I think.

In a scene reminiscent of a Hollywood B movie, she stripped everything off the dresser and lay on her back, "Let's try it up here." On her back, she contemplated herself in the mirror, apparently doing some sort of breast examination by pushing her breasts up from the side, then holding them up by the nipples, I assessed the potential damage to my knees. Stripping the bed, I jammed two pillows on either side of her and climbed aboard.

"Oh god, I think I love this. Tell me, am I good?"

"Oh yes Maggie, much better than I... uh..."

"Expected? So you thought I wouldn't be much fun?"

"Uh" I eased forward and into her for a third time.

"Yes, push harder, Oh... I'll bet you hate it when women trap you... oh... oh... with questions... harder... like that don't you?"

There was no need for an answer, as she began a series of yelps and thrashing movements that were killing my knees in spite of the pillows. Truly, I hadn't expected her to have this much fun. And where were these orgasms coming from? I couldn't remember being this good. She must've have been saving them. I hoped those NASA boys were getting this all on satellite tape, so I could study them later.

But then, I had a problem.

I was exhausted. Where was that cool, in-control executive when I needed her, so we could discuss the situation and plan an end game. All her hours spent in exercise classes seemed to be paying off. I vowed to do the same at a later date. I hung on as she began to squeal, and we bounced on the wood surface.



"My back hurts. Why did you get me up here on this hard chest?"

Deciding it was time to take action, I pulled her back to the bed. She showed signs of weakening. Her hair was not only mussed, but getting to look downright sticky and embarrassingly—declass. I turned back to the dresser to retrieve the pillows. I heard her exhale. I turned in time to see her eyes roll back and close. She was sleeping. I opened another bottle of Champagne and poured one glass.

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