Swing. Miasha

revealed her age to us, but I was privy to knowledge that she was a cougar—a sugar mama, actually. Their relationship appeared more like mother/son than husband/wife.

      She grabbed his hand, and before the goodbye that was sitting on his lips could jump off, she squeezed it. I didn’t see her do it, but I caught his reaction and he didn’t say goodbye. Thinking back, that is another thing I regret about that night. Maybe had he said those words, it would have been the end of it. Maybe it would have been the last time we saw each other.

      Kevin gathered our towels, handing me mine. I used the tip to wipe away my bodily fluids. While I felt around for my shoes, he finally spoke his mind.

      “What the hell happened?”

      I landed on one shoe and slid my foot in. “What do you mean?”

      “Did he . . . did you . . . ?”

      I put my hand up to my husband’s face, palming the right side. He was no underwear-model prototype, but he was mine. His average build and common features were what I loved about him. I looked him in his eyes. “It doesn’t even matter. This is all about you tonight. Did you enjoy yourself?”

      He moved my hand from his face, nodded his head, and mumbled, “It was cool.” Yet his entire demeanor told a different story.

      “Baby, I did this for you,” I whined. “I worked on this surprise for months, please don’t let it end like this.”

      I wanted him to walk out of the club with the same excitement and thrill that he felt when he’d walked in and I removed his blindfold.

      “It’s cool. Let’s go.”

      “No, it’s not.” I understood how he felt. Like I said, if the shoe were on the other foot—well, in this case, if the condom was on the other dick—I would have been feeling some type of way too. But I didn’t want that for him. It was his birthday. His thirtieth at that. A trip to a swingers club was supposed to have been the surprise of a lifetime.

      In my heels I came to his chin. I started kissing him on his neck, chin, and bottom lip. I wrapped my arms around his neck. I imagined it was he who had made me reach my peak. My energy began to transfer to him and his guard slowly receded.

      “You are the only man I want and need. Don’t you ever forget that. What we did tonight was a milestone in our relationship. Something for the books. And as long as it’s a we thing, it shouldn’t be a bad thing.”

      His arms found their way around my waist, hands crossed on my butt. I had reclaimed him.

      “You’re right,” he said. “As long as we only do it together. All or none.”

      “And as long as at the end of the day, we know who we each belong to,” I added.

      And with that we sealed an allegiance. No signatures, just our words and our hearts—ironically, two of mankind’s most susceptible, breakable elements. Truth was, neither one of us knew what we had gotten ourselves into. Yet somehow we thought we’d mastered it.

       Danielle & Stewart

      As Stewart pulled into the parking lot, I slid a Molly under my tongue and took a swig of the Deer Park water I had in the cup holder. I adjusted the pasties on my pink nipples, then pulled close my chinchilla to cover my breasts. As I stepped out of the passenger seat of our latest purchase, my coat brushed the concrete. I felt so damn sexy.

      “Welcome back, Mrs. Oxford,” said the valet who rushed to my door the moment we pulled the Lotus into the lot.

      “Thank you, honey,” I purred at the young guy.

      On the other side of the car stood Stewart, my tall, husky, handsomely bald husband. Everybody thought he was an athlete. We let them believe that. Our lifestyle supported the theory and it was better than telling them what we really did for a living.

      Stewart peeled a hundred-dollar bill from a wad that rested atop the stack of flyers he had in his hand for our annual Christmas party. He gave the bill to the valet—the very reason it nearly became a relay race between the attendants every time we pulled up. It was like seeing Ed McMahon coming: payday.

      “You know what to do with it,” he told the guy.

      The valet looked at the bill before folding it in his hand and nodding. “Thank you, sir.” He took Stewart’s place in the driver’s seat.

      Trying to steal one last glimpse of myself in the car’s chrome body, I caught the reflection of the club’s neon Puss & Boots sign. And boy did I feel at home.

      An overdressed Stewart, in his blazer, V-neck, jeans, and loafers, used the hand that wasn’t stuffed with flyers to open the club’s door for me. He was such a gentleman. Upon entering, we were greeted by Kelsey, a beautiful, tall, slender, tanned brunette. She could’ve easily been a Kardashian, down to the K name. The only thing she was missing was a lot of ass. She had a little bump but nothing that could stand beside that Kardashian clan.

      Anyway, she was the manager, and to prove that point she wore a tie on top of her bra, and instead of just panties or a thong like the other female employees wore, she opted for a miniskirt. Or the occasional pair of booty shorts.

      “Mr. and Mrs. Oxford,” Kelsey smiled, reaching her hand out to accept my fur as Stewart stripped it off my back. “Looking stunning as usual,” she said to my nakedness.

      “Thank you, darling,” I ate it right up. I loved compliments.

      “Did Sofia clean our room?” Stewart asked Kelsey’s back as she walked toward the office carrying my coat.

      “She sure did,” Kelsey called from inside the office, then returned with a key which she placed in Stewart’s palm. “She left about a half hour ago. Said she locked up.”

      Sofia was our housekeeper and the only person we trusted to clean our room at Puss & Boots.

      “Is Lyssa here?” I asked Kelsey. “Her tongue and my pussy have a lunch date.”

      Stewart smirked and shook his head. “Danielle won the costume contest last month,” he explained.

      “I remember,” Kelsey grinned. “And she’s been trying to get you to her house ever since. You know, she and Jake are very strict about doing anything here. They don’t like mixing business and pleasure.”

      “I’ll do her one better,” I said as I reached over and grabbed the stack of flyers from my husband’s grip. I passed one to Kelsey. “She can come to our house. We’re having our annual Christmas party . . .” Handing the flyers back to my husband I added, “You tell her she has no more excuses.”

      Kelsey glanced over the flyer and nodded.

      I cupped my breasts and mashed them together. “You ready?” I looked at my husband.

      He extended his free hand. “After you.”

      We opened the door that separated the real world from our fantasy and I strutted through. There were nude bodies everywhere: on the dance floor under strobe lights, at the bar carrying on casual conversations, in the dining area soaking up alcohol with food from the buffet, in the Jacuzzi, the pool, around the billiards table, scattered on leather couches and oversized daybeds. It was like the Garden of Eden, except Adam and Eve were multiplied by about fifty and that serpent that we know as temptation was the life of the party.

      “A Cîroc Coconut,” I told Nina, one of the scantily clad bartenders who stopped what she was doing to come over and take our drink order.

      A cute couple at the bar who had witnessed the special service looked our way. They had to be wondering who we were to deserve it. Game time, I thought, and I took that opportunity to introduce myself. It was ritual.

      “I love your breasts,” I complimented the golden-complexioned woman. Flatter first. Then probe. “Did you get those done here in Atlanta?”

      The