(Almost) Real Swing

By W. Divinity Gore

“(Almost) Real Swing” is a collection of twenty, mostly erotic, often graphic, predominantly lighthearted stories set in the world of the swinger lifestyle. If you like reading about sexual activities, then I think that you will enjoy these stories. If you are interested about some of what happens within the swinging lifestyle, then I think that you will enjoy these stories. If you would like to imagine sexual engagement from various and different perspectives, then I think that you will enjoy these stories. After all, that is the purpose of both these stories and the swinging lifestyle itself: enjoyment. Life is too short not to have a healthy dollop of enjoyment wherever you can get it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W. Divinity Gore
• Release date: Jan 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215775837

Book preview

(Almost) Real Swing

A story collection

By

W. Divinity Gore

(Almost) Real Swing

By W. Divinity Gore

Copyright 2022 W. Divinity Gore

Smashwords Edition

Contents

Introduction

My Valentine

Double Switch

The Language of Erections

How I Became a Boy Toy

The Play is the Thing

Three Perspectives of a Fuck

Tutorial

Something More to Talk About

Interview with Little-Boots

Stephanie’s Frist Time

Unexpected Synchronicity

Vanilla to Non-Vanilla and Back

Enter the Unicorn

Beginnings, Endings, and Middles

It Runs in the Family

Foursome in Four Voices

This Guy Butch

Stage Directions

Crazy Holly

Crossing Paths

Introduction

One of the things that the internet taught the generation of people, like myself, who experienced both the pre-internet world and the post-internet world is that no matter what you’re interested in, no matter what might be your opinions, no matter how typical or odd, wonderful or terrible, big or small, are your thoughts, there are other people like you out there, somewhere, who share your interests, opinions, or thoughts. In some ways, of course, this is good. It suggests that nobody really has to be entirely lonely. If pickled herring is your passion and there is nobody in town with whom you can share your unique delight, then I can assure that somewhere online there is a community of pickled herring connoisseurs who would be happy to have you join. On the other hand, because you can always find someone online more extreme than yourself on any given topic, in some ways the internet also tends to normalize not-quite-mainstream modes of thinking or living. For example, I knew somebody who lived with twenty cats in her home. When I suggested that such an arrangement might be, well, odd, she said that an online friend of hers had forty-three cats. Thus, she was not yet halfway to being odd. So there.

Swinging existed long before the internet. There was always a community of people who engaged in mutual, consensual, recreational, sexual activity beyond the bounds of traditional relationships. Because swinging sounds so mid-twentieth-century, and wife swapping doesn’t really capture the full potential scope, many people refer to this lifestyle as the lifestyle. That, of course, can be confusing. After all, the person with forty-three cats also has a lifestyle, though it is unlikely that she has any time available for recreational sexual adventures. However, regardless of the nomenclature used, this realm of activity pre-dated the internet by, well, forever (read something by the Marquis de Sade if you want to have some insight on a disturbing view of eighteenth-century view of sex parties). All that the internet did for swinging was make it easier to communicate, organize activities, and help identify locations and outlets for this kind of expression. Thus, you would think that something which has always been present in society in some form or another, that is now given the opportunity to create a large, inter-connected community online, would become more normalized and accepted within the broader society. Well, you would be wrong. It still lurks in the fringes of normal society.

The truth is that the swinging lifestyle is not for everyone. Even for those who participate, different levels and types of participation are not right for everyone. And, that is just fine. Personalities, temperaments, situations, circumstances, beliefs, traditions, preferences, fantasies, fetishes these things all vary from person to person, from couple to couple. I know plenty of fine people whom I am absolutely sure would never for one moment consider participating in the swinging lifestyle in any way. That does not necessarily make them uptight. It’s just their choice. I also know plenty of fine people who cannot imagine their live not including some piece of the swinging lifestyle. And, to be completely fair, I know plenty of jerks in both camps as well. Swinging or not swinging does not make you cool or immunize you from the possibility of being an asshole. A recurring common theme of what most people whom I know or have met within the swinging lifestyle want from everyone else is simply to be left alone and not be judged for their choices. If everyone involved is a consenting adult and if nobody is injured by what we do, then just let us enjoy our pickled herring in peace. You may never acquire the taste yourself and that’s okay.

