TRADING PLACES (Continued)
It was the early seventies, maybe a bit later. I was married. Lillian (Lil) was working to put me through graduate school. We lived in a down at the heels little rental house owned by our postman in a shabby neighborhood in south Knoxville. Lil had a very close friend with whom she spent a lot of time (did they work together?). Lil’s friend and her husband lived only about five minutes away, also in our somewhat disreputable part of town. We were all in our mid twenties. We spent a lot of time together – much of it drinking. Some of it drunk.
I’m going to call Lil’s friend Beatrice and her husband Cecil. This isn’t just to protect their innocence – I can’t remember their real names.
Cecil was a fairly ordinary guy – average height, curly, sandy colored hair and bit on the slender side. He did something in tech or science, I think at the university, but maybe not, was it a laboratory? He might have been in grad school, too. I just don’t remember. He was a bright guy with a laid back personality. I never saw him mad. I liked him but we weren’t particularly close
. Beatrice was a big woman – a very big woman – maybe five seven or thereabouts and north of two hundred fifty pounds. She had marvelous porcelain skin, fine, medium length blond hair and mischievous blue eyes that sparkled with intelligence or flash with anger. Bea could a foul mouthed bitch if she was having a bad day.
It was hard, however, to look past her size. Very hard. She was way past fat and approaching the far side of obesity. Her grotesque size was the first thing (and quite possibly the only thing) anyone noticed about Beatrice. When I first met her she reminded me instantly of one of those little crude, prehistoric stone sculptures of an earth mother with extremely exaggerated hips, thighs and breasts.
She and Lil were involved in the SCA – the Society for Creative Anachronism – each member chose a historical figure, a prince, a merchant, farmer, or knight living prior to 1700, (but most SCA members chose to be a character from the medieval age). The SCA sponsored faires, festivals and pageants, where its members wore accurate costumes and (over) acted her part (jousting, cooking, singing, etc.)
Most SCA people took their role playing quite seriously, spending considerable money and time to insure their historical costumes and accessories – leggings, gowns, robes, mail, swords and shields, musical instruments – were well made, handsome, durable and historically correct. They would research their chosen role and try to always be “in character”at public functions. Other members were less obsessed with role playing; their outfits were less impressive and not necessarily historically correct. These folks enjoyed the society’s events and treated them as excuse to party (with grog and wine available. It was not at all unusual for some SCA members, particularly women, to become so engrossed in their character it became an obsession and the major part of their lives.
I indulged my wife’s enthusiasm for historical playacting. She made most of her own outfits (we didn’t have much money) and did not insist on dragging me along or sharing every detail of an event with me. It was something she and Beatrice did, living weekends in a make believe world of medieval revels.
One evening, possibly in early Fall, Beatrice and my wife came back from an SCA event still in costume. Beatrice was wearing a royal blue gown she had made herself, with a high waist, billowing full skirt and a bodice that cut low enough to show off her milky white breasts. I was stunned. I had never seen Beatrice in costume before. In the opulent dress she no longer looked obese. She was transformed into a majestically aristocratic and very, very sexy woman (I didn’t realize it at the time, but much of the affect came from the very serious corset she wore beneath her gown ).
It was obvious she knew she became a different woman in her medieval court finery, one who drew sighs and long glances at her alluring cleavage. I’m sure she could also tell what I was thinking from my shocked expression and the way my eyes were drawn to her magnificent half exposed breasts every few seconds.
Now memory fades.
The next part of the story I remember is a late night at our house. Lil and Cecil were asleep? Or was he not there? In any event, Bea and I were awake but fairly smashed.We were in our diminutive kitchen hunting for something to eat and pouring ourselves another round (scotch, or vodka? Bourbon?) Buoyed by the alcohol and the recollection of the way she looked in that smashing blue dress, I began flirting with her. She flirted back. Another drink or two and the flirting turned to necking which turned to petting on our threadbare, squeeking couch in the living room. Given the proximity of our sleeping spouses, we could progress no further.
Stating the obvious, we both acknowledged our desires. Bea’s eyes locked onto mine. Her lust was plain and I found delighting. With one of her massive breasts in my grasp – how deliciously soft it was – I wanted her badly; the evidence of my desire was plainly visible in my lap For the moment, at least, thoughts of Lil were not uppermost in my thoughts even though she was sleeping mere yards away. It was a moment of pure drunken carnality
. I reached out to Bea again but she pushed me away from her.
