After-Dinner Minx

We’d been going through a flat patch for a while before we finally faced up to it and sat down to talk. In theory our relationship should have been fine: we have no children, we both have well-paid jobs and, until this dip, we had been lively and reasonably adventurous in bed. Sex was important to us both. But for some time it had become routine. I thought it might just be natural slowing down in our late thirties. Gill said it was because we came home tired; what we needed was a holiday. On an impulse, we took a week-end break in Prague but when we fucked it was self-conscious, as though we were trying too hard to please each other. When we returned home, we had to agree there was a problem.

It was Gill who suggested we should see a therapist. I wasn’t keen, but at the same time I wanted to get back to the days when I might come home and find a pair of knickers on the kitchen table with a note saying: dinner’s ready in the oven but don’t turn it on yet – I’m getting turned on upstairs. And there she would be, lying back with a vibrator buzzing on low speed over her clitoris.

We discovered a couple of sex therapists in the yellow pages, but we didn’t want someone local whom we might bump into the following day in Tesco’s. The internet turned up a long list but nothing to indicate whether any particular one was better than another. More or less at random, we settled on a practice about sixty miles away. Gill telephoned while I listened on the extension. Reassured by a calm, business-like female voice on the other end, I nodded and Gillian made an appointment.

The woman was Indian, about fifty-five, attractive, well groomed in a subtly shaded sari, cool and dispassionate in manner, but still sympathetic. She spent the first ten minutes establishing that we were both committed to the visit, then said she would speak to us each separately for about twenty minutes, and then call us both again at the end.

Comparing notes on the drive home, we found that, without seeming in any way prurient, she had asked us more or less the same detailed questions about our sexual practices and preferences (how long did our sessions last…what were our favourite positions…who chose…did masturbation play a part…how about pornography…did we use explicit language…what about fantasising…were there any taboos…was there anything different one of us wished we could do…and so on).

When we were called in together she was silent for a few moments while she read through her notes. Then she looked up and smiled for the first time. “I think,” she said, “the problem isn’t as bad as you seem to believe. And by coming to see me, which I don’t suppose was easy, you’ve already taken the first step to improving things.

“I can tell you that you are a better matched couple than many I see. I think your own diagnosis is largely correct – you’ve gone a bit stale on each other. So now you want to know what to do about it. The recommendation I am going to make will depend on you, Gillian.”

Gill nodded.

“The one area where there is a little difference between you,” the therapist went on, “is over the possibility of widening your horizons to involve others. Mark says he would like to and I think he is mature enough at least to explore the possibility. You, Gillian, didn’t rule out the idea but you were much more cautious. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, but if – ”

“If it would solve the problem, you would be willing to try?”

Gill looked nervous but nodded.

“But you would have to want to do it, or it could make things worse.” She paused. “Let me try a small practical test. Do you find me attractive?”

Another small nod.

“Then suppose I make the first move …” The physiotherapist unwound the top of her sari, revealing a transparent black bra over good breasts with dark nipples. “Now. Take a moment to think but please be truthful. Are you aroused?”

I saw Gill swallow and look at me. I nodded encouragement.

“Yes,” she said, “I suppose in a way I am.”

“Then good,” said the therapist, readjusting her clothes. “Perhaps Mark will be disappointed but I do not, repeat not, get involved with my clients. That was an experiment to prove a point, nothing more. It doesn’t make you a lesbian but it does indicate that the bisexual instinct many women have is not entirely dormant in you. Can you accept that?”

“I’ve never seriously thought about it but – yes – I can understand what you say.”

“So there is something you might be able to develop between you. I’ve only given you the smallest hint about one possibility. There are many more. You need to talk about it together. Especially you need to talk about the possibility of being with another couple rather just one person. If so, would you want to exchange partners – in the same room or separately, or would you just want to watch and let them watch you? There are many options and, believe me, there are many couples who find the experience beneficial. My only advice would be to think very carefully before going down the separate rooms route: whatever you decide to do you should do together. Talk it through thoroughly, be clear about your own limits, if any, and then go for it wholeheartedly. Will you do that?”