This is not an introduction that will explain all of the various terms used in swinging (soft versus hard, same-room versus separate-room, a whole variety of abbreviations for body type or body part descriptions or sexual variations, etc.) nor will it provide a complete history of the endeavor. This is simply an opening for this book of fictional stories. Please note that the stories in this book do not touch on the realm of sadomasochism, bondage, or dominant/submissive interactions. That is not a matter of judgment coming from me. It’s just not my thing and I cannot pretend to understand why it would be for other people. Good for those who find fulfillment in that realm and, again, so long as everyone is adult and consenting, so be it. Also, I have heard, for example, that some people like to dress up like stuffed animals and (somehow) engage in sexual adventures so attired. Again, no judgment from me, but nobody in this book is dressed in like a teddy bear. Often, they’re not dressed at all. The truth is that there are far more variations of sexual engagement not included in this book than there are included. This is a book of stories intended for entertainment, not a complete survey of the landscape.

So, if you like reading about sexual activities, then I think that you will enjoy these stories. If you are interested about some of what happens within the swinging lifestyle, then I think that you will enjoy these stories. If you would like to imagine sexual engagement from various and different perspectives, then I think that you will enjoy these stories. After all, that is the purpose of both these stories and the swinging lifestyle itself: enjoyment. Life is too short not to have a healthy dollop of enjoyment wherever you can get it.

My Valentine

It was at a party in February that I saw him.

The theme of the party was, of course, Valentine’s Day given the month and everything, meaning the larger context of the party. Who knew that the silly little thing from elementary school where you exchanged little candy hearts with the icky boys could evolve with age and maturity into an event overflowing with red lace, crotchless panties, bulging cleavage, and the occasional appearance of a hot, stiff prick? Mostly because I already had a good bit of red lace frilly things – I look good in red – I’d decided to bow to the popular will and pay homage to the theme of the party and to the venerable Saint Valentine of Rome. I wonder if the third-century martyr would appreciate how enticing were my dark nipples pushing out from behind the sheer red bondage of my negligee. Well, he lived long before the church mandated celibacy of the clergy, so maybe he would have whipped it out and cranked up some jism to demonstrate just how much he liked the view.

That thought was why I named this guy Valentine in my head, this guy that I saw there at the party. I never learned his actual name. Shoot, I never even spoke to him. But I was thinking about Saint Valentine in his ancient Roman toga jerking off when I look over and see a guy in the corner imitating almost exactly the thoughts that I had running through my head, though without the toga. It was a darkened corner. There was one dim light above him pointed upwards, so the only light on him was reflected back down from the ceiling. He was pretty well hidden and it may have been that I was the only one who could see him. I thought about that later, about how carefully he might have arranged it or whether it was mere happenstance.

Steven, my husband, was off somewhere talking to someone. Frankly, I have no idea. He was exhausting me that evening I was kind of pleased that he was away for a few minutes. The NASCAR season was kicking off soon so I’m sure that he was off blabbering about horsepower or down-force or pit stops or whatever the fuck they talked about. I mean, seriously: you’ve got a room full of half-dressed, horny women and you want to talk about greasy engines, tires, and shit? I love him. I do. But sometimes our brains function on entirely different schedules.

When I was a little girl, I’d go over to my grandparent’s house upstate and my grandfather always had a surprise for me. Whatever it was, it was always hidden somewhere in the house. Every single visit, we would play the warmer, warmer, colder, colder game as in, ‘you’re getting warmer’ when I was getting closer to the hiding spot or ‘you’re getting colder’ when I was getting farther away. He would say, ‘you’re getting very hot’ when I was right on top of the hiding place.

That memory flashed through my head as I sat there at the party with Valentine watching me from the shadows of his corner. His pants were open and I could make out that his cock was in his hand. He was stroking himself slowly and I could imagine what it was running through his head. I was imagining him imagining me. Here we were at this party, music going, people talking, but were somehow alone with our mutual circle of imagination. I could see his face. He was a bit older. I could see his cock. Hard cocks are without an age. They are as timeless as they are mindless.

I started to gently stroke the side of my breast and it was like, ‘you’re getting warmer,’ because his stroking quickened. I pulled the spaghetti strap of my negligee down so that my breast was exposed and started playing with my nipple. Again, his stroke intensified. You’re getting warmer. At that point I was thinking that I wanted to put him in my mouth. Steven wasn’t always real big on my playing on my own and all, but he’d get over it. After all, that’s why we’re here, right? So, I got up from my seat and took a step in his direction. Immediately, he tucked his cock into his pants and turned away. You’re getting colder. Apparently, I’d misunderstood the parameters of our little game.