She had a breathy, very sexy, teasing voice. She scooted toward me across the couch and placed one of her pale, plump hands on my upper thigh close enough to my wide awake cock to make me hold my breath. She wanted to fuck me, she said in that seductive voice, but said she wouldn’t unless Cecil and Lil were involved as well. It dawned on me she was proposing spouse swapping.
My head began to spin. Was this a dream, or was I suffering an alcohol induced delusion? Assured she was serious, I leered at her. I mumbled my agreement with her plan then ran my hand up her bare thigh till I felt the warm edge of her panties. After a few seconds she moved my hand, gave me a tongue heavy kiss and announced it was time for her to leave.
I had no clue what Cecil’s attitude might be, but I was certain Lil would never agree and Beatrice would remain just a drunken fantasy. When I finally figured out a way to broach the subject Lil responded by asking me if it was what I wanted. I was happily confused by her unexpected question. What could I say? After all, I had been the one to initiate the drunken sloppy kiss & grope session with Beatrice. I suddenly began to suspect Lil wasn’t surprised by my query, that she and Bea had already discussed the possiblities.
“Yeah, I think so. But, well, I wouldn’t do anything unless you agreed,” I said, now realizing Lil might actually find Cecil desirable. She was calm, staring out the window as if she was pondering whether to buy that pair of boots with a price more than a little over her budget
“So, are you thinking about it,” I said feeling a little out of breath. You’d be OK with me being with Bea?” She turned and gave me the ghost of a smile.
“And would you be OK with me and Cecil making love?” she paused, then came close and put her hand on my arm. “That wouldn’t bother you? You wouldn’t throw a huge fit and chase him around with a kitchen knife threatening to cut his balls off?”
My God! Lil was going to agree! I quickly assured Lillian I could handle her being with Cecil. “No problem, ” I said with a forced smile. Somehow I didn’t take the possibly of Lil and Cecil seriously. I was thrilled I’d really get my hands on Bea’s tits.
Lateras Lil’s attitude began to sink in, I found myself surprising conflicted. She was my wife, damnit. She wasn’t supposed to want to be with another man. She was supposed to put her foot down and tell Beatrice in no uncertain words to stay away from me. Yes, of course, my attitude was unabashedly hypocritical. I’d spent an hour or so trying to fuck Bea right in our – Lil’s – house and here I was shocked my wife was willing to consider playing the same game with Cecil, that I was her man.
Lil’s consent was conditional. She and Bea had agreed they had to remain in control. They’d set the times they swapped husbands and where our trysts would occur. They announced the women would stay in their own homes and we men would visit. Our adulterous adventures would be reciprocal; I could only fuck Bea at the same time Cecil was with Lil. No hanky panky on the side.
The part of me that no longer thought this husband swapping was such a good idea had lost its last chance to stop things dead when Cecil signed on with enthusism. I was about to go over the falls in a barrel. I had initiated this and now I couldn’t stop it. Of course I wasn’t sure if I would stop it even I could; I did desperately want Beatrice and spent a lot of time fantasizing about her. I relished the thought of seeing her naked and resting my head on those marvelous tits and sliding my dick into her. I just wasn’t keen about price I was being asked to pay to play with her: freely renouning my exclusive access to Lil’s petite body and allowing her to frolic with Cecil in my bed. I didn’t mind sauce for the gander but shied away from sauce for the geese as well.
I also was oddly distressed Lil was so untroubled with sharing me with Bea. Wasn’t she worried she might lose me? Did she care so little for me she was willing to take the risk? Would she fall in love with Cecil? Had she already?
Or was she somehow in love with Bea? Was this swapping thing, this sharing by each of her husband with the other, Bea and Lil’s r odd way of creating a greater intimacy between them? It hurt to think about all the threatening possibilities. But I wanted Beatrice badly enough to suppress my doubts.
Sex with Beatrice was beyond my wildest fantasy, consuming and exhausting. She used her oversized body with its rolls of fat skillfully to amazing effect. Like some wild, female Sumo wrestler, she would quickly scramble on top of me, smothering me with her quivering, naked breasts, belly and thighs, then kiss me repeatedly, her tongue deep in my mouth, with a ferocity that kept me constantly hard. Her pale blue eyes seemed to mock me, as if I were a mere bit of furry prey she was playing with before devouring. She delighted in feeding me her massive, pale nipples and would giggle as I swallowed as much of each breast as I could. Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly wicked, she would sit up and slide herself up my chest until her cunt was just over my mouth, then sit down on me until my mouth, nose and eyes were smothered by her crotch. “Do me!” she’d whisper. I’d lick her frantically hoping I could get her off before I ran out of air.
