This story features a man who longed to watch another man fuck his wife. This is a desire I have never really understood, let alone had any wish to put into practice. Nor, as far as I am aware, have any of my longer-term partners had any wish to be 'shared' in this way, not in real life anyway. I can just about understand 'partner swapping' but not what is widely referred to as 'wife sharing', though I would have no objection, in principle, to helping a couple who wanted to explore such an idea. Such willingness forms the basis of my tale.
This story is not intended to be a deep psychological study into the whys and wherefores of partner 'sharing'; the whole situation is far too diverse and complex for that. But it does, I hope, reflect on some of the thoughts and questions involved and the dilemmas they might face. If issues like these fill you with moral disgust, then the easy answer is to stop reading now and look elsewhere for entertainment that is more to your taste.
This is an imaginary situation. If you do feel the need to discuss the pros and cons of sharing, better to do it on the Lit Forums than by commenting on this story. I would also ask you to base your votes on the quality of the story, not on your thoughts about the characters' behaviour. Then we can all have fun.
Finally, a special thank you to Linda whose delights unwittingly inspired this story.
It turned out to be a holiday like none I could have imagined but that wasn't how it started out. But, even if I'd known what it held in store, I wouldn't have changed a moment of it.
The year had reached the cusp between late summer and early autumn, the time when children are back at school, dog-walkers have returned to seaside beaches, and trees have begun to take on a tinge of golden yellow. As it happened, the weather was still beautifully warm -- in fact it was better than we'd had during much of the so-called English summer -- so I'd decided to head off for a week's break. I'd packed a bag or two and set off in the car for a part of the country I scarcely knew.
I'm Mike, by the way. Twice-divorced and happy to remain that way -- conventional relationships don't seem to work for me but I do enjoy intelligent, inspiring female company. I've never regarded myself as good-looking, let alone handsome, but enough women seem to see something in me and I certainly don't complain about that. I like to think they find me interesting.
My idea was to find a small bed and breakfast establishment or guest house -- and use it as a base to explore. I was looking forward to a bit of walking, some sightseeing, a day or two relaxing on the beach, and swimming in a sea that was only now reaching its highest temperature.
I'd driven a couple of hundred miles or more before I began my search for somewhere to stay. At that time of year I expected no difficulty in finding accommodation, so I could afford to be choosy, and I'd started out early enough in the day to give myself time to hunt around. I wanted somewhere that was rural but within strolling distance of a village, so that I could enjoy a pub meal and a pint or two without the fear of being stopped for drink-driving.
I abandoned the main roads and sought out the narrow, sunken country lanes that characterise that part of the country -- rural England at its best. After covering a good few miles I came across one village with a pub -- the Plough -- that looked well worth a second glance. Breakfast was a distant memory so I stopped and went inside for a lunchtime sandwich and a coffee. It was the idyllic country pub -- low ceilinged, blackened oak beams, stone-flagged floors, and aged wooden tables and settles; homely, with a warm atmosphere. The presence of a several locals was a good recommendation and a glance at the menu showed that it offered a reasonable selection of evening meals too.
All I needed was somewhere to stay. The pub didn't offer accommodation itself but I asked the landlord if he knew of anywhere locally where I might get a room.
'The Wilsons do B&B during the summer', he told me, 'but they usually only take pre-bookings and they don't have a sign up outside the house. Worth a try though.'
He gave me directions -- out of the village and the first turning on the right; it was about a quarter of a mile down the hill, just before the bridge.
I had no problems finding the house. It was set back from the road, with a sweeping drive leading up to it. I knocked on the door.
An attractive, woman answered my knock. I suppose she must have been around 50, though it was hard to be sure. Her most striking features -- short fair hair lightened with some silver streaks -- though the roots hinted at a darker natural colour, penetrating brown eyes, high cheekbones, a few freckles beneath her eyes, and a lovely smile, combined to make a most appealing face. There was a touch of maturity in her figure -- she was nicely rounded but firm, neither overweight nor skinny. In all, she gave signs of taking care of herself without being obsessive over it. Her breasts, from what I could see beneath her t-shirt -- and I had to try not to stare at them -- were on the small side and there was no sign of a bra. Her t-shirt also revealed that the freckles continued on her upper chest and arms.
I explained my presence.
'You're lucky', she said. 'We normally stop taking guests by this time of the season and go away for a holiday ourselves but we're a week late this year. There are no other guests at the moment so, if you're happy to fit in around us a bit, you're more than welcome.'
She ushered me in and explained the terms, which seemed very reasonable, and then introduced herself.
'I'm Linda', she said, 'and my husband's Alan. He's out in the garden somewhere.'
'I'm Mike', I responded.
She headed towards the stairs, pointing out the door to the dining room as we passed. 'We normally serve breakfast in there but, as you're on your own, would you mind having it in the kitchen? It's just down there.' She indicated a passage running off from the hall.
We climbed the stairs and turned to the right at the top. She opened the second door along the passage and stepped back to allow me to enter first. It was a spacious, cheerful room, tastefully furnished without any of the over-the-top chintzy decoration that so many guest houses seem to feel is necessary. Apart from the double bed and a fitted wardrobe, the furniture included a couch, a writing table, and a wall-mounted TV. In the corner was a door to a small en-suite bathroom, with shower and toilet. The window looked out over delightful gardens that seemed to go on for quite a distance.
'Keys for the room and the front door are in the lock. You're very welcome to eat with us in the evening, if you wanted', she added, 'but we'll be a bit hit and miss this week -- there's a lot to do before we go away. You may find it handier to eat at the pub so that you're not tied down. Other than that, if you're happy with everything, I'll leave you be.'
She gave me another of her lovely smiles and stepped back out of the room, closing the door behind her. I waited for a few moments, taking the opportunity to bounce on the bed -- it was very comfy -- and then I went back down the stairs to collect my luggage from the car.
Back in the room, I unpacked some of my stuff, slipped on my swimming costume under my trousers, grabbed a towel and headed for the beach, three or four miles away. I spent a wonderful afternoon swimming in an unusually calm sea and came back afterwards thoroughly relaxed. After a shower, I set off on foot up the hill into the village for a drink and meal at the Plough. The beer was tasty, the food tasty and more than adequate, and the walk back in the final rays of the evening sun made a perfect end to the day.
It let myself in through the front door and was about to make my way up the stairs to my room when the lounge door opened and a man stepped out into the hall. He greeted me.
'Mike, I take it, I'm Alan. Sorry I was tied up earlier -- trying to get the garden in shape before we go away next week. Perhaps you'd like to join us for a drink?'
