I held her up against the corridor wall with my hands supporting her hips. The bunched-up silkiness of her shiny black skirt made rustling noises, as my dick rubbed back and forth below the folds, making probing thrusts deep inside her. Mariah was panting heavily and making little mewing sounds as I thrust again and again, each time reaching a new depth. Her thighs perched on my hips, her long fingernails scrabbled at the cardboard of the stacks of boxes on each side of us in the back corridor of the art center, and her head was flopped down on my shoulder. I felt her shuddering journey to climax start just as I felt I could not hold myself in check anymore, and we both gave little animal cries as our juices flowed and mingled inside my Mariah, my wife, my wanton sexual charmer who became so wondrously aroused and arousing when we stole moments of deep passion in dangerous environs.

A few afterglow kisses, murmurings of affection and fulfillment, and the rearrangement of our formal clothing and, via different paths, the successful architects were back working the crowd in the center’s main hall. If any of the guests recognized the flush and lazy smiles and languid movements of postcoital liaison, they did not mention it—at least not to the honored host and hostess. There probably were at least two there that evening, however, who recognized it and were irrevocably drawn to it.

An hour later, the crowd was beginning to thin out when I noticed Bianca circling Mariah. I had heard rumors about Bianca Gifford, and I felt an immediate lurch of protectiveness toward Mariah. I’d heard that Bianca—and her husband, Thane, for that matter—were sexual predators and bi swingers, who, thanks to their millions, were used to getting what they wanted.

As I watched Bianca corner Mariah near the shadows of the stairs to the gallery mezzanine and clink glasses with her to the delight of both, my first instinct was to fly to Mariah’s side and assert my recently solemnized position in her life. But people were leaving. Very important and influential people were demanding one last short conversation with a member of the architectural team of Wells and Pierce. This opening of drawings and perspectives of Mariah’s and my considerable architectural projects in this rich little ocean-resort town was our first, an event that marked our ascendance to acceptability by the wealthy “first towners” of Sunston Harbor. Tonight had been a huge success, as Thane Gifford was making quite clear to me, in urgent whispered tones, his handsome, expensively creamed and massaged face leaning down to mine and his perfectly capped and whitened teeth and diamond cuff links flashing in the overhead lighting as he held my elbow in with his long, manicured fingers.

“What, right now?” I answered with surprise at the suggestion he was making while I waved the Williamsons through the door into the warm, star-clad night.

“No time like the present, Cliff,” Gifford said with a big smile. “What you’ve put on display tonight has convinced us that you and your wife would be perfect for the addition we want to make to Bianca’s Box.”

“Bianca’s box,” I said in embarrassed confusion, as I searched his face to see if he was joking. Probably because of my last thought of what his wife was up to—indeed to what she and I had so recently been up to—I’d jumped to a conclusion about what he was referring to. But I knew that couldn’t be right. Gifford was looking intensely into my eyes, trying to convey I know not what.

“Yes, our ocean house up on the bluff at the headland,” he was saying, showing me those big pearly teeth again. “We call it Bianca’s Box. We had it built in our cubist period, and now we want to add a wing that will soften its lines without destroying its character. We love what you did with the Sunston Harbor community center, and we can’t wait for you to see our house and give us some first impressions on what you can do for us.”

“We’d love doing that, of course,” I said, while my mind was already racing, calculating how many zeros I could flip on the backside of a project estimate and not queer a gigantic deal like this. “But we can’t leave the opening just like that. All these guests...”

“All what guests?” Gifford asked with a hearty laugh. “It’s well past closing of the exhibit, and all of your guests seem to be gone now. You don’t have to pick up the glasses and do cleanup duties, do you?”

I looked around, and sure enough, Gifford and I seemed to be alone in the vast gallery. The waiters were already moving around and picking up glasses and napkins and hors d’oeuvre trays and just then the lights went out in the mezzanine.

“Well, OK, that would be great,” I said weakly. “If Mariah doesn’t think it’s too late, of course. I’ll have to track her down.”

“Oh, your wife has already left with mine,” Gifford said. “They’ve gone ahead up to the house. Your wife seemed to love the idea. They’ve taken our car. I’m sure you won’t mind driving me up in yours.”

My wife had had a bit too much to drink tonight, I’d noticed, especially from the pitch of her giggling when we were making love in the dark corridor. Mariah was vulnerable when she was drunk and she took chances, pushed boundaries. And now she was already in the clutches of Bianca Gifford. After this fact hit me, I couldn’t get Gifford out of the gallery and into my vintage Mercedes 190SL sports convertible fast enough.

As I was speeding up into the hills overlooking the ocean, the top down on my two-seater Mercedes, my mind was racing concerning the moves Bianca Gifford might already be making on Mariah. I was so much obsessed with these thoughts that I didn’t for a minute consider the other possibilities in what might be at play here. Thus, it came as a great surprise as I was driving along and approaching the foot of the hill up into the “first towner” section of huge ocean-view homes perched on the heights when Gifford put his arm around my shoulder and his hand in my lap and started feeling up my basket.