When she was ready, she’d reach down and quickly grab my penis, heave herself up, then cram it into her greedy cunt, wriggling around till she happy with the fit. Always wet and tightly snug, her vagina, half secluded beneath her gut and guarded by her billowing thighs, was a deep, magical well. Sinking slowly into her wet tightness, her warm, soft flesh enveloping me as she lowed her body onto mine, was like coming home (an odd simile, I know, and more than a bit worrying, but one which illogically feels right).
When I came in Beatrice it was like blindingly close lightning, instantly and totally consuming, shocking my entire body into prolonged orgasmic rigidity, then a release followed by a languid, drowsy contentment. When Bea orgasmed I felt like I was trapped beneath an erupting volcano. Her obese body convulsed. Her grip on me would tighten, her nails nearly piercing the flesh of my ass until the pain made me cry out. Her massive thighs would tighten as she repeatedly rammed her body down as hard as she could onto mine. At the peak of her orgasm she would grunt like a wild boar then fiercely growl like some great jungle cat, sounds which frightened and delighted me at the same time.
When she was finally spent, her heavy body, now relaxed, still draped over mine, I would take secret joy in bringing her off. I had done this, my prick had done this, brought her to such an animalistic sexual release. I was a stud!
The joy of the first few encounters with Beatrice reduced my anxiety. Truth be told, fucking (or perhaps being fucked by) Bea totally eclipsed any sex I had ever had with Lillian (sex with my wife had always been pleasant but never consuming). I was annoyed, however, to discover Lil enjoyed fucking Cecil in our bed with no remorse. I didn’t want to hear any details. Lil was smart enough, or kind enough, not to offer any. She always changed the sheets when they were done so I wouldn’t encounter any evidence of their fucking.
I’m sure the wives, as close as they were, talked about our synchronized adultery often and in detail. How long did he last…? Does he do that with you…? Does it turn you on (off) when he does (doesn’t)…? Did you come – more than once…? I imagine they talked about Cecil and I in the same way they talked about other things – SCA, dresses, food – they shared an interest in. I wonder how they decided our fucking schedule (“is Thursday night good for you, Lil?”).
If this were a Penthouse Letter, I’d tell you now how we moved on to group sex, with everybody madly fucking and sucking everyone else in the same room. How I was turned on by putting Cecil’s cock in my wife’s asshole, or Bea’s cunt or mouth – or mine – and by putting mine in various orifices of the other three as well. The letter would end with a description of our wild trip to Brazil where we coupled with dozens of others in an orgy of depraved carnality that lasted more than a week.
In reality, there was only one episode when anything happened when the four of us were together, and that was fairly tame necking in our darkened living room. We were all quiet. I remember the liquid sound of Lil softly kissing Cecil. Both Bea and I paid more attention to what our spouses were up to than what we were doing to each other. I don’t know what might have happened that night if anyone had taken things to a more intimate level. To be honest, it would have had to have been one of the wives’ decision. Now, of course, I wish that night things had progressed. At the time I was fearful it would be Lil who decided to free Cecil’s cock and make love to it. That she didn’t, I now imagine, was out of her concern for Beatrice’s feelings rather than mine.
I ended our episode of spouse swapping. I blamed it on Beatrice, claiming to Lil that Bea had become too possessive and demanding. I said I felt controlled. That was true. I didn’t mention, however, that I had grown increasingly anxious about Lil’s continued fondness for Cecil’s lovemaking.
Oddly, I have utterly no recollection at all of what sex with Lil was like during the time we swapped. That void may mean little. Its been thirty plus years since our divorce in 1979 and nothing about sex with Lil remains anything other than the vaguest of memories (except an exquisite blowjob she gave me under the stars in southern Virginia).
When Lil and I separated and I filed for divorce Beatrice quickly came to loathe me. I couldn’t really blame her. It was my decision to divorce Lil. For a while I worried Bea might try to do me physical harm (she was still a big women, outweighing me by at least seventy pounds). She could be hot tempered. Nothing happened. I haver never seen her nor Cecil since.
