Quinton
The reason people live in southern California is for the weather. Few places in the world can offer the perfect temperature on an early evening in middle of winter. Not too hot, nor humid, just perfect. This perfect night, I followed my wife up the dozen stairs to the front door of an outrageously expensive and opulent home. The house was amazing, even for Newport Beach standards. The views even more so. I turned and took another long look at the ocean, the sun beginning to set and casting off hundreds of shades of yellow and orange. A lusciously green golf course separated the beautiful home from the beach. I could see that last of the golf carts leaving the course, making their way to the club house. What must it be like to live in such a place?
Our home was nice, I thought to myself as I stared up at the expansive home in front of me. It was in good condition, and it was comfortable, but it was your standard middle-class home in a middle-class neighborhood—the fanciest thing about it was the small kidney-shaped swimming pool in the back, and it was nowhere near the beach. We had to drive an hour just to get a whiff of the salt water.
My wife paused at the door, not wanting to be the one to knock or ring the doorbell. She gave me a smile and leaned against one of the fluted columns. She looked amazing as usual, wearing her hair down, it was like a dark brown curtain of thick silk, its length reaching to just below her breasts. I loved how it felt when it moved over my body during sex. With high cheekbones, a wide mouth, full lips, and perfect green eyes, Samantha was beautiful in every sense of the word.
Originally from a town just outside of London, she had attended an all-girls boarding school until she was seventeen. But after completing sixth form and passing her A levels, the UK equivalent of high school and entry level collage work, she rebelled against her parent's wishes and accepted a scholarship to study at the University of San Diego. And as chance would have it, that's where we met. Our courtship had been a whirlwind, and much to the ire of all of our parents, we eloped and moved in together. She knew she'd never get her parent's blessing, so she decided not to even try. I regret acting so impetuously now. We've been married for four years and my relationship with the in-laws is still rocky at best. Luckily, we don't see them very often. My parents have come to love Samantha though. In their eyes, she can do no wrong. She still has a very thick English accent, and I hope to god that she never loses it.
We were the stereotypically pour college students, but with hard work and a few scholarships, we managed to graduate free of the burdensome student loans that crush so many of our peers. I graduated in engineering, my wife in English literature. My field had a lot of job opportunities, and so it wasn't surprising that I was the first to be offered a descent paying entry-level job with a large engineering firm in Mission Valley, a city just outside San Diego proper. Samantha struggled to find a job, and had been considering furthering her education with a master's degree, but we were both fairly burned out with school and so we had decided to put that on hold for a time. Southern California might have the perfect weather, but it's not an easy place to live. Buying a house and just paying the basic bills on one income was not an easy thing to do.
Samantha stepped closer to me. At five-foot-four, the top of her head came up to my chin. I put my arm around her and pulled her closer, feeling the warmth of her thin, lithe frame. She had a runner's build, with the amazing legs and ass to prove it. To her friends and family, she was known as Samantha, but of course to me, she was Sammy, which over time had been reduced further to just Sam.
The home in front of us belong to a coworker of mine—or rather, it belonged to his parents. Nick was a good friend, but even though he was slightly higher up the food chain at work than me, he didn't make nearly enough to afford a place like this. It was one of several houses that Nick's parents owned. When Nick had gotten married a couple of years ago, he and his wife Julie had taken up occupancy of the home. I didn't know if he paid rent, or simply got it for free, but it wasn't easy to quench the embers of jealousy that burned away at me. It was stupid to be jealous. I knew that. Nick had always been extremely fair and helpful to me. But when you're busting your ass every month just to pay the basic bills, while your friends live in a place like this, seemingly free of worry, it's hard to dismiss that natural reaction.
"People don't even drive their cars around here," my wife commented, noticing the golf carts that the residents liked to use to go between houses and drive around inside of the exclusive gated community. "The neighbors might have our car towed for bringing down their property value," she said, referring to our fifteen-year-old Honda Civic that was parked at the curb. It was old, had a few dents, but was paid for.
I chuckled and was about to knock on the door when it suddenly opened and Nick greeted us. Nick was a big guy, having played college football until he blew up his knee his senior year. I understand he was really good and probably could have gone pro had it not been for the injury. He was slightly overweight now, but I'm sure he was a force to be reckoned with on the field. At six-foot-six, he pretty well towered over everyone, but he had such an easy-going personality that people loved being around him.
Nick's wife Julie, who was also a little on the plump side, was an attractive woman. She had medium length, dirty blonde hair and a square face one would have thought wasn't very feminine, but she still looked attractive enough that any straight man would have bedded her if given the chance. Her breasts were enormous and stretched the fabric of her shirt enough to make is almost see-through.
"Come in you two, we've been waiting forever," Nick said excitedly, stepping to the side so we could enter.
"There's a long line at the entry gate," I said, "Security here is intense."
