Things We Tried On - Ch. 08

We thought about it. I'm sure Barbara and Ken did too -- at least in the quiet corners of their minds. But for us, it never went beyond talk.

Archie and I would sometimes sit up late after an evening with them, that strange post-intimacy calm settling over the house like a hush. We'd open a laptop, and wander through the swinger sites together. Scroll through ads -- some playful, some bold, some almost poetic in their desperation -- and pick out the ones we liked.

"Would you write to this one?" he'd ask, angling the screen toward me with a smirk.

"Maybe," I'd say, pretending to be coy. "If you wrote the message."

But that's as far as it ever went. We never wrote anything. Not even a rough draft.

Looking back, I think we were testing the waters with our toes, never quite ready to jump in. There was excitement, sure. That electric flicker of what-ifs and maybes. But under it all, there was hesitation.

What stopped us?

A few things, I suppose. Mostly the sense that it would feel... disloyal. Not to each other -- but to Barbara and Ken. As strange as it sounds, we felt tethered to them. Entangled. Not by promises or rules, but by comfort. Familiarity. A rhythm we understood.

The idea of stepping outside of that felt risky. Not just emotionally -- but socially. We didn't know anyone else in that world. No guideposts. No trusted faces. Just a sea of strangers with curated photos and mysterious boundaries.

Amy and John came into our lives like a comet and disappeared just as quickly. They bought a property in the Caribbean and moved there for six months.

It was easier to stay in orbit around Ken and Barbara. Safer. We knew their moods, their styles, the invisible lines not to cross. With them, even the unpredictable felt... containable.

But with strangers? That was a different kind of vulnerability. A different kind of exposure.

Yes, the idea thrilled me. But it also scared me.

And I think Archie felt the same. Maybe even more than I did. Maybe we just weren't ready to explore without them.

Or maybe -- maybe we weren't ready to admit how much we still needed them to feel brave.

The idea of having sex with strangers was always two things at once -- exciting and scary. That contradiction never really went away, not at first. It was part of the appeal, honestly. But it wasn't how we started.

By the time Archie and I wound up making love with Ken and Barbara, we were already close. Very close. The four of us had built something together long before anything physical happened. When the lines finally blurred, it didn't feel like crossing into something foreign. It felt like deepening a bond we already trusted.

Looking back, that relationship did more than shape our first steps into swinging -- it defined them.

We never really ventured into the wider world of it. Not then. We didn't go to clubs. We didn't do meetups. We never followed through on any of those online ads we browsed late at night. Because we had them. And being with them made everything feel contained. Safe. Familiar.

But in that safety, something else happened -- we missed a lot.

One of the real reasons people swing is variety. Novelty. That sharp jolt of stepping into the unknown, of touching someone new under new circumstances, with new energy between you. That's the part we skipped for a long time. We weren't swinging in the traditional sense -- we were nesting, doubling up on familiarity instead of exploring. And it was easy to rationalize. We were still doing something different, right? Still living outside the lines?

But the truth? We took monogamy and gave it a cast of four. It started to feel like a plural marriage more than a lifestyle. Not one wife and a string of one-shot mistresses -- but two wives, each with her own habits and expectations. Comforting. Predictable. And slowly, predictability wore down the thrill.

Archie once joked about it -- said he'd traded one marriage for a duet. I laughed when he said it, but I felt the truth in it too. We'd created our own little world, our own rules. And while that gave us a sense of control, it also slowly stripped away the mystery. The edges softened. The hunger dulled.

There came a point when I had to ask myself: were we swinging... or had we just built a very elegant cage?

And once the question was there, quietly lurking in the back of my mind -- I couldn't unask it.

That question wouldn't leave me alone.

It hovered in the air between me and Archie, even when we didn't speak it aloud. I'd lie awake some nights, him breathing steadily beside me, and I'd wonder how far we could go like this -- circling the same two people, playing out the same scenes. We'd found something rare, yes. Intimacy, comfort, even love, in our strange quartet. But I wanted the ache back. The delicious uncertainty. The pulse-pounding moment before something new begins.

I didn't say anything at first. Not for days. Maybe weeks. But it was there -- pressing against the back of my mind while we had drinks with Barbara and Ken, or when we lay tangled up together, naked and warm, but somehow no longer surprised.

Eventually, I said it out loud.

We were in the kitchen, of all places. I was rinsing out wine glasses from the night before, and Archie was behind me, reading something on his phone.

"I think I'm getting... restless," I said.

He didn't look up right away. "Restless how?"

I dried my hands on a towel, suddenly aware of how heavy this might sound. "With... us. Not you and me, I mean. I mean with Ken and Barbara. With how... contained this all feels now."

He finally looked up, met my eyes.

"You're not bored with them?" he asked, cautiously.

"No," I said quickly. "Not bored. Just... dulled. Like we've explored all the corners already. Like we've made something stable, but we stopped pushing ourselves."

He nodded slowly, absorbing it.

"I've been feeling it too," he admitted. "But I didn't want to be the first one to say it."

That surprised me. Archie had always been the steadier one. The loyalist. The one who'd rather stay with what works than risk shaking it up.

