On the Swing

On the Swing
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

We frequented a swinger’s club on the other side of town, a bar atop an ordinary hotel near the Interstate. Saturday night had us excited so we decided to make an evening of it.  I dressed like a swashbuckler, a loose white shirt and black pants. Silver dressed like a slut, in a good way. We made the long drive to the hotel, arriving in the dark. The freaks come out at night. A wedding reception blared from one of the banquet rooms. A small bar on the first floor hosted karaoke sadly. A forlorn guest sat down alone outside the party as though expecting to hear a mariner’s tale. The empty halls echoed and we found the elevators.

When I say Silver dressed like a slut, I mean she wore stockings and a thong under a too short skirt and a blouse that might give glances of her nipples as she moved. Every instant was a possible revelation, a tease, a whisper, a promise. What would be risqué for ordinary venues and tame for a house party was standard fare for this swingers club. Provocative was as good as we could get because they had a liquor license so they had to try to keep the party decent, maintaining a soft line of near-nudity and almost fondling that the swinging crowd didn’t bear easily and forever tested.

An elevator opened and we stepped inside, pushing the button for the top floor. The door hesitated and then started to close when a young man’s hand interjected and reversed the door’s direction. He stepped in with an apology, pressed a button and turned to face us as the door finally slid shut.

“Holy shit,” he said when he saw Silver in her slutty attire, got caught staring hard at the naked thigh between stockings and panties, a bulge barely covered by her too-short skirt. He shook his head in disbelief. “So there really is a swingers club on the top floor?”

“Yeah,” I said. Silver lifted her shirt, exposing her tight-tipped breasts to the guy.

His eyes bulged. “Can I show you my …”? he stammered. Silver looked at me and smiled. He pulled down his polyester jogging pants to reveal a semi-erect cock. Kneeling down, Silver expertly took the rising rod into her mouth. He came at once, in seconds, juicing into her mouth with a load groan. The elevator door opened. “My floor,” he said, short of breath. “527. Come by and I’ll introduce you to the guys.” The door closed as Silver retouched her lipstick.

The club was bumping, electric and fun, full of flashes and admonitions, thumping drum and bass beats, grinds, squeals and warnings, drinks and flirtations and frequent illicit glimpses of nipples, bums and shadowy cunts. Silver soon ran into some old friends and we joined their private party in one of the hotel rooms below.

A typical hotel hallway opened into a typical hotel room with two King-sized beds and a super-illuminated bathroom. The nudity restriction was reversed as naked bodies were visible in every direction. A woman led me to the sofa, sat me down and straddled me, shoving her wet cunt into my face. As my tongue began to work between her labial folds, I caught glimpses as another woman tugged my black slacks down past my knees. She licked her fingers, rubbed her pussy and stuck my erect cock into her hot damp hole.

Caught by the rhythm of the woman riding behind her, the pussy in my mouth began to flow copiously, twitch spasmodically and grind down hard while a roar of squeals rocked through the crowded hotel room.

As the women changed places, I managed to catch a view of Silver, surrounded by the bare asses of the guys from room 527, slurping on each hard prick in turn. A juicy cunt thrust herself into my tongue while another dripping twat engulfed my throbbing dick. The rest of the night was a blur of fucking and sucking and laughing and playing.

When we left the still-simmering party, sometime after five, the elevator was stuck. We cuddled together, Silver and I, exhausted and satiated, until they wrenched the door open and we embraced a new day.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, swinging, writing and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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