SWING! Adventures in Swinging by Today's Top Erotica Writers

by Jacqueline Applebee

  I grinned stupidly, the perfect Rose Nylund. “Really what?” The deep timbre of his voice made my dick hard.

  He slowly shook his head and then spoke slowly, looking me right in the eye (his were green, flecked with amber). “Did you really think I was someone else? Or is that just your standard come-on?”

  I shrugged. “I guess I’m busted,” I said in a soft voice, meant to be charming.

  He jerked his head toward a quiet alcove: the entrance to an office building. He smiled at me. My dick was straining against my jeans, begging for release . . . of any sort.

  “Listen, I don’t have any bad feelings about what you did, other than the fact I think it was pretty stupid. What if I wasn’t gay?” He snorted, realizing the fact that he was homosexual was pretty damn obvious. “Or even though I am, what if I didn’t take kindly to be groped by a stranger? Which, by the way, I really don’t.” The smile disappeared and he leaned his face close to mine. “You gotta watch it, buddy. People’s bodies belong to them. They’re not around for you to sample when you feel like it and then try to get away with it by using some lame-ass excuse.”

  My face flushed crimson with heat. And this was no longer the heat of lust, but of humiliation.

  “I oughtta punch your fuckin’ lights out, you little twink.” His features softened a bit, but not enough to quell the unease in my gut or the sweat pouring down from my pits. “You need to take a good hard look at yourself and your life. You can’t be proud of who you are. No one could. It’s not so much the gay thing; it’s the out-of-control crap that’s messing you up.” He fumbled in the leather bag slung over his shoulder and pulled out a small magazine and handed it to me face down. “Read this. And think. Think for once in your little faggot world.”

  And he strode away. I was dizzy with shame and embarrassment. I turned the pamphlet over: it was familiar. It was an issue of The Watchtower, the propaganda put out by the Jehovah’s Witnesses. The cover asked if the devil was real.

  I started to laugh, never mind I was in the middle of a busy city street. I laughed. I roared. The tears streamed down my face. The guy was a Jehovah’s Witness? Oh God!

  And I started laughing all over again.

  Finally, I leaned against a lamppost and let my breath return to normal. “Is the Devil Real?” the cover almost accused me.

  I shook my head, the last few laughs sputtering out. I whispered, “He sure is. And he has a sense of humor.”

  I took a deep breath, tossed the pamphlet in a trash can and hitched up my jeans. I had one more ass to grab.

  I’d had enough. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to continue. What was the F*ck Club anyway? Ahead, there was a fat guy waiting to cross the street. His bulbous frame stretched out a sweatshirt with the AF logo emblazoned across the back. Jordache jeans sagged across his wide ass. I rushed up behind him, grabbed it, squeezed, and hurried on, calling over my shoulder, “Oh God! I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

  He gave me the finger.

  I almost ran straight into a black man dressed impeccably in a navy blue pin striped suit. “Watch where you’re going,” he growled and thrust a manila envelope in my hand.

  I debated whether I should just toss the thing in the nearest trash receptacle. Instead I paused at the other side of the street, staring after the black man, who strode briskly away, not looking back.

  Inside was a card and on the card was written: “The old millworks down by the river. Find the entrance with the broken chain. Go inside and wait. Eight p.m.”

  I looked down at my Swatch. Four more hours.

  3.

  I debated whether I should go to the abandoned millworks down by the river. Maybe I should just go home to Alan, where I could curl up next to him on the couch and pop an old, 1940s tear-jerker into the DVD player. I debated for about five minutes. I mean, come on, the idea was hot: imagining any kind of sexual encounter in the confines of an empty steel mill where men used to manipulate hot slag in hard hats, old jeans, steel-toed boots, and dirty wifebeaters made me hot. I though the F*ck Club must be worth the initiation if this was the kind of imagination the group possessed. It could be a porno movie come to real flesh and blood life. I could hardly wait for the appointed hour to arrive.