"We used to look at those swinging sites," I said. "Pick out ads. Fantasize about replying. But we never did anything. It was always easier to just... stay close to Barbara and Ken."

"Because it felt safe," he murmured. "And maybe because we didn't want to offend them. Or lose what we had."

I nodded. That was part of it. A big part. But it wasn't enough anymore.

"So," I said, carefully, "what if we started pushing again? Not recklessly. But... honestly. What if we let ourselves feel that edge again?"

He looked at me for a long time. Then: "Do you want to meet someone?"

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe. I just want to feel that flutter again. That sense that something unpredictable might happen."

He set his phone down. Walked over. Put his hands on my waist and kissed my temple.

"Then maybe it's time," he said. "Time we stop being safe."

And just like that, the door was open.

That was one side of it, of course -- that by sticking close to Barbara and Ken, Archie and I stayed away from the whole swinging scene for a lot longer than we might've otherwise. No correspondence clubs, no blind emails, no last-minute hotel meetups with strangers. It was safer, cleaner. Familiar.

But the other side of the scale? We ended up going deeper than we ever imagined. Into a kind of sophistication, sexually and emotionally, that I don't think we would've touched otherwise.

Archie brought it up one night, just the two of us, curled up on the couch with a bottle of red and music playing low in the background. We'd been reminiscing -- how it started, how far we'd come.

"So why was that?" he asked. "Why did things get... more intense with them, of all people?"

I leaned back, thinking. "Let me see... what's the best way to explain it?" I swirled the wine in my glass, watching the reflections. "Maybe the easiest way is to compare it to that young couple we talked to at the cabin retreat -- Jason and Mia, remember?"

"Right, the lake weekend," Archie nodded. "They were what, late twenties?"

"Yeah. And bright-eyed. Eager. They reminded me of us, a little -- well, at the very beginning."

"In what way?" he asked.

"Their situation parallels ours -- emotionally, I mean. But their story... not so much. They dove into the deep end. They did all the things we were afraid to try back then. Correspondence clubs, meetups, no-strings hotel room nights. Constant rotation."

Archie raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"And they were already burning out." I smiled sadly. "They told us how hard it was to feel anything anymore. All the sex, and so little connection. It became mechanical. Even the taboo wore off."

Archie nodded slowly. "So they got the novelty, but none of the depth."

"Exactly." I looked over at him. "Whereas we stayed close to the Smiths, and that closeness... well, it forced us to go inward instead of outward. To explore each other more. To communicate better. To trust."

"And that made the sex more..." he started.

"Layered," I finished for him. "Complicated. Intimate. Sometimes even a little dangerous, emotionally. But never hollow."

He smiled at that. "So we didn't play the field. We just explored a smaller one very thoroughly."

I laughed. "You make it sound like we were digging a well."

"Maybe we were," he said, leaning over to kiss my cheek. "And I think we hit something deep."

I remember the way Mia curled her legs beneath her on the cabin's old leather couch, her glass of sangria resting delicately between her fingers. Jason was sitting close, hand on her thigh, the fire casting flickers of light across their faces.

"So wait," Mia said, tilting her head at me, "you're saying it's actually better to stick with one couple? Doesn't that kill the whole point of swinging?"

Her tone wasn't challenging. It was... hungry. Curious.

I smiled. "Not better, necessarily. Just... deeper. Riskier in a different way."

Jason leaned in. "Emotionally riskier?"

"Yes," I said. "When you keep sleeping with the same people, you can't hide behind the thrill of the new. You start to see each other. Really see. And if you're not careful -- or maybe if you are -- that starts to change you."

Archie chimed in, "When it's just a rotation of strangers, you get to stay in control. When it's friends -- people you talk to, laugh with, maybe even love a little -- there's no mask to wear in bed."

Mia looked down at her glass, thoughtful. "That sounds terrifying."

"It is," I said. "And addictive."

Jason asked, "So were you ever jealous? Of Ken? Or Barbara?"

I didn't answer right away. The question didn't deserve a canned response.

"Yes," I said finally. "In ways that surprised me. But the jealousy didn't always feel bad. Sometimes it was sharp and cutting. Sometimes it was... clarifying."

Jason looked confused. "Clarifying?"

Archie explained, "It told us what still mattered. And what didn't."

"Barbara kissed Archie once," I added, "so softly I thought I imagined it. And something inside me twisted. Not because I didn't want her to. But because I wanted her to mean it."

Mia stared at me like I'd cracked open something private she hadn't known she was allowed to speak aloud.

"So that's the difference," she whispered. "You weren't just trading partners. You were building something."

"Exactly," I said. "Something messy. And real. And complicated."

Jason looked at Mia. She looked back, her cheeks a little flushed.

"I think we've been playing too safe," he said.

"No," Mia said softly. "We've been playing too shallow."

Archie reached for the bottle and refilled both their glasses. "That doesn't mean deep is always better. It just means you need to know what you're looking for. And whether you're ready to feel everything that comes with it."

The fire popped, sending a tiny spray of sparks up the flue. Outside, the forest was silent and dark. Inside, the room suddenly felt thick with possibility.

********

We stalled until it got ugly. I mean really ugly. Lying in bed together, half-naked, scrolