Grant Roberts - The Reluctant Swappers

"It may not look like much," yelled Dick Green as they climbed out of their cars, "but it's better than olives and cream cheese."

They made their way into the diner, which wasn't as bad inside as it had seemed outside, and ordered the deluxe $2.75 steak all around. They settled down in their booth with four tall glasses of beer, and the men loosened their ties.

"Well," Dick said raising his glass of beer, "here's a toast. Let's all drink to… the S.T.E.D.A.B.P."

They all laughed, raised their glasses high in mock salute, and drank long and hard. Sharon finished first, and turned her head to Dick.

"What's the S.T.D.P… whatever it was," she asked innocently.

"Wait a minute, let me get it again its… the… S.T.E.D.A.B.P. The Society to Eradicate Dull And Boring Parties." Dick answered and they all laughed again. The beers were quickly finished, and they ordered another round.

"Tell me Ron," Myra said, her smoldering eyes resting on him in a way that made his heart imperceptibly quicken its pace, "how did you get invited to this evening's abortion?"

"Ollie Lewis is one of my many bosses," Ron answered, putting his: arm around his wife's small waist. "I guess he just felt like being democratic."

"One of your many bosses?" Dick echoed. "What kind of work do you do, Ron?"

"Well, that's kind of hard to say," Ron chuckled. "I'm sort of a free-lance dabbler in the arts. I write a small syndicated column about artsy things in the area."

"Oh, darling, you make it sound so casual," Sharon broke in, and went on to explain, "He writes for four or five newspapers and a couple of magazines, you know, art criticism and film reviews, that kind of think.

He just got back today, as a matter of fact, from an assignment in Hollywood."

"Really?" breathed Myra. "What were you doing down there, Ron?"

"Oh, nothing much really. Martin Epstein, the film director, had an interior set he had to make look like a l9th century art gallery, and he needed some help making it look authentic, you know, so that all the paintings and sculpture and things were in keeping with the times and the tastes of the people involved. It was much duller than it sounds, though."

"Well, it doesn't sound dull at all to me," Dick said. "It sure beats working in a bank."

"Dick's vice-president of the City National Bank," Myra explained, straightening her delicious, high-breasted body proudly.

"One of many vice-presidents," Dick added. "It's even duller than it sounds."

"Well, I don't think it sounds dull at all," Sharon interjected. "Just think of working with all that money!" They all laughed.

"Myra's something of an artist herself," Dick said.

"Oh, really? What kind of work do you do?" Ron asked her.

"Mainly oils," the dark-eyed woman answered. "But it's all strictly amateur. I don't really have much confidence in it."

"Well, you should," her husband asserted. "I think it's fine stuff, and she just goes around all the time bad-mouthing it. You ought to get Ron out to see it sometime, dear, I'm sure he'd be able to convince you it's pretty damn good." Ron and Sharon didn't catch the look that passed between the Greens.

Their steaks arrived, and all four of them looked doubtfully at the dry, tough slices of meat. Ron asked for ketchup, and they began to bravely attack the leather-like slabs.

"I think it's fighting back," Dick chuckled as his knife finally managed to saw through his steak, and they all laughed.

After they'd finished, and paid their bill, they went outside into the freshness of the summer night, and stood by their parked cars saying goodnight.

"Well, I guess even the party was worth the chance to meet you folks,"

Dick said, again smiling his personal, contagious smile.

"We feel the same way," Sharon answered, "Don't we, dear?"

Ron nodded his head, and turned to smile warmly at Dick's seductive wife.

"We'll have to get together again sometime," he said, "maybe under slightly more convivial circumstances."

"That's a deal," Myra smiled invitingly. "Maybe I can talk you into coming over sometime and taking a look at some of my little scribblings, I mean my paintings."

"I'd love to," Dick smiled at her, "Why don't you call me sometime and arrange it."

"All right, but that's a promise. No backing out. And you've got to promise to say nice things."

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

They all laughed once more, said goodnight, and climbed into their cars.

With a final wave, Dick and Myra sped out of the parking lot, and disappeared down the unlighted street.

Ron turned to his wife, and kissed her warmly. "I like the Greens.

They're good people."

"Mmmm, I think so too. But you're nicer."

"And you're a little tipsy."

"Well," Sharon smiled into his face, "You're not mister cold sober yourself."

Now that she mentioned it, Ron did feel quite high from all the party drinks and the three beers they'd had with dinner. He turned to his wife and caressed her suggestively around the smoothly rounded mound of her breasts.

"I guess I'm not. What do you say we go on home and fall into a nice warm bed, mmmm?"

"I bet that's been on your mind all evening," Sharon chided, almost properly.

"After a week by myself in Hollywood," Ron grinned, "You bet it has."

"Oh, you're just an animal," she said softly, teasingly, but there was a light trace of reproach in her voice.

"You bet I am, honey, you bet I am!" he said fervently.

"I'm going to fuck Sharon Fleming," Dick Green said, "And you, my dear, are going to help me do it."

Myra smiled, stretching languorously on the front seat of the car, as they sped home through the darkened streets. "Of course, darling," she answered. "After all, Ron Fleming is a handsome and desirable man…

I'm going to enjoy getting laid by him just as much as you're going to enjoy fucking the lovely Mrs. Fleming."

"Goddamn, but you're the hottest woman I ever knew," Dick said with some pride. "You just love cock, don't you, baby?"

"Just like you love pussy, sweetheart."

Dick reached out and put a hand on her firmly curved thigh, just at the point where the red dress rode high on her lap. He began to stroke the feathery surface lightly. She slid over next to him and, without a word, laid the palm of her slim hand on the crotch of his slacks. His penis, already aroused from the lewd conversation, began growing even harder as he felt her light touch through his trousers.

"Mmmmmmm, little Dickie's ready, isn't he?" she said in a seductive voice.

"He's always ready," he chuckled. "Just like his wife's sweet little cunt."

"How convenient, dear. How very convenient," Myra murmured, beginning to lightly stroke his long hard cock with her palm while his hand moved higher along her smooth warm thigh. "But how do you plan to make the Flemings ready, darling? They don't strike me as swingers at all."

"No, they're not. That's what makes them such attractive prospects,"

Dick answered her. "But I've got a plan I think might work."

"What's that, dear?"

"I'll tell you when we get home."

"Oh, but sweetheart, I want to know," Myra said, and her fingers found the zipper of his fly and worked it down deftly. The throbbing length of his huge rod pushed the thin folds of his underpants out through the fly opening, straining for escape. But Myra kept it imprisoned inside, stroking the rigidly pulsing flesh with knowledgeable fingers; she knew how to torment a man in many ways: by touch, by word, by manipulation of her own voluptuously ripened body. Dick was breathing faster under her tantalizing caresses, and Myra shivered with anticipation. She could feel her impatiently twitching cunt begin to seep warm, moist fluid, soaking the thin silk of her panty briefs as she ground her smooth round buttocks down against the leather of the seat. "Tell me the plan, lover," she said softly, seductively.