Bea did give me a lasting insight into what sex is too often like for a woman. It was a weekday afternoon. We were, as always, in her home and in her queen sized bed. As always, she was on top, humping away and kissing andbiting my neck. For whatever reason, I was not as much into our coupling as usual. Suddenly, she growled; she had come more quickly than was normal for her. Before I could say anything she bounced up and strode toward her bathroom, the thick droopy girdle of white flesh around her waist below her broad back wobbling as she went.
“I’m running late”, she explained holding the edge of the now open door. Looking back at meat me, she ignored my pleading eyes and still stiff cock. Before I could protest my lack of satisfaction, the door shut behind her and I heard the sudden rush of the shower. Still wet with her juices, my dick began to wilt. There was a ache in my balls and, with the end of our physical passion, I grew cold. I pulled one of the bed sheets over me, then noticed it gave off a cloud of sweaty body stink .
As I listened to the muted roar of the shower, trying to decide what I should do, it suddenly hit me I was now playing the role of the frustrated girl with left open legged, her labia agape left gasping in the lurch by a selfish boy who believed sex ended with his premature ejaculation.
It was bad enough that I hadn’t come, but infinitely worse that she didn’t seem to notice or care that I hadn’t. No apologies or sympathy, no cooing promises to make it up to me. Just “slam, bam, thank you mister…” At least she hadn’t fallen asleep and snored. Or farted.
After I dressed and the last dregs of my unfulfilled lust had drained away, I began the short drive to my house, driving quite slowly and hoping Cecil’s rusty Chevrolet pickup would no longer be in my gravel driveway when I arrived. I was in no mood to wait somewhere till he and Lil finished their lovemaking. I knew Ceil was unlikely to share my fate. Lil was always earnestly pleasing. She would be sure he came, no matter how long it took; if fucking didn’t get him off she’d blow him well past the point her jaw ached. The thought of my wife with another man’s cock in her mouth considerably darkened my already sour mood.
The question of whether she swallowed his come – she wouldn’t swallow mine – suddenly flew into my thoughts like Poe’s raven. I wondered if I had enough courage to ask her if she did, and if she’d tell me the truth. I knew I wouldn’t ask; I was too fearful of seeing an enthusiastic sparkle in her eyes. “Yeah, Cliff, Cecil’s jizz is just so damn tasty! I can’t get enough if it! I swallow all I can and keep the overflow in a little jars in the pantry – wanna see? Wanna taste?”
I realized later my predicament that afternoon with Beatrice was wildly hilarious. I could not remember ever having been in the same situation before. Like most men, I took it for granted I’d always have an orgasm during sex, even if my companion didn’t. I was always gentlemanly enough to ask solicitously; most women pretended they came of course, which nicely relieved me from any post coitus guilt. Oh, there had been times when I just couldn’t come because of too much alcohol, or too little interest in the woman sharing the bed with me, but I could not recall a single time a woman had arrived at her desired moment of sexual bliss ahead of me and then, fully satisfied, called a quick halt to the proceedings while I was still a good ten furlongs back from the finish line.
Oddly, I admired Bea’s unhypocritical honesty – even if I had no wish to repeat the events preceding it that afternoon. She’d come and then, satisfied, she was done with me and wanted to rush off to other business. Maybe if we had been true lovers, or husband and wife, she would have been more understanding, more willing to sacrifice her time and effort to cater to my needs. Her interest in me was, however, limited to the two to three hours we spent each week rolling around in her bed. I was a nice diversion, her own sex toy on the side, but nothing more. At least that’s what I thought at the time.
The dirty secret about being a sexual object, together with Cecil, casually exchanged between Lillian and Beatrice is how uncertain I remain even today – forty years later – about those few months. I just don’t know what it all meant! Was it just a lark or the first serious crack in my marriage? Was I wrong to start it, wrong to stop it – or both!?
While I feel guilty about having the emotion, I remain deeply ashamed of having had an affair with such a grotesquely obese woman and allowing Cecil to fuck Lillian.
I wish I didn’t have to admit this: Beatrice had best damn cunt my dick has ever filled. I wish it wasn’t hers that won the prize; I’d prefer the winner be nestled at the junction of slender thighs of a better looking woman, one I had a serious, meaningful relationship with (or, what the hell, even one of my wives).
But the truth is the truth. Bea was freaky hot in a horror flick kind of way. Writing this I’m actually getting aroused. Wanting a woman I haven’t laid eyes on in over forty years.
Maybe I need to dig just a little deeper to find some hidden life affirming nugget meaning in this twisted memory after all. Oh well, maybe on another day.