  Alan was not at home and part of me hoped he was out getting the same; taken a dive into the deep end, so to speak. I took a shower and cleaned myself carefully (you know what I mean). This third part was to be the last part of my initiation, and I wanted to make sure everything was perfect. I stood before my open bedroom closet wondering: what does one wear to an abandoned industrial site for a sexual initiation? Shows like Project Runway and America’s Next Top Model had given me no clues. In the end, I opted for the practical: the place would be dirty and cold. I pulled out a long-sleeved T-shirt, a heavy plaid flannel shirt, a pair of my favorite Levis, hiking boots, and a University of South Carolina baseball cap that bore the provocative slogan, “Go cocks!” Over these, I wore a black leather jacket.

  It was about a half hour drive by car from our apartment to the millworks. Once I neared the river, I nosed my Civic over a rusting piece of chain link that lay across a cinder drive. The millworks stretched before me, blocking my view of the river. Running over half a mile, the dirty brick buildings topped with smokestacks rising up into the night like spires exuded an air of either menace or provocation. Since I was horned up and ready for some hard-hat type rough trade, I was down for being provoked. The car bounced up and down on its suspension as it meandered down the gravelly road. I glanced over at the card the black guy had given me earlier and tried to peer through the darkness each time I came to an entrance to one of the buildings, looking for one with a broken chain across it. So far, there was no luck, but I was confident that soon enough, some industrial-sized metal doors would emerge out of the darkness, inviting me in with a broken chain and the promise of unspeakable sexual delights.

  And soon enough, that image emerged on my right. The last building of the series of industrial housing making up the millworks had exactly the entrance described on the card. I pulled the Civic over and sat for a moment in the darkness, listening to the ticking sound of the engine as it died down.

  Suddenly, I wasn’t so eager to get inside. The half hard-on I had driven around with for the last fifteen minutes shrunk and relaxed. My heart rate accelerated.

  The place was foreboding. The windows were opaque with a film of grime. It was so dark you could barely see your own hand in front or your face. When I stepped out of the car, it was as though the temperature had dropped about fifteen degrees since I set off from my house. It was cold. Good excuse, I thought, to shiver.

  I looked up at the building, which suddenly seemed impossibly large and imposing against the starless slate blue sky. Deep gray clouds raced across, pushed by the wind.

  I shivered, plunging my hands deep into my jeans’ pockets and hurried toward the entrance.

  I pressed on the door, and it opened easily at my touch. It didn’t squeak. These guys think of everything. Someone must have gotten here early and oiled the hinges. I moved inside; the air smelled of metal filings, and I swore there was the echo of machinery: wheels turning, generators humming, stuff like that. Something scurried across the floor in front of me. I took a deep breath and continued moving forward, keeping my hand out in front of me for protection in the pitch.

  As I moved further ahead, the quality of light changed, becoming more grayish, paler. I wasn’t sure if it was my own eyes adjusting to the darkness or if there was actually a light source up ahead.

  I rounded a corner and came into a large open space. Now, I could see. Someone had placed several of those oil Coleman lamps in a circular formation on the floor. The light they cast was weird, shining upward. It all looked menacing, like something out of a horror movie directed by Quentin Tarantino, or something of the modern extreme horror genre, like Saw or Hostel. I wanted to laugh. These guys were good.

  I found myself growing excited again
, especially with what else awaited me in this open space.

  In the center of the lights stood a metal frame upon which was suspended a leather sling. That wasn’t the best part. The best part was the half dozen men that stood waiting around the sling. All of them were naked. All of them had nearly identical bodies: packed with solid muscle, ripped and defined. Each sported what looked like an almost painfully hard erection (Viagra anyone?). Each stood perfectly still. The only difference in the men was that some were white, some were black, and others bore the olive complexion that spoke of a Latin heritage. Some were hairy, some smooth, others cut, still others in possession of foreskins. They were all Adonises, and representative of the beauty of the male form in all its different guises.

