The automatic gate slammed shut behind our U-Haul trailer. We're were moving into our dream home in Tuscany Estates, a yuppie's fantasy Italian village recreated in American suburbia.
It was a theme park, Olive Garden-vision of Italy. As a reminder of the glory of ancient Rome, broken columns were clumped together like pickup-sticks as the centerpiece for driving rotundas. Ivy and grapevines adorned perimeter walls. The local strip mall was called "The Ruins," which sold women's fashions, bath salts and soft-serve yogurt from stores with vines and exposed brick facades.
We came here in quest of the romance that had long since abandoned our marriage. We were still in love but more like a brother and sister who were casually bitchy with each other.
After a long day of unpacking boxes and hanging pictures, Janet and I took a stroll around our new neighborhood, checking out the Mediterranean homes with roofs the color of burnt chili peppers.
One home at the end of a cul de sac was set far back in its lot, shrouded by high hedges. We noticed some statutes of nude Asiatic women in prayer and yoga poses on the front porch.
The statues were museum tasteful but were definitely provocative for our button-down neighborhood of accountants, pediatricians and civil engineers. I'm a tax attorney who specializes in finding loopholes so people won't screwed in paying too many taxes. I was a little too good at my job. I wasn't getting screwed at all any more.
While I was getting pasty in middle age, Janet was an imposing brunette at 6-feet-1. Her height reinforced her authority as a middle school principal. Her school regularly led our school district in test scores and academic prizes.
That evening we saw a motorcade of sports and luxury cars pulling into the cul de sac around the home of the nude statues. Stylishly dressed couples were getting out of their cars, carrying bottles of wine and casserole dishes to the front door.
Women wore obscenely short dresses with plunging necklines. They were dwarfed by brawny companions. All the couples were so fit they could have all been triathlon athletes.
Many couples were interracial. We noticed more than a couple groups of three, such as blushing 20-year-old college girls or an older white couple with a young black guy. In one instance, the black guy held an older white woman's hand while her balding husband followed a few steps behind.
Whenever the door opened, we could hear lots of giggling and see the flickering of candles.
We hustled home.
For the first time in our 15-year marriage, Janet initiated the sex, pushing down her jogging pants and panties and leaning over the bed. I plunged my dick into a sopping wet pussy. To our disappointment, I spurted right away.
As we cuddled, she played with my balls and tugged on my penis. "May be we found the right place," she said.
Janet crawled deeper into the sheets and started sucking me back to hardness.
The next morning I found a bowl of fruit in place of my usual toasted bagel with smoked salmon and cream cheese. Janet left me a note on the dinning room table, saying she went for a jog.
It was like Janet had suddenly remembered our long-forget ten New Year's Resolution to drop 10 to 20 pounds each. That morning I decided to take some free weights to work so I could lift between appointments.
A week later, our housekeeper confirmed what we already surmised.
We were living with swingers, but were surprised that the hostess was a short Indian woman named Oona.
She was very reserved but friendly. She apparently lived alone and worked from a home office, where she directed a large philanthropy. Some complained that she brought too much traffic into our gated community, but the directors of our homeowners association were known to make exceptions.
The insiders' joke was that Oona had sex with all of them. The promiscuity was at odds with the public appearance of Oona as a very serious and disciplined athlete who was often swimming laps and playing tennis at the clubhouse.
Our insiders source of information was Rosa, our hot young Honduran maid who also cleaned at Oona's. Janet plied her for gossip. Rosa liked to tease us, joking about how horny we were despite our reputations.
Three months into our stay in Tuscany Hills, we got Oona's invitation after meeting a few conditions. Some were obvious, like we couldn't bring cell phones or cameras. We had to pass background checks assuring our hostess we were clean of criminality and sexually-transmitted diseases. We were extorted for a $10,000 gift to Oona's foundation for Indian art.
The last two conditions took me surprise. Rosa gingerly explained to us over coffee that the parties were female-centered, meaning women called all the shots. Guys were not supposed to initiate. Because the girls got more action, Oona wanted assurance that I was not the jealous type.
This was when Janet cleared her throat. "Oona wants me to make love with another guy before we go."
She wanted proof I could take it. I turned red in embarrassment as Rosa explained that that Oona wanted to avoid a fight or otherwise ugly episode at her party.
I hate to sound so self-absorbed, but I had only considered my own satisfaction of watching other couples make love, perhaps indulging in a blow job or a hand job from an attractive stranger. I never thought my wife would be making out with a strange guy, but the idea turned me on.
"Another thing, you have to follow the dress code. Guys are not supposed to wear any clothing during the party," said Rosa, smiling mischievously.
"You don't mind taking your clothes off, do you dear?" Janet said in her principal's voice. "Rosa has to report back to Oona that you're not inhibited."
I did not move for a second.
"Let's go, dear, don't keep Rosa waiting," Janet prodded me.
I got up and fumbled with my clothing. Rosa was watching me so closely, it was unnerving. I was more embarrassed than turned on. My penis was barely more than a pimple when I pulled my boxers down.
The girls were patronizingly sweet.
"He looks so cute," Rosa said. "But you guys are in for a shock. There's some big guys who come to these parties. Janet, you're going to feel what a big dick is like. Oops, sorry, Mr. Crabtree, I was just being honest."
As if on cue, our gardener Gonzalo walked into the living room. He wore a white T-shirt and blue jeans and a red bandana around his neck. He was sweaty and smelled of manure.
Ignoring my presence, Gonzalo leaned over and put his thick arms around my Janet. He squeezed her boobs and pecked her on the check with a familiarity that made me suspicious.
Janet cooed in response. She stood up submissively.
"Sorry, baby, but I have been hot for Gonzalo for a while," said Janet while panting in heat.
The gardener swooped her up into his arms and carried her up on the stairs. I was left staring, wondering what was going on. My penis was stirring to life.
"Come on, silly," said Rosa. She pulled me by my penis as we followed behind.
When we got to the bedroom, Janet was already nude and on her knees before Gonzalo. She was unzipping his pants when she saw me walk in the room.
"Sure you're OK with this?" said Janet, shooting me a look of desparation, like don't fuck this up for me.
When his pants were down to his ankles, Gonzalo sat on the edge of the bed.
"Hey, it's my favorite bed cover," said Gonzalo, referring to an old wedding gift of ours. "I will try not to come on it. Me and Rosa like to fuck around up here while you guys are at work."
Rosa laughed knowingly.
Janet was nuzzling on his cock. "Oh, yeah, you're such a good little slut," Gonzalo said. "Educator of the year! If the PTA could see you now, my chica."
Rosa parked me on a love seat in the corner of the bedroom. Rosa was lifting her blouse over his head. She shook her boobs free and rubbed her nipples as she watched the show.
"Dayum, your wife can suck some cock," Rosa said.
Janet turned her head toward to us, she was blushing.
"I cant help it," she said. "I love his cock. It's so big. I've never had anything like it."