I said, “We’ll talk about, I can promise you that. But suppose we decide to take it a stage further, how do we go about finding someone – another woman, a couple, whatever? Could we be sure they were our kind of people?”

“Mark,” she said, “there are some things you just have to do for yourselves. But I may be able to help you a little” She tore a page from a pad and wrote on it. “You could try getting in touch with these people. They arrange what they call dinner parties with “afters.” When you ring they will want to know how experienced you are and what you are hoping for. Be honest with them. There’s no point in pretending. They will offer you the option of taking part or simply observing. You will be able to choose whether you want a small or large group – the maximum, I believe, is five couples. They will then put together the kind of occasion to suit you with a compatible couple – or couples. They are expensive but a number of my clients have called me afterwards to report total satisfaction.”

After leaving, we agreed to give it twenty-four hours for reflection and then try to decide. It was Gill who raised the subject. We were in bed and I could sense that she tensed slightly when I put my hand on her inner thigh.

“Mark,” she said, “was that woman right when she said you might be disappointed that she and I hadn’t … you know?”

“No, of course not.”

“I mean seriously. We said we’d be honest.”

“Well, yes, I suppose I was. But look, we’ve agreed we’ll go carefully. I don’t want you to think I’m pushing you into anything you don’t want to do. I’d rather abandon the whole idea.”

“But suppose I think it might work?”

I said nothing. Gill slowly spread her legs, took my hand and held it, palm down, over her mound. “Just stay like that for now,” she said. “I want to tell you about a dream I had last night.

“Obviously, the interview must have been on my mind because in this dream we were in her consulting room and she’d just shown us her tits. The way it happened, you know?”

I stayed silent but my dick was hardening rapidly.

“Well, she walked round the desk and stood in front of you. Nobody said anything, but you started to undress her. Underneath the sari she was wearing knickers and suspenders and stockings that were obviously part of the set with her bra. Black against that pale brown skin – I knew black undies would have their usual effect on you. When you stood up and dropped your trousers, your cock was standing right out.”

The slightest wriggle of her bottom to change position told me Gill wanted more than just a firm palm between her legs. I let my index finger tease open the lips and wasn’t surprised to find that she was already wet.

“But when you made a move to remove the rest, she stopped you and beckoned to me. She turned her back while I unfastened the bra. When it fell away she cupped her breasts and pushed them towards me. I licked the nipples, first one, then the other. They were like small round coins and very hard.

“She stood away from me, took a cushion from her chair, put it on the desk and lay back on it. When I took her knickers off, she raised herself so her feet were on the desk and her knees were apart. Her cunt had been shaved and I could see moisture on the lips. I looked at you. You were stroking your cock very slowly as though you were finding it hard not to come. I thought you wanted to fuck her but you nodded to me as if to say I should carry on. So I did.”

“And?”

“I don’t think there is much more. I must have woken up. But the dream, Mark, it was so vivid, so real. It’s been with me on and off all day, and every time I think about it I get wet. I know what I think, but what do you think it means?”

“That you want to go ahead – ring these people she recommended?”

“If I still think so in the morning, then yes. But right now, I want your cock in me and I want it hard. Nothing fancy. Just fuck me, tell me how my cunt feels for your cock. Do it like we used to.”

We did and it was good, better than it had been for a long time. She orgasmed only once, which was unusual for her. She made little noise apart from gasping for breath but it was a huge, body-shaking release that took a while to subside. When it burst through her, it almost took me by surprise and I wasn’t quite ready. Gill knew at once.

“Give me a few minutes,” she said, taking my cock in her hand while her breathing gradually returned to normal. Then she climbed astride me, guided me into her warm wetness and rode me very slowly, her tits swaying, the nipples erect. Deliberately, she maintained the languorous, voluptuous tempo, prolonging the exquisite sensation, watching me, calculating my response, letting the spunk build and build from my balls until at last she said, “Now, darling, give it to me now.” With that, she sank firmly on to me, my shaft completely buried in her, and she held me there until she had drawn every last drop of cum from me.

As we fell asleep, I remember thinking that the therapist had already been beneficial. But where, I wondered, would we go from there.