  I could make no comment on the faces, though. Each man had donned a black ski mask. This part of things both excited and frightened me. My heart was thumping for very different reasons in my chest. And I had a peculiar thought: what if one of these guys was my Alan? Again, I considered the fact that somehow he was behind all of this.

  I didn’t need anyone to tell me what to do. I mean, come on, the set up was pretty clear, my initiation would climax (if you’ll allow the term) with a gang fuck, something I’d fantasized about but never had the nerve or good fortune to have happen to me before.

  No one moved forward. No one said anything. They all stood waiting. And I was amazed that not one of the guy’s erections so much as wavered. I looked at the cocks pointing at me, sending out their own form of mute instruction. All were huge (which left out my poor, diminutive in every sense of the word, lover). This really was like a porno movie!

  I smiled and began taking off my clothes. The cold air bit at my skin as I exposed more and more of it. I wondered again how these men managed to keep their erections; the air was downright biting. As I dropped the last sock to the floor, I strode slowly over to the sling and hopped up in it, struggling just a bit to put my legs in the leather straps made to hold my ankles and spread my legs wide. I grinned. In spite of the chill and the rather grim, stalwart atmosphere, this was going to be fun.

  I lay back, letting the leather sling embrace me, and waited. After what seemed like fifteen minutes or more had passed, two of the men from the circle moved forward. Finally. I wriggled down a little further in the sling, making my asshole even more available and, I hoped, inviting.

  The first man positioned himself near my head. He had a purplish looking dick with a long foreskin that actually drooped down a bit over the head. I reached across my chest to grasp it; it was so thick I could barely encircle it with my hand. I pulled back the foreskin to expose the shaft. The head was shiny with precum. I took it into my mouth, savoring the salt taste, the thickness that pressed against the back of my throat, and the slight drip of viscous precum that I gulped down greedily. Suddenly, it wasn’t so cold in here anymore. I matched my sucking and the swirling of my tongue to the thrust of his hips, which increased in tempo, building slowly, but gradually growing faster and faster, the head of his dick hitting the back of my throat, pounding into me. I knew what was coming and couldn’t wait to taste him.

  Suddenly, he pulled out (just as I could feel his balls tightening and was readying my throat for an explosion). I looked over at his rigid bone, now actually dripping pre-cum to the floor below, so hard the long foreskin was pushed back. He squeezed at the base of it.

  Why stop now?

  He leaned over me and it was then I saw the blindfold in his hand. He stretched it across my face and then lifted my head tenderly from the sling to knot it behind my head. I could hear other men in the room moving forward and oddly, the rustle of plastic. It sounded like they were laying out some kind of sheeting below me on the concrete floor. I squirmed: this was getting kinky. And so gay: who else but homosexuals would worry about keeping things neat in a filthy abandoned steel mill?

  I then felt the warmth of a body between my spread thighs. Now it’s going to get good. I swallowed hard and tried to relax. None of these guys looked like they had less than eight inches and I knew penetration would be a challenge. I hadn’t seen any evidence of lube (or of condoms for that matter) but I had come too far to turn back now and to even say anything under these circumstances just suddenly seemed so strange: it was simply too quiet, almost reverential. This part of the initiation had the feel of ritual. I hoped they would be gentle.

  My hopes were quickly dashed as I first felt the delightful sensation of a turgid cock head at my waiting hole and then I tightened and let out a small cry as he pushed savagely into me, sending white hot needles of pain throughout my entire body and making me see red beneath the blindfold.

  I felt nauseous and wanted to get up from the sling. In fact, I started to rise up. But immediately, there were hands holding my chest down, strong hands coiled, snake-like, around my wrists and ankles. I tried as best I could to relax and enjoy the feeling of being nearly cleaved in two by this insistent dick. It had to be the biggest of the group.

  The thrusting went on, pounding, slamming into me, and I went somewhere else in my head for just a little while. By the time the third guy entered me, I was open. I could feel warmth dripping down my thighs even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to analyze too closely what the liquid was. I even began to enjoy the experience somewhat. The queasiness ebbed and I found myself squirming to meet my mystery lover’s thrusts.