As I sat back down, I pulled my panties off and put them on the table. Valentine turned back towards me and again pulled out his cock. I reached down between my legs and started stroking myself. You’re getting warmer. He was really going now. I slid down in my seat and put my feet up on a couple of other chairs. I was spread wide open. He raised his chin so as to get a full view of me as I rubbed my clit. He was working his cock and I was working my pussy, separately yet together. It was weirdly erotic. I mean, I like sex. I like fucking and sucking and just about everything given the right circumstances. I even like jerking off when I’m all alone at times. Sometimes, the imagination – just thinking about fucking and sucking – can be almost better than the real thing. This, though, was more than me just imagining him ramming his fat cock into me. It was me imagining him imagining me as he did it. You’re getting very hot. I was basically sloppy wet by this point and I was hanging on the edge of coming when I saw him wince and hesitate in his stroking. As I watched the jism spout from his cock, and then dribble out, I was flooded with the throbbing warmth of my own orgasm.

So, that was it. He finished. I finished. We didn’t speak. He blew me a kiss, zipped himself up, grabbed the bottle of whiskey that was sitting of the table, and left the room. I had just finished putting my panties back in place when Steven appeared. He apologized for leaving me alone. He said that he’d met some cool people and that we’d been invited to a private gathering. Perhaps too eagerly, I said, ‘let’s go.’ He misinterpreted my eagerness for anger or, perhaps, resentment. I assured him that, no, I was fine. I was just primed and ready for some action. He seemed surprised. I told him that I’d just been thinking about Saint Valentine and what a stud he must have been to have something like this pay homage to him all of these centuries later.

Double Switch

Abe watched Lori put her arms around him, around his neck, and then allowed herself to be pulled in close. His hands were on her hips. They began to kiss. It was tentative at first so that their lips briefly separated, but then they resumed with more intensity. One of his hands slid down her waist and halfway cupped her buttocks through the smooth black fabric of her dress. His other hand, his left, slid up so as to frame her breast with his forefinger and thumb. Their heads moved rhythmically together, finding their own biological beat despite the dance music thumping from the speakers.

The lights were dim in the back of the room where Abe sat and Lori and the man, Franklin was his name, were standing together, nearly as a unit. Every now and then there was a rush of chilly air as some stepped outside for a smoke or returned to the party. Abe realized that his bottle of beer was empty so he reached under the table for another. He opened the beer, took a swig, and started to play with himself as the two lovers pull apart sightly and he, Franklin, took Lori’s breast entirely in his hand. One of Lori’s arms left its position from being draped around Franklin’s neck and she ran her hand down the front of his shirt to his beltline. Once there, she turned her hand over and reached into his crotch. Her head was downturned as she watched her hand. In the shadows, it was difficult to see, but Abe could make out the rubbing movements of her fingers. His own crotch was uncomfortably taut with the strain of containing his own erection.

Franklin leaned forward, bending at the waist as Lori continued her ministrations, and whispered into her ear. She nodded. The two of them stepped back from each other. Franklin adjusted himself within his pants. Lori put her dress back in place and smoothed down the slick fabric. Her nipples cast shadows of deeper black upon black. Lori walked over to where Abe sat and put a hand on his shoulder.

Did you want to go back to the room? she asked.

Is that what you want? He took another long drink from his beer. He always brought something good to the parties, not his typical at-home, football-game beer. It was stronger, fuller, pleasantly bitter.

Yes. Is that okay?

Sure, he said. Let me tell Peter and Tabby. I’ll meet you guys at the elevator.

He gathered their stuff together, handed her the jacket she’d brought down to the party, closed up the cooler on wheels, and sought out Peter and Tabby as Lori returned to where Franklin still stood as he watched the crowd.

Abe found Peter and Tabby up towards the front of the room, near the buffet table with its meager supply of munchies. Tabby was wearing red lace, her blonde hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, her legs were bare up to her mid-thigh. Peter was eating some potato chips and chatting to an older couple and being his usual entertaining self. Abe slipped his arm around Tabby’s waist and kissed her on the cheek.

We’re heading upstairs for a bit, okay?

Okay, she said. We’ll see you later then.

I certainly hope so. He gave her a squeeze before he broke away. He caught Peter’s eye and elicited a quick nod and a smile. He was going off about a story from their trip to Jamaica the year before. Peter could certainly tell stories.

On the elevator up to the third floor, Abe took note of the fact that Franklin was a bit taller, a bit younger, and less paunchy than was Abe. Also, Abe thought, his application of cologne might be overdone. Not that Abe was judging or comparing. That really wasn’t the point. In fact, it was exactly opposite the point.

