This story came to me from a friend and his wife. Actually, they told it to me many years ago, before I was married and just after they and I had had a fun threesome in their living room. I will try now to capture it as he and she told it to me at the time. At that time, the story was fresh in their memories, having happened less than a year before.
We were lying about, still naked and sweaty after our encounter, smoking after sex as people did back then. Okay, I admit, the cigarette didn't have a name on it. We were lying there, a little drunk and a little stoned and very exhausted. And maybe as a result, the story wasn't 100% accurate, but it sure sounded like it. They both agreed on all the important details, such as who did what to whom and who stuck what in where. And it made us all blazing hot to go at it again, which we did until the wee hours.
But this story is not about our threesome that evening. That was pretty standard, two very horny guys in their twenties and one smokin' hot babe who happened to be his wife. (But this all predates the term "smokin' hot babe.") It was the era of universal birth control pill use, and came well before nasty STDs, especially HIV/AIDS.
We had been just sitting around one summer evening after dinner, having a little vino, and out came the cigarettes with no name on them. And he kissed her, and then she kissed me, and much groping ensued. We shotgunned hits back and forth, clothes melted away. He enjoyed her first, then he and she invited me to have her as well. He fucked her and she screamed a lot. I fucked her and she screamed some more. Everyone came a lot. We went at it again almost immediately. We drank and smoked some more while the cum flowed out of her onto the carpet. We didn't care. We talked and moved to the bedroom, napped, then fucked some more. Somewhere in there, she cleaned up a bit and we both ate her until she screamed even more. "Kiss it and make it better," she joked, and we did. The image of her beautiful breasts shaking and her face contorted in pleasure-pain as she sat on my face is burned into my brain, one of the standout erotic images of my life.
Then, when we were fairly exhausted, they reminisced about this story. "You think this is something? Wait 'til you hear about. . . ." It turned us all on so much that we went at it one more time before we passed out completely.
The next morning, I asked if they minded if I told that story or wrote it down. Fine with them, so long as no names or places were mentioned and identities reasonably protected. She was even proud of the slut she became that night. (Keep reading; you'll see.) So here it is, many years later before I got around to writing it down in detail. I've retold it to friends, and used it as fantasy material, many times over the years, so it is still reasonably fresh in my memory, too.
They married young, so they had been attached for a number of years at that point. They weren't swingers or anything, not by modern standards, but they did play sexually with others when they felt like it. Mainly they played together, inviting another person or couple into their intimacy. I was just lucky to be a friend when they wanted one. I wasn't married yet. I had met (the woman who would become) my wife, but we were in separate cities at that point, and not committed, so I was largely single.
This is largely his narrative, though she enthusiastically injected details here and there. I merged the hour or so of talking and laughing and feeling into this little story here. This is pretty much as I heard it from them that night.
One evening in the early fall we found ourselves relaxing in a bar outside of the college town we lived in. This bar & grille was a particularly good burger joint and just a comfy downscale sort of place. It was the early eighties; we had been married about five years at this point.
We were just sitting at the bar, talking, just having a couple beers after our burgers. The place was all dark wood and poor lighting, so it had a cozy, even intimate, feel to it. There were two pool tables in a back room area with a couple guys playing. There was a small open area that was I guess a dance floor, and a jukebox with good selection of oldies playing constantly. The juke was set up to be free to provide music for the place.
I had my hand on my wife's leg much of the time. We were still young and very much in lust then. I liked feeling her leg like that, and she liked it, too. She had on her favorite denim wrap skirt, which was short, well above her knees, but not like micro-mini or anything like that. This was years ago, long before crazy stretch microskirts became fashionable.
Being basically a horndog, I loved to get under her skirt, or inside the wrap's fold, to feel her thigh, the skin of her thigh close to heaven. She obligingly uncrossed her legs to let me feel when I wanted to. Unfortunately, that night I was sitting on the wrong side of her. The long part of the wrap was on the other side so I couldn't get to it easily. Oh, rats.
At one point she nudged me and, when she caught my eye, looked down to her lap. There I saw the hand of the guy sitting on the other side of her. He had seen my hand on her thigh, I guess, thought it looked like fun, so he was getting a feel, too. And he was on the right side of the wrap skirt to get under the flap easily. I couldn't just slide my hand under the wrap and onto her thigh, but he sure could from his side. He was on the right side of her, and she was on the right side of several beers, so she didn't immediately object to this game. She didn't stop him, so he continued.
She whispered aside to me, "You see what he's doing? Geez, he's got his hand halfway up my thigh."
"So I see." Pause. "Is that a problem?"
"Well, . . . ."
"Does it feel good? Are you enjoying it?"
