When we were living in San Francisco in the mid 1970s, my wife and I attended an encounter group for couples. It was a counter-cultural thing, part of the "human potential movement," and there were eccentric people of all ages (we were hippies, sort of) at the weekly sessions in the living room of an apartment. To our surprise, the leader of the group announced that the last class would be an orgy. Jen and I, who in retrospect had married way too young, attended. But, as the date of the orgy neared, I had to promise Jen we would only be observers.
It was tough, as you can imagine. The host had placed a number of pads and cushions around the room, and he encouraged people to try as many different partners as they dared. We stayed on the couch, and when the lights went out we heard (and dimly saw) people changing partners. We heard clothes coming off. Then the slurping began.
For weeks I'd had my eye on Ilse, a lithe, tall (my height) blonde with a heavy Dutch accent. She and her husband, who had lived all over the world because of his job as a manufacturing consultant, were about 10 years older than Jen and me, in their late 30s. Ilse, a yoga teacher, was in great shape, slim and supple with a sunny personality and bouncy short hair. She seemed smart, and worldly wise. Her husband Jack was a bit boastful; we didn't seem to have much in common.
In the dark that night, more than once, I heard Ilse's high-pitched squeal of orgasm. It was actually more of a drawn-out keening, mewing sound. That stuck in my mind.
A week later, when I was still kicking myself for missing out on the excitement of fresh pussy, Jack and Ilse invited us to dinner! Predictable, Jen made me promise on the way over that we would definitely not swing with them.
Ilse came to the door in an embroidered peasant blouse and a straight blue skirt with white stockings. How well I remember that her skirt was tight enough to show her mound when she stood up straight. I tried not to let anyone know how much she turned me on.
Dinner was fine, though the conversation was a bit stilted. They explained that their marriage had been an open one from the beginning. We all knew what was being left unsaid. After dessert, I left the table to help Ilse with the dishes in the kitchen. She seemed grateful when I took my turn at the sink.
Soon, with my hands in hot water, I felt Ilse's fingers lightly stroking my neck! She said she liked my curls. She was so damned perky. I was enchanted, though a bit flustered. When I turned my head to see her wide smile, her arms came around me at chest level, under my arms. I guess she liked more than my curls. I was so gratified, the way we all get at times like that. I was excited, flattered, and nervous all at once. When she pressed herself against me, all these feelings turned to pure lust. I grabbed the dish towel on the counter to quickly dry my hands, then turned to meet her front to front. We hugged. As her hand slid down against my bulging jeans, I heard her say, in a matter-of-fact way, yet still charming because of her accent, "Won't you put this inside me?"
"Oh, God," I moan, pulling back to look at her bright, intelligent face. "I promised Jen we wouldn't."
"Yes, I gathered that," she said, then placed her lips next to my ear.