Room 311. The prints hanging on the walls of the room were pleasant, but since when most people stayed at the hotel the only saw their room, they would not know that every room was adorned with the same pictures.

Franklin excused himself to use the bathroom. Abe followed Lori into the heart of the room. One king-sized bed. One dresser. Two nightstands. One television. Lori stepped out of her heels and turned her back to Abe. He obediently unzipped the back of her dress and, after having done so, snuck his hands up and around her ribcage to lay his palms flat across her breasts. He could remember how this had felt prior to her surgery. He’d been skeptical at the time. However, he had to admit it: the enhancement suited her.

Slow down, she said. Patience. She left her dress hanging but quickly, hiked it up, and shimmied out of her silky black panties.

Me slow down? Look at you, he said as he bumped her kiddingly.

Franklin came out of the bathroom and started approaching Lori. She held up her hand to tell him to stop.

Take off your shirt, she said.

Franklin smiled. Yes, ma’am, he said and then he complied.

Take off your pants, she said.

Again, he complied and overachieved by also disposing of his shoes, socks, and underwear as well. He stood naked in the middle of the room as Lori eyed him from, literally, tip to tail. He was a well-built man, athletic, long and lean. Admirably equipped for the adventures soon to follow.

Lori dropped and pushed her dress down to her claves and then stepped out of it. She took a step towards Franklin. He put out his arms to accept her embrace, but she stopped, wagged her finger, and slowly shook her head. He put his arms down. Lori walked up to him and ran her hand down his chest. Then she ran her left hand down his arm as she circled behind him and ran her right hand across the expanse of his back and down to his ass, which she assessed with both hands. She leaned in so that her breasts lightly touched the middle of his back before she came around the other side of him. Only then did she let her gaze fall downwards. With her right hand she cupped his balls and seemed to be weighing the swing and heft of them, like they might be vegetables in the market. She got on her knees in front of Franklin and, after flitting it with her tongue, she took his semi-erect cock into her mouth.

Shit, said Franklin under his breath.

Abe smiled. He knew quite well the silky, warm, and wet softness of Lori’s mouth. While Lori had been circling and sizing him her specimen, Abe had disrobed as well and had flung his clothes onto the chair in the corner. He stroked himself in rhythm with the bobbing motions of Lori’s head moving into and out of Franklin’s crotch.

Lori released herself from her task and pointed to the bed. Lie down, she said. Then, she looked at Abe. Come here.

Franklin laid on the bed. His erect, slightly curved cock laid on his flat belly. Lori positioned herself standing and perpendicular to Franklin’s frame, leaned over, and returned her hand and mouth to his appendage. Abe positioned himself behind Lori. He was as hard as a rock and with little resistance, entered her. She was excited and he slid against her warmth with supple, liquid ease. He held her hips and slowly pumped into her, gently so as to not disrupt the activity on the bed. He watched her breasts swing freely with their combined rocking motions. Abe, once again, found himself in awe of the depths of sensuality of an aroused, sexually expressive woman.

After several minutes, Abe knew that Lori had had her fill of appetizers. Now, she wanted the main course. She stood up and directed Franklin to the middle of the bed, still on his back. Franklin had not spoken much. He didn’t need to. It seemed that he would keep doing whatever this beautiful, older woman told him to do, and he’d keep feeling good. You really cannot argue with that kind of logic. Lori and Abe crawled on the bed as well. Abe saw where she was headed.

May I do the honors? asked Abe.

I would love that, said Lori before she ducked down moment and swirled the head of Abe’s cock around her mouth.

Is that okay with you? Abe asked Franklin.

I’m not sure that I understand.

It’ll be okay. It’ll be good. Trust me.

Lori positioned herself. She was standing over Franklin, straddling him. Abe reached down and took ahold of Franklin’s cock. Franklin jumped a moment upon Abe’s touch until he realized the intent. Abe pointed his full handful of Franklin towards the ceiling as Lori descended into a squat and, in so doing, impaled herself upon Franklin’s erection. With a whispered gasp and with closed eyes, she consumed it to the hilt. Abe removed his hand from the point at which their two bodies were joined and stepped off the bed. Now, he knew, she was going to ride Franklin into the crashing waves, her crashing waves.

She began upright. Seated tall and grinding on his hips while she fingered her clit. Her eyes remained closed in deep and quiet concentration. Then, she openned her eyes, got down closer Franklin, put both hands flat and wide on the bed so that her breasts brushed Franklin’s chest, and her hips began to roll