“What are you doing?” I asked dumbly. It was obvious what he was doing. He was measuring my cock through the thin material of my summer tux pants.

“I like to know whoever I’m working with really well,” Gifford said in a hoarse voice. “Really well. We will need to be special friends if you are going to be redoing my house. Just relax,” he continued.

I was hungry for business and Thane Gifford was gold-plate business. Also, if he had gauged me—and Mariah, as well—as bisexually capable, he’d been correct. Both Thane and his wife, Bianca, were handsome people. As I knew they were swingers as well and still was seeking out their busines, I couldn’t object to that. I relaxed my tense stance, and he grabbed my engorging cock through the material of my tux trousers.

“There, that’s a very nice tool you have. And it seems to be responding nicely.”

This was not a good road to be doing this on, however. “Mr. Gifford. Thane,” I said plaintively. “I don’t know ... I don’t want ... You’ll have to stop this. I’ll crash the car.”

He had my zipper down, and long, sensuous fingers had dug through the opening and encased my cock, flesh on flesh. I wasn’t going soft in these conditions. Just the opposite. I was trembling all over. I didn’t want this in these circumstances, but with each stroke of my cock, my body was telling both me and Gifford that I did, in fact, want this. He was a stud of a man.

“If you don’t want to crash, pull over,” Gifford said in a husky voice. “There’s a small park just ahead, right before you have to ascend the hill. Pull into the parking lot there and over to the far end, Cliff.”

I did as he told me to do, while he was unbuckling my belt and pulling my pants and briefs down to my knees. I stopped the car at the far end of the small parking lot, close under a tree and turned to him to try to find some way to reason with him, but when I turned my head, he had his lips on mine, forcing my mouth open and running his tongue into my mouth. He was stroking my cock with one hand and the other was buried in the hair at the back of my head, holding my face to his.

I had kissed men before, but never one with lips and a tongue this insistent and powerful. His hand came off my cock and started frantically unbuttoning my tux vest and shirt. That done, his fingers flew to my pecs and nipples.

“Nice,” he whispered. “Very nice.”

His fingers moved down my belly slowly, his lips now following ever slowly behind—finding my nipples and sucking them erect and then tonguing down across my belly and pubes and swallowing my cock in one slurping gulp.

He gave me head for a while before pulling off—and, my legs gone to rubber and giving a low moan at the back of my throat, I let him. “Tell me you want me to stop,” he murmured, and after a time of silence save for my panting, he said, “I didn’t think so.”

His hand continued on down to flipping my shoes off and then pulling my pants and briefs down to and off my feet. All the time he was searching my dick head with his tongue, pushing the tip of his tongue into my piss slit and then pulling off and rimming where the glans met the skin of the cock shaft.

He deep throated me several times, and then wrapped his hand around my engorging rod while his lips made their journey back up my belly and ribs to my pecs and nipples, and then back to my mouth for a deep kiss. I was sighing and moaning. I’d been serviced by other men in college and there had been some wild, drunken parties since then—my attitude was that sex was sex was sex, and getting off didn’t have to involve gender issues as long as my sex partner was sexy—but I’d never been worked like this. One of my hands almost inadvertently went to feeling his well-muscled torso through his tux shirt and then to unbuttoning his shirt and finding his heaving pecs and erect nipples. His hand went under my balls and tailbone, and I gave a little jerk as he inserted a finger in my anus.

“In the back,” he commanded in a low, husky voice, as he broke away from the kiss.

“The back?” I asked dumbly. “There is no back.”

“Up on the tonneau cover,” he was saying. “Now!”

I obviously wasn’t fast enough in figuring out what he wanted, because he was lifting me out of my seat with hands under my arm pits, and he set me down hard on the leather convertible top behind the seats. My legs now were draped down into the passenger seat, and Gifford was standing above me, stripping his clothes off. It was obvious that he spent more time in the gym than in the board room, because he was one mass of muscle, and the muscle hanging between his legs took the prize in the set. Once stripped down, he settled his bulbous butt cheeks on my thighs and wrapped a hand around both of our cocks, sandwiching our tools together. I was a respectable size and length, but his cock was both longer and thicker than mine.

After a few minutes of docking bliss, he pushed me down on my back on the trunk of the Mercedes, and I watched as he went up on his knees and, first, produced a condom packet from somewhere and opened it and rolled the condom on my cock and then produced a tube of lube from somewhere else and greased up both my sheathed rod and his asshole.

So, this was going to be me inside him. I had wondered—and, considering what I knew about the size of his checkbook, it was going to have to be OK either way.

Then he brought his pelvis over my hips and slowly descended his ass onto my cock, slowly, ever so slowly, burying my cock inside him deep and then beginning to stroke, fucking himself on my rod. I just lay there and watched—and felt—the show, delighting, despite the surprise of the situation, in the undulating sensations of his tight ass canal, as his huge, hard cock flapped up and down on my belly. At length, I took his cock in one hand and cupped his balls with another, and we both groaned and gasped to our separate climaxes.

