I was a virgin when I got married at twenty-eight years old. I often hear “How is that possible in this day and age?” The answer is complicated, but it boils down to two things: First, I grew up in a very strict, very conservative, very religious home in a small town in West Texas (less than four thousand people). Secondly, for whatever reason, I was not a sexual person. Sex simply wasn’t important to me.

My husband was a wonderful man who just happened to be a terrible lover. I didn’t know the difference for sure, and surely not from experience, but I knew something wasn’t right. Orgasms, which I’d heard a lot about from the girls in high school and college eluded me. Masturbation was another thing I’d heard about, but I’d never tried it.

And then my life was turned upside down. My husband was a roofing salesman. He made pretty good money, so we didn’t struggle financially. Part of his job required him to get up on roofs and measure them so he could put together an estimate for the homeowner. A few days short of our second wedding anniversary and before having children, he fell head first off a roof onto the driveway and died almost instantly from a crushed skull and broken neck.

Naturally, things were crazy for a while after that. The owners of the company he was working for were afraid I’d sue them for something, so they bent over backward to help me. They even gave me a job doing computer work for them—which I could do from home. They did ask me to come to the office sometimes, and even go to see problem customers who wouldn’t pay for one reason or another. They found that I was pretty good at collecting from those customers, and soon, I became a valued member of the company.

I used part of the life insurance money to buy a beautiful home in a quiet little suburb. It had two bedrooms, two baths, and a beautiful kitchen. The backyard had a pool, a hot tub, and a nice privacy fence.

A few months into my new job, the boss asked me to go see a couple who had some issues with the way we’d done their roofing job. I didn’t know that much about roofing—not enough to bullshit a homeowner, and they appreciated that. My job was to assure them they’d chosen the right company to do their job, and that we’d stand by it a hundred percent.

The business part of my discussion with that couple lasted thirty minutes or so, and then they offered me a drink. Over the next hour, we became fast friends. The shocker came when they revealed to me quite boldly that they were swingers. They were going to be attending a swinger’s party later that evening, and they invited me to go with them. Of course, I declined.

Later at home, and after another two drinks, I said “What the fuck! Why not?” So I called them up and accepted their invitation.

I’m not sure what I expected to see at a “swing party”, perhaps people screwing all over the place, but it wasn’t like that at all. It was like any other party. People were dancing and standing around talking in small groups. No one was naked. No one was making out, and no one was having sex. The couple I was there with seemed to know everyone, and fortunately they never left me alone. They stayed right by my side. She whispered to me once, “Hun, all the sex is going on in the back room. If you want to see it, I’ll take you back there.” I let her know I didn’t care to see it.

I drank a lot that night—more than I can ever remember drinking. I woke up the next morning in their bed between them. My brain was on fire trying to remember the events of the night before. I could remember the party clearly, at least the first part of it. I remembered dancing with him. I remembered dancing with her and her slithering her body against mine during the dance. But how did I end up in bed naked between them?

I needed to pee really badly, but they were both asleep. I didn’t want to wake them, so I lay there and suffered, all the while trying to figure out how I’d gotten there. What the hell had happened to wind me up naked in bed between them? Did we have sex?

People in chat always ask me, “What happened then?” and “What happened next?” All of that is not what this story is about. Suffice it to say that we did have sex. Over the next two years, we had virtually every kind of sex a threesome can have. I had one on one sex with her, and I came to love it. I had one on one sex with him, and I learned to love it. But the best was when it was all three of us.

I spent three to five nights a week at their home, but I didn’t move in with them. In their home, I had a closet and some toiletries, but I lived in my home. We became friends. We went shopping together, bowling, dancing, lunches, dinners, horse back riding. I came to love them, individually and together.

They introduced me to a lot of new things. Not least among those things was nudism. They took me to a nudist camp two times, and I loved it. I became addicted to the freedom and liberation of being naked outdoors and in front of others.

Almost two years into our relationship, my world was turned upside down again. He was transferred to Chicago. They had to move away. I was devastated.

One of the things they did prior to moving was to tell me about a couple who were great friends of theirs. That couple had a beautiful place in the woods an hour south of where we lived near Montgomery, AL.