  I was sure I was passing the initiation. I was showing them I could take whatever they could give.

  Even though I was blindfolded, I closed my eyes and surrendered myself completely to the experience. I was fucked six, seven times as the men lined up to take second, and third turns. It went on for what seemed like hours—and probably was.

  And then it all stopped. I was left feeling open and empty. A sticky residue oozed across my chest and stomach.

  When had I come?

  It got so quiet I wondered if they had left me.

  “Hello?”

  No one responded, but I could hear the rustle of movement near me. And then I felt something cold and metallic at my throat. Okay. Here comes the hard part of the initiation. Just let them run the knife over you and show them you’re not a pussy. The blade pressed against my skin and even then, I tried to relax, to think of it all as a game. When I felt the slight release of tension in my throat and then the quick heat of knowing they had broken through skin, I began to tremble. I started to scream and something acrid smelling and balled up was stuffed into my mouth before I could make any further sound. I thought of Alan, praying he would enter stage right and would assure me this was all a perverse joke. Was this what I really wanted?

  I winced as the blade went deeper. I winced as the world went red and then darker, in waves.

  Someone was entering me again. Down there. Up here.

  Again and again until it all went black.

  The Best of Friends

  By M. Millswan

  This is one of those stories usually confessed to priests, shrinks and cops as, “This wasn't me . . . You see I have this friend, who told me . . .” Such is the case here, as, of course, this could have never happened to me.

  * * *

  While driving down a lonely highway one night, not long after a familiar old song on the radio had faded away, a friend I'll call “Ron” suddenly began to reminisce. After one deep sigh and then a few moments later another, he fell into a memory, describing a girl from his high school Biology class, whom, he said, had sat two desks up and one row over. He recalled that thinking about it now, he realized he'd noticed Eileen right off. Though he admitted that wasn't really anything out of the ordinary, even today he rarely missed noticing any attractive girl who came his way.

  With that touch of wistfulness we all get when we recall meaningful events from the past, Ron delved deeper into his recollection saying when they'd first met, Eileen had been a senior, while he'd been only a lowly sophomore.

  Keeping his eyes fixed out on the road as the power of long-lost emotion took hold over hi
s voice, he described her vividly, from the way she wore her brown hair long and in tresses, to the way her smile seemed always so bright and sincere.

  He added, Eileen wasn't one of those girls who could ever be described as thin; but the way she carried herself, it wasn't possible for any over-eager teenage boy to be in the same room with her and not be aware of how entirely feminine she was.

  As a member of the drill team for pep rallies on Friday's he described her wearing a blue and gold spangled outfit, which accentuated how busty she was and the fullness of her hips. Yet, for a member of the drill team she wasn't one of those popular girls who were aloof or arrogant. But for a guy like him, Eileen remained entirely unapproachable, untouchable. And Ron confessed that had it not been for the fortune of later events, he most surely would have forgotten all about Eileen, as the closest they had interacted throughout that entire semester was once being at the same table while dissecting a frog.

  As the miles ticked away, Ron grew philosophical. He said that the fact that high school is not a permanent condition is proof positive that there is a God and he loves you. Life moves on, friends drift away, new opportunities come and go; and once free of the social constraints brought on by the teenage caste system, it can become entirely possible to become friends with a person who was once entirely outside your social reach.

  As proof, he said that by a strange quirk of fate a couple of years after graduation, he'd become friends with a guy named Paul who had graduated two years ahead of him. Coincidentally, they shared the same passion for cars, and an acquaintance who worked at a local hot rod shop introduced them to each other.

  When Ron first visited Paul's small upstairs apartment and met Paul's wife it didn't dawn on him who she was. Ron was single and still in college, whereas his new friend and his wife already had a child, real jobs, and their own apartment. Ron didn't recall exactly when it happened, but sometime afterwards he and Eileen realized they knew each other from that Biology class years ago. Curious how life moves sometimes, isn't it?