When we were back in our pants, not bothering to put our shirts back on, and somewhat straightened up, I put the Mercedes in gear and started racing up into the hills again. Who knows what Bianca Gifford might have had time to do with and to Mariah while I was being blindsided by Thane Gifford. It just might be that Gifford had arranged all of this just to do me, but I’d seen the feline look on Bianca’s face when she had cornered Mariah by the staircase at the gallery, and that look very much worried me.

When we swept into the forecourt of the Gifford cliffside mansion, there were no lights on in the house. My first inclination was to storm up the front steps and kick down the door and run from room to room in the vast house, fearing what I might find. But Thane Gifford turned me and pointed to the big black Bentley at the side of the courtyard. One of the back doors was ajar, and a light glowed in the interior. A burly, black chauffeur was leaning his butt against the driver’s door and had a big, sloppy grin on his face.

“I don’t think the women have made it to the house, yet,” Gifford said with a laugh. “Shall we check out the lay of the land?”

The lay of the land turned out to be the lay of my wife. The women were sprawled out on the deep cushions of the Bentley’s backseat. Both of the women were naked, their clothes scattered about them. Bianca Gifford was close beside Mariah, with one of her long, shapely legs draped over one of Mariah’s legs, holding Mariah’s legs well apart. The blondness of Bianca was contrasted well with the deep brunette of Mariah. Both women were voluptuous, with tiny waists, good firm, flared hips, and fair-sized breasts that were taut and firm and well-rounded, without being pendulous. Bianca’s lips were on one of Mariah’s rosy quarter-sized nipple aureoles, and one of her hands was holding a pulsating vibrator to Mariah’s clit. Mariah’s back was arched in ecstasy, and when she saw me, she waved a friendly wave of assurance that nothing was happening to her that she wasn’t enjoying.

As we watched, Thane Gifford standing close behind me, his protruding basket pushing at my butt and his hands on my pecs and nipples, Bianca moved the vibrator a tad until the tip was positioned between Mariah’s cunt lips, and then she slowly pushed the vibrator in. Mariah twitched and moaned, and she pulled Bianca’s head up to hers and they kissed.

I felt frozen, unable to move, not fully comprehending what was happening. But, with an animal sound, Thane Gifford was on the move. He was stripping off his pants again as he shortened the distance between where we were standing and the open door to the Bentley’s backseat. Briefly there were three people in the backseat and then I saw Bianca exit and start moving toward me with a smile. Before she reached me, I saw Thane Gifford go down between Mariah’s open legs with his knees and pull her hips up to his pelvis with his hands on her buttocks. Mariah had her hands on his shoulders and she was arching her back. She threw her head back and was moaning what clearly was “Yes, yes, yes,” as I saw Gifford entering her cunt with his big, thick cock.

If I’d wanted to prevent Gifford from fucking my wife, I could not have made it to the Bentley in time. He already was inside her and she was clutching him to her with her hands palming his buttocks. Then Mariah was hidden from my view, by Gifford’s broad, rippling-muscled back and firm, pounding butt cheeks. The Bentley was rocking now, and Mariah was being very vocal about how much she was enjoying being deeply fucked by a horse-hung stud. She clearly didn’t want any protection or help from me, and I would have felt somewhat deflated, if Bianca Gifford hadn’t reached me and was kissing me on my lips and nipples and feeling my rising cock through the now-damp material of my pants.

The chauffeur walked across the courtyard and opened the front door to the house, started turning on the interior lights, and disappeared from view.

“Come, let me show you where we want the addition added on to the house,” Bianca said gaily, as she took my hand and started pulling me toward the house. “I think Thane and beautiful Mariah will be occupied for a while.”

And then, when we reached the door, Bianca said “Welcome to Bianca’s Box,” with a throaty laugh. I had to admit that Bianca had a very nice box, and, considering what Mariah was enthusiastically engaged in at this moment, I didn’t plan on waiting too long before I explored that box of Bianca’s and saw what I could do to fill it for her.

Having enjoyed the charms of my wife, Mariah, only to turn her willingly over to some vigorous swordsmanship by her own husband, Thane, in the backseat of the Bentley parked in their front court, the maddeningly naked Bianca Gifford turned her full attentions on me.

She took my hand and pulled me through the entrance into their cliffside mansion. She gaily ran me through the house and into what must have been the master bedroom and beyond. We stepped through a bank of open sliding glass doors onto a large flagstone patio in somewhat of a triangular shape, with the glassed wall of the house creating one side to my back, the rise of cliff above on the left, and a low rock wall on the right, beyond which the mountain abruptly plunged down to the lights of the town below and the ocean beyond.

The long arm of an L-shaped pool stretched out before me and then made a turn toward the right and ended in an invisible barrier cut between the rock walls, making it appear as if the pool cascaded down the side of the mountain cliff. And for all I knew from my present perspective, it did. A couple of pool deck lounge chairs were positioned on the patio in the crook of the L, and on my right, between where I was standing and the rock wall, a rope hammock was suspended on a sturdy freestanding frame. Muted lighting around the patio and in the pool itself gave the area a mysterious air, and the twinkling lights of the city below beckoned me to dive into the pool, take that turn to the right, and just swim on over the edge of the cliff.