They were swingers, but they didn’t play with singles, male or female. And they were older. At the time, she was fifty eight, and he was sixty one. “Gina, their place is exceptional and they are exceptional. You must go there and experience that place, and them.”

“For sex?” I questioned them, somewhat defensive.

“No Gina. They don’t play with singles. You just need to go and experience the place. You will be perfectly safe.”

“Why can’t you go with me?”

He grabbed my shoulders firmly, “No, my love, we will be gone soon, and you need to learn to spread your wings. You must learn to enjoy yourself without us.”

I cried.

My heart was racing as I came to the spilt in the road. That’s when I was supposed to call him. “Call me when you get to the split, and I’ll head up to the gate to let you in. After three miles, slow down and watch for the white fence on the left. I’ll be waiting there on the ATV.”

It wasn’t a fancy gate. Had he not been waiting there on the ATV, I’d have driven right by it. After turning in, he came to my window. “Pull up a little. I’ll lock the gate and then you can follow me down to the house. Stay a ways behind me so the gravel doesn’t fly up and break your windshield.”

He was wearing a white sauna robe that he didn’t bother keeping closed in the front. He was, as advertised, a very slender man, salt and pepper hair—more salt than pepper. But he seemed very pleasant, unassuming, and welcoming.

After following him down the long curvy drive that wound a quarter mile through the woods, he stopped the ATV, jumped out and showed me where to park. Then he approached my car and opened my driver’s door. “Do you have a bag?”

“In the backseat.”

“I’ll get it. Watch your step going down to the house. It’s treacherous.”

It was too. The hill was steep and the soil was washed out from the recent rains. But I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the place was. The log cabin looking house was built on a steep hill, the front low to the ground, and the back many feet above the ground. It had a full wrap around porch. There was a large pond at the bottom of the hill that was surrounded with grass, and beyond the grass, tall pines with thick undergrowth. An L shaped dock on the near side of the pond looked inviting for fishing or swimming.

Inside the house was awesome too. The security device announced my entry “Front Door Open”. And then I was in the great room, the living room ahead of me, the kitchen off to the right set off by a granite counter, and the dining room to the left of that. The rock fireplace to the left was impressive, with the large TV hovering over the hearth.

Becky was in the kitchen preparing lunch. She was naked—but I knew in advance they were nudists. Behind me, Steve had already doffed his robe, so he was naked too. They both seemed perfectly at ease in their nudity.

When Becky saw me, her face lit up with a wide smile, “Hi Gina. We’re so glad you could make it. I hope you like chicken and veggies.”

Their home was beautiful, all sculptured yet natural wood, floors, walls and ceiling. The only thing that wasn’t wood was the counters which were granite.

I began removing my blue jeans, “I feel a little overdressed.”

Becky laughed out loud, “Please don’t feel that way. Just be comfortable. You don’t have to be nude here, but you are welcome to if you want.”

That evening, Becky and I walked down the hill to the dock on the pond. I’m not sure where Steve was, perhaps watching out one of the open windows, perhaps not ... it didn’t matter. We were nude and loving it—at least I was.

She threw out a handful of food and the fish began churning the water below us. She was giggling like a school girl, “The big ones eat first, so now we have to throw some over here on the other side so the little ones can get some.”

As I watched her, I had to wonder what it would be like to live like this every day. What would it be like to be nude all the time, inside and out, free to get up in the morning, walk outside totally naked and scream at the world “Here I am.”

Becky was not Barbie. She was a bit chunky. She had beautiful breasts, but her body was what you might imagine one to be at her age. She didn’t seem to notice or care. God, I was jealous of her. She was totally comfortable in her skin and her age, just as most of the women were I’d met at the nudist camp.

Contrary to her, I was very critical of myself. I was much taller at 5’10”, and I had wide shoulders and hips. My redeeming factor was my long slender legs ... I am almost all legs. I do have nice boobs, but they don’t look big on my long wide body. Becky, on the other hand, was shorter, more compact, chunky, heavy thighs, but the cutest face and boobs you can imagine. It took all of my restraint to keep from reaching out and feeling them.