*******************

I made the phone call; Gill listened on the extension. A man’s voice answered, friendly enough but neutral. I told him who had given us his number and his manner became more relaxed. His name, he said, was George. “We don’t often get referrals from the good Doctor,” he said, “but our experience is that she is a good judge of people who might benefit from our … services. Tell me what you have in mind.”

I told him we had no real expectations; we simply wanted to come along, have dinner and see what developed. If that was all right with them.

“We try to cater for people at different stages of their – shall I say, development. Are you experienced? With others, I mean?”

“No, not at all. Is that a problem?”

“No. But to get the chemistry right, we’ll need to know a little more about you both, so we can choose the right companions for you. If your wife is there, perhaps it would be best if she spoke to Phoebe. We need to be sure you both have the same outlook – I’m sure you will understand.”

Once Gill had convinced Phoebe that she wasn’t being coerced, the two women spent some time establishing just how inexperienced we were, and what we were hoping for. Having recommended that for a first visit we should meet two other couples, Phoebe outlined the rules: no surnames, no cameras, condoms mandatory – they would be supplied together with lubricants, gadgets, anything we might need. Participation was not obligatory – if we wished, we could just watch the others. But, Phoebe claimed, nobody yet had managed to stay aloof once the action developed. Putting together the right group might take time, she warned. As soon as they could offer us a date we would get an e-mail asking us to telephone. Until then we would have to be patient.

*******************

Nearly a month passed before the e-mail came. George answered the phone and said they thought they had the kind of mix that would suit us; he and Phoebe hoped we would be able to make next Saturday evening. When we accepted, George gave us careful directions. They lived, he said, out in the country with no neighbours, which suited them. If we got lost he asked us not to make enquiries from anyone we passed, but to ring them and ask for help. Seven for seven-thirty.

The house wasn’t easy to find but we managed without needing to call for assistance. It was a large building, Edwardian and well-maintained, with a tree-lined drive. As requested, we parked at the rear of the house, next to a Mercedes and a Citroen. Apparently, we were the last to arrive.

Dress, we had been told, would be casual but smart for the men, attractive but not tarty for the women. Gill was in a black cocktail dress, skirt short enough to show how good her legs are but no more.

Our host and hostess welcomed us at the door. They were both, we guessed, in their fifties but well preserved. Phoebe, blonde hair piled high, wore a high-necked blouse (with a bra that made the most of an ample bosom) and long skirt. Plump would be overstating it; well-rounded describes her better. George was about six feet tall, long-faced, greying, wearing a blazer and striped tie with grey slacks.

“Come and meet the others,” said Phoebe, leading us into an elegant drawing room where four people were sipping champagne cocktails. Expensive though the occasion was, the indications suggested value for money. Weighing up the other guests, I hoped that would be true throughout.

Conrad and Sybil, Phoebe told us, had been coming to dinner for more than two years. “And always go away fully satisfied,” smiled Conrad. He and his wife were about our age, both slim, wearing clothes that suggested money wasn’t a great problem. The Mercedes couple, no doubt. Happily, there was nothing aggressive or too knowing about them. Sybil took Gill’s hand and said, “Everyone is nervous with strangers and I expect you are no different. I was the first time. But someone as pretty as you will surely settle in quickly. Isn’t that true, Tara?”

“Thanks to you – and George and Phoebe, of course.” Tara was accompanied by Mike; they were about ten years younger than us and both, at this stage, a little reticent. Tara had the kind of figure that goes with healthy diet and regular visits to the gym. He dark looks were done no harm by a pale pink dress that made the most of her curves. Mike, tanned and lean, wore shirt and tie but no jacket. “This is only our third time,” he said. “So really we’re not much more than beginners ourselves.”

During drinks and dinner, the conversation was no more explicit, merely the small talk that goes with most dinner parties, but there was an atmosphere of charged expectation that was hard to ignore. Concentration on the excellent food wasn’t easy. If the evening went well, Gill would be fucked by one or more of those of us sitting round the table. I found myself picturing her on her back, knees raised, being taken by one of the men; would they service her carefully, I wondered, would she be fully relaxed? And what of the women? Across the table from Sybil, I realised that the dark top she wore, while not transparent, could not conceal the absence of a bra. Perhaps something in my expression gave me away for Tara, on my left, slipped a hand under my napkin to discover the hard-on my thoughts had provoked. She smiled at me and very briefly raised an eyebrow as she remarked on the wonderful spell of spring weather we’d been enjoying.