"Right, sorry, about that," Nick said, shutting the door behind us. "We go through the resident's gate so there's never a line. The visitor line always seems to be backed up."
"Hey you two!" gushed Julie, coming around the kitchen island and giving us both a hug. "Over here now. Sit, sit," she scooted us along, gesturing toward a large, oval table off the side of the kitchen.
"Your home is very beautiful," said my wife, looking around the kitchen.
"Yeah, just a little beach house we like to keep up for appearances," Nick joked, mimicking the faux-haughty voice of Thurston Howell from Gilligan's Island.
This is why everyone liked Nick. He had no guile, no hidden agenda. He was just a good guy. And his wife was just as kind and big hearted.
"I hope you like Italian," said Julie, setting a large bowl of pasta in the center of the table.
We ate and talked about work and whatever random thing that came into our heads. Like me, Nick and Julie were both born and raised in SoCal, so they were interested to hear what Samantha's life was like back in the UK. Nick made countless jokes about girl's sexual preferences in an all-girl's boarding school. But my wife has heard them all before, and only laughed along with the rest of us. Later that evening, we were sitting on the most comfortable couches I've even sat in in my life, drinking a wine that was way over anything we would buy for ourselves. I wouldn't admit this to Nick, but the only wine Sam and I had bought lately was out of a box. It was an enjoyable evening and I was thrilled that my wife could partake in something a little more high-society than our normal routine would allow.
"Do you know any of your neighbors?" my wife asked as the evening was getting late.
Nick laughed and Julie smacked him on the arm, "What woman!" he cried in mock anger. "Like we weren't going to tell them."
"Tell us what?" I asked, trying to decipher the look Nick and his wife were shooting at each other.
"Dude," Nick began, "You'll never guess in a thousand years." Nick laughed again and sat up onto the front of the couch. "We were invited to a swingers party."
"And you went?" my wife blurted out in surprise.
Julie turned a dark shade of red and slapped her husband's arm again, "I can't believe you, Nick. You swore you wouldn't tell."
"What? They're our friends—they won't care that we went and got our freak on the other night," Nick said in his defense, his smile still stretched from one side of his face to the other.
"Holy shit," I said to no one in particular. I looked at my wife. Her mouth hung open and her brow was high on her forehead. "You guys really went? You actually..."
"Had sex?" Nick asked, getting yet another punch to the arm. "Oh yeah. It was the craziest thing we've ever done."
"Holy shit," I repeated, still in disbelief. I looked over at Julie.
"Nick will have to tell you," Julie said, she shook her head and wouldn't meet our gaze. It didn't seem that she was ashamed of having gone, but she was certainly embarrassed to talk about it. My wife looked at Nick and held up her hands in a, get-talking kind of gesture.
Nick pulled his wife close and kissed her on the temple, "I'm honestly still in shock that we actually went through with it. And to be fair, alcohol had a little to do with it, too," he began to explain. "We got to know a family down the road a few months ago. You know, been to their house to go swimming, barbeque, hang out. They're older, both professional, make tons of money. That type. Well, they asked us if we'd be interested in coming to a party, and told us that it was common for partners to switch it up and have sex. They said we could just come to the party and enjoy the drinks and the company—that we wouldn't be pressured into anything, but they really wanted us to come. So yeah, eventually we decided to go and see it. Don't get me wrong," Nick held up his hands, palms up, "We didn't go over there with the intention of swinging. We just wanted to see what it was all about... but, well, after a few drinks, and seeing how everyone got along so well, we kind of got into it."
"Everyone was so relaxed and easy about it," Julie added, "it made us realize that it wasn't that big of a deal—then it just sort of, happened."
"So how did it happen," my wife asked, "did you draw names or something?" My wife had been unusually quiet throughout the evening, but the enthusiasm behind the questions surprised me.
Nick laughed and shook his head, "No, nothing like that. When you go for the first time, they have someone explain all the rules and etiquette. Basically, you're given two buttons. A red one and a green one. If you have the red one on, people know that you're not open to any sexual invitations—you're more-or-less there to talk and mingle. If you're wearing the green button, then people know you're approachable."
"We put on the red buttons, of course," Julie quickly added.
Nick nodded, "And there were a handful of others wearing red buttons, too. But by far the majority were wearing green buttons," he picked the conversation back up, "We were probably the youngest ones there, but we didn't feel out of place. Like Julie said, everyone was so casual and approachable, it made you feel very relaxed." Nick paused for a moment, but when he saw we only wanted to listen, he continued, "After being there for about an hour—,"
"—And having a lot to drink," Julie interjected.
"And having a few drinks," Nick began again, "We decided, what the hell, why not have a new experience... we put on the green buttons."
"And people noticed right away," Julie spoke, "we were approached immediately."
"Yeah, I was really surprised how fast it happened. One minute my beautiful wife was chatting with a guy, and the next she's looking at me with this deer-in-the-headlights look."
