Chris Simon: A real hot number

I knocked on the door. My mouth was dry and I could feel a tenseness in my stomach. The knock sounded hollow and it seemed to reverberate in my ears.

I listened for some sounds beyond the door. Faintly I thought I could hear a baby crying and some muted sounds of voices. After a moment I could hear softly padding footsteps walking towards the door.

The door cracked open, and a flood of bright yellow light spilled out. There was a man standing in the center of the light, peering out at me.

"Hello!" he said. "You must be Allen."

"Yes," I answered. "Allen Dawson. You're Kenneth Hill?"

"Ken," he said. He shook my hand firmly, and pulled me into the house. "Call me Ken."

He shut the door behind me, and I found myself standing in the hallway of a clean-looking middle-class house. To my right there was a living room filled with heavy Spanish-looking furniture.

"Here," Ken said. "Let me take your coat."

He was a short man, about five six or seven. He was older than I, and I judged that he must have been about thirty-eight or nine. He had a round full face, cracked in the middle with a white-toothed smile, and his hair was receding. His middle was somewhat thickened with a paunch.

"Yvonne will be with us in a moment," he explained, taking my coat and hanging it in the hall closet. "The baby woke up and she's putting him back to sleep. Wouldn't you know it would happen tonight. Always something."

I found myself not answering, but he didn't seem to notice. His chatter was easy and flowing and natural, as if he were thoroughly relaxed and truly genial. I felt awkward and uncomfortable.

"Did you have any trouble finding the place?" he asked. He guided me into the living room with a gentle pressure of his hand on my shoulder.

"No, no," I said quickly; perhaps too quickly. I was grateful for a chance to say something. "No trouble at all. Your instructions were very explicit."

He chuckled warmly. "That comes through practice," he explained. "I've directed many people here."

"Oh," I commented, awkwardly.

"Say, Allen. How about a drink? What will you have?"

"Scotch. With ice."

He left me sitting on the living room couch and he turned towards a portable bar in a far corner of the room. As he walked away from me, I became aware of the way he was dressed. He had on an old, wrinkled sport shirt and a pair of gray slacks. His loafers clumped silently against the rug. I felt strangely overdressed in my suit and tie.

"Your first time?" he asked, bending his words over his shoulder towards me but not turning around. He clanked glasses and ice together.

"Yes," I confessed.

"Just relax. Take it easy. We won't bite. Not yet, anyhow!" He laughed at his small joke.

"Hell," he said. "Me and Yvonne have been doing this for nearly three years. You'll get used to it. Just relax and let yourself go; you'll enjoy yourself."

He brought the drinks over and handed me mine. I sipped it, immediately feeling the strong comfort of the alcohol sliding down into my stomach. I could feel myself relaxing.

Ken sat across from me in an over-stuffed arm chair with curved wooden arms. He sat with his legs crossed and he sipped his drink. It looked like orange juice.

"Are you married, Allen?" he asked. He was treating me as though I had just dropped over for dinner. His manner was casual and relaxed.

"Yes. But Patti – my wife… doesn't…"

"Some wives are like that," he helped. "Now take Yvonne. She's always liked sex. And it got worse as she got older. Instead of quieting down, she seemed to need it more and more. It was her idea to start swinging. I just couldn't satisfy her enough. She used to bleed me dry."

I could feel a stirring in my groin. The frankness of his conversation reawakened my imagination, and I recalled my reason for the visit. I could feel my prick growing hard and creeping up my thigh, pressed tightly against the crotch of my under shorts. I took another drink.

"Does she know you're here? Your wife, I mean."

"Well," I began. "Patti knows about the ads, but she's not living with me just now. She's visiting her sister in Smithtown. We've had some… marital problems." I felt strange confessing this to a total stranger.

"Sex problems?"

"Sort of." I could feel color flush in my cheeks.

"You should try to get her interested in swinging," Ken explained seriously. "It just might save your marriage. You would be surprised at the therapeutic effects of swapping-off every so often."

"I don't think…" I thought of Patti, but I couldn't imagine her screwing with some strange man. I tried to imagine her naked body under the swelling weight of Kenneth Hill's stomach. The scene was perversely exciting.

"You learn to appreciate your wife better," he continued. "You don't take her as much for granted. And you regain that lost spark of spontaneity in your marriage."

I knew I wouldn't even know how to ask Patti to join us. When things hadn't been working out for us, I remember how I threatened her with placing a sex ad. "Go ahead," she said. "Enjoy yourself. Just stay away from me."

"Well," someone said. The voice interrupted my reverie. It was a feminine voice.

I looked up and saw a woman entering the living room. She was younger than Kenneth Hill by at least ten years. She had long dark hair and a tall, somewhat thin body. Her shape was excellent, and she had a pair of firm, full breasts. She was wearing a printed blouse and a short blue mini skirt.

"Ah," said Hill, standing up. "We've been wondering where you were."

"I couldn't get him back to sleep," she explained. She looked at me, a full, searching look.

"Is this our guest for the night?" she said. Her lips were full and sensual, covered with a dully glistening film of wetness.

"Dear, this is Allen…"

"Dawson," I helped. "Allen Dawson. I spoke to you last week, you remember. About your ad."

She smiled and I could see her teeth. She licked her lips with her tongue. "Oh yes, I remember your call, Allen. I've been looking forward to meeting you."

There was an awkward silence, and I didn't know how to fill it. I still wasn't used to the situation and the frank honesty with which they were discussing it.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you, too," I said finally. I felt my face color at the same time that I felt my hard-on stretch another inch or two.

"Let me get you a drink, dear," Hill said to his wife. He got up and walked towards the bar. I could see the bulging trace of an erection poking through his pants as he walked. He made no effort to hide it. "Your usual?"

"Yes, dear," she answered. She walked fully into the room and joined me on the couch, sitting at the other end. I felt the swell of the cushion under her weight as she sat down, and I could smell the faintest trace of her perfume wafting across the small distance that separated us. For the first time I noticed that she wasn't wearing a bra, and I saw the pinched tips of her nipples scraping across the print pattern of the blouse.

"Why don't you take your jacket off and loosen your tie," she said.

I looked up from her breasts and saw that she was looking right at me. She smiled and I realized that she knew I had been staring at her breasts.

"Yeah." Hill echoed. "Make yourself at home." He handed his wife her drink and then sat back in his chair across from us, leaving us both together on the couch.

"Good idea," I feebly agreed but really didn't. I slid forward on the cushion and loosened my tie. Then awkwardly, I unbuttoned my jacket and slipped it off my arms. I tried not to stand for fear of revealing my erection. I folded the jacket in half and placed it on the couch beside me, between Yvonne and I, and it seemed to separate us like a wall. I unclipped my cuff links and rolled up my shirt sleeves.