After serving coffee and liqueurs, Phoebe remained standing to say, “When you are ready, we can move through for afters. We mustn’t keep Mark and Gill in suspense too long.” She moved to stand behind Sybil, placing her hands on the other woman’s shoulders. “Sybil, they’ll be expecting you to lead. And if I may say so, you are looking more enticing than ever.”

Sybil said nothing. Instead, she took Phoebe’s hands and placed them on her breasts and, with a little sigh of pleasure, leant her head back to look up at her hostess. Phoebe bent to meet her, kissing her on the mouth and cupping Sybil’s breasts through the dark material. When they broke apart, Sybil smoothed her top through which hard nipples were now apparent.

George rose from his chair at the head of the table. “Softly, softly, ladies. There’s a long night ahead of us, if you want. Please follow me.” From the dining room, we walked along a passage that led to the kitchen, and across a yard into what had been, George said, an old stable block. “We’ve had it completely refurbished, of course, and – equipped.”

At my side as we stepped into a large, dimly lit room, Gill squeezed my hand. We were confronted with something like an intimate theatre. On a raised platform was a king-size bed. Pillows and cushions of various sizes were piled at the head. Towels, tissues, condoms and a selection of vibrators and dildoes had been set out on a bedside table. Arranged in front were a dozen comfortable armchairs.

“Please make yourselves comfortable,” said George. “Mark and Gill, I suggest you take the two centre chairs because you will want to watch, at least for a while. Conrad, you sit next to Gill. Then perhaps Mike will help the ladies to shed those pretty dresses so they can get us started in the usual way.”

We were about to discover if the therapist’s recommendation was what we really needed. Somehow it all depended on Gill. Watching Sybil and Tara step out of their dresses – Sybil in black French knickers, suspender belt and stockings, her small, pointed breasts needing no support; Tara in peach panties and bra – I already knew what I wanted. I looked at Gill whose finger nails were digging into my palm. She moistened her lips nervously, her eyes on the two women who now lay back on the bed.

When Mike came to sit with us I saw that Conrad’s hand was stroking Gill’s thigh. Her skirt was just above her knees and her legs were slightly apart but she made no move to encourage him. Instead, she turned to me and whispered, “Look up.”

When I did so, I saw that a canopy over the bed was mirrored reflecting Tara and Sybil’s outstretched bodies. Each woman had a hand inside her own knickers and had begun a slow masturbation.

“Isn’t that beautiful – such concentrated pleasure.” It was Phoebe who spoke. She and her husband were sitting on the two outer chairs, George, I noticed, with a mini-switchboard on his lap. Looking back to the bed, I realised he was focussing a series of concealed lamps to create pools of darkness and light, isolating different areas to emphasise the erotic activity in front of us. Sybil and Tara’s self-stimulation was gathering pace, Tara having pushed her panties down her thighs to allow her hand more freedom of movement. Seeing this, Sybil rolled on to her side and held out her arms to the younger woman. “Tara, darling, come and help me.”

They began with kisses, long, deep, tongue-in-mouth kisses, then sensuous licking of each other’s nipples. Mike stood up and removed Tara’s panties and, as Sybil lifted her hips, slid the black knickers away, too. Momentarily, his hand rested against her mound with its small triangle of dark pubic hair, but she twisted away. “That would be nice, dear, and you know I want it – but later. For now, I need Tara.”

Mike rejoined us, holding Sybil’s knickers to his face. When he sat down, he opened his zip, extracted his cock, wrapped the knickers round them and began a series of slow strokes. To my surprise, Gill reached across me and used her hand to assist him. Mike groaned and then stopped her. “Not yet. I’ll get too close.” Instead, Gill reached for my cock which I was in the process of freeing from my trousers. Her hand was cool and her touch was knowingly subtle. On her other side, Conrad was still stroking her thigh but now underneath her skirt.