Grant Roberts - The Reluctant Swappers

Christ, but she was a beautiful woman! Ron's eyes were glued to his hostess' sensually built body as he followed her, not even trying to remove his hand from hers. She had been provocative last night at the party, but now, this way, she was even sexier. She wore short-shorts of bright orange so tight they clearly outlined her protruding pubic mound and its wide cleft through the fabric between her soft, ivory thighs.

Her long tapering legs, bronzed even more than Sharon's, were bare and beautiful, and her naked belly was just as tanned between the tight shorts and the orange halter, which barely concealed the nipples of her deliciously mounded breasts from his gaze. Her dark hair fell invitingly over her shoulders, adding to the vivacious effect her sparkling green eyes gave forth. Suddenly, he became aware of the fact that she was looking at him as he devoured her with his eyes, and he smiled weakly.

She took a slow sip from her drink.

"What's the matter, Ron? You look… scared." her voice was coy. "I'm not going to eat you."

She laughed, and didn't add the word she was thinking: "Yet."

The young art critic grinned, a little self-consciously, at her as she stood looking up at him with a sultry smile on her face. He could smell a faint, musky perfume, and the heady of the odor made him slightly lightheaded; images of candlelight and soft music flashed briefly through his mind, but he shook them off. Hell, next thing I know I'll be getting romantic notions and a hard-on, which won't do me any good since Sharon was fifteen miles away and probably unwilling, anyway… and this hot raffle number is strictly out of bounds. Still, he couldn't help entertaining a few lewd thoughts about the beautifully seductive Mrs. Green. Christ, she would probably be a holy terror in bed, the way she walked, and smiled, that husky voice, everything about her was irrefutable proof that she was a woman unfettered by most of the sexual restraints that plagued his own wife.

"Did you have any trouble finding the place?" Her sensual voice snapped him out of his erotic reverie.

"What?… oh no, not at all. Your instructions were right on the dot."

"Good. Well, would you like the tour now, or later?"

"Right now! I can't wait to get a peek at the work of the greatest new talent this side of the Mississippi."

"Oh, you're a tease," Myra said breathily, and reached out to take his arm and guide him towards her workroom in the back of the house. Her cool, scantily-clad body brushed against him repeatedly as she did so, and he was having difficulty keeping his mind on the reason he'd come.

They spent almost a half hour in the studio looking at the paintings, Ron clearly impressed by the quality of Myra's work. It all had a common color, a thread of excitement and, yes, undeniable overtones of sensuality that ran like a thread through every picture. She painted mostly people, and every study contained in it the hints of an unquenchable passion, a thirst that was almost sexual in nature, which burst forth from the eyes and bodies of every subject. Ron saw Myra clearly in her work, and knew, without a doubt, that the same passion expressed in her paintings gave the dark, fiery woman standing so close beside him the incredibly sensual nature that was exciting him at that very moment. He realized instinctively that that passion, in the artist as well as the painting, was a hungry, and yet insatiable sexuality.

That intuitive thought made Myra's every touch, every sultry word as she led him around her studio, arouse in him his own sexual frustrations, until they almost begged for release. Ron felt a hard knot slowly forming in his chest, and sensed the early stirrings of his warmly tingling cock underneath his smooth slacks.

"Well, that's it," Myra said as they came to her last painting. "What do you think?"

"I think it's good. It's very good," Ron managed to say, without too much of a catch in his throat.

"Oh, you're just saying that," Myra teased, leaning against him. "But I'll give you a drink anyway, if you like."

Ron felt the maddening caress of her full, luscious breasts as they brushed against his thin short-sleeve shirt. His rapidly awakening penis gave another undeniable jerk, and he turned his body from her so that she wouldn't see it.

"That sounds like the best idea I've heard all morning," he said gratefully.

"Follow me." She reached out and took his hand once again.

He allowed her to lead him back into the living room. The touch of her fingers had further erotic effect on his already semi-aroused state; it was as if there were tiny, hidden electrodes beneath her skin, vibrating through to his flesh. He felt a certain dryness in his throat, and his eyes were on the seductively undulating rhythm of her smooth rounded buttocks through the tight shorts. Damn, but she was one hell of a sensual woman! If he wasn't married, and she wasn't married… well, there was no use stinking about it, getting himself all worked up over nothing.

"What can I get you?"

"I'll put myself in your capable hands."

"That's what I like to hear," Myra laughed, a teasing and inscrutable smile playing tag with him behind her eyes. "I've got a special treat for you. Ever had any Pastis?"

"No, what is it? Sounds oily."

"Well, it does seem to oil the parts that need oiling, that's true enough," Myra laughed again. "I think you'll like it. It tastes like licorice."

"Well…" Ron said dubiously. "How do you mix it?"

"With water," Myra answered. "Serve it over ice. I'll get some from the refrigerator."

She moved away, returning moments later with a tray of ice. Ron had put two glasses on the bar face, and she dropped two cubes into each one. He uncapped the bottle and poured some of the clear liquid into a glass and added a bit of water; almost immediately, its consistency changed to an opaque, almost milky one. "Hey! I thought only Pernod did that."

"No, Pastis does too." she lifted her glass, waited until he followed suit and then said, "A toast. To my brilliant work, and its ultimate success."

"Hear, hear." Ron sipped the drink, found that it did taste a little like licorice and that it wasn't at all bad; in fact, it went down quite smoothly.

"Like?"

"Hmmmmm!"

"Shall we sit down on the couch?"

"All right."

They sat down. It seemed to Ron that she sat rather close to him. She crossed one slim, tanned leg over the other, which tightened the material of her shorts into the sharply-defined slit up between her long legs, making the outline folds of her vagina bulge out the brilliant orange of the material. She leaned forward slightly, holding her drink in one hand, so that a good deal of the creamy white mounds of her full, globular breasts were exposed to him and just a hint of the ruby hardness of her nipples. He felt a slight flush start on the base of his neck, but he wasn't able to take his eyes from her provocative lushness.

His quickly thickening penis spasmed beneath his trousers and, feeling a little ashamed, he took a long pull at his glass, draining the contents.

"I'll make us another one," Myra said, taking a healthy sip of her own drink. Before he could protest, she slid off the settee, took his glass, and went to the bar. She was smiling quietly to herself as she refilled their glasses from the green bottle of Pastis. She'd been drinking it for a number of years, and knew the effect it had on the masculine libido after only three or four ounces. It increased her own sexual fervor, too, though she could control herself if she felt like it; not that she was going to feel like it, of course. Yes, Ron Fleming was hers now, no mistake. She felt initial droplets of lust-heated fluid begin to flow from the softly sensitive walls of her vagina, as she thought about what would be taking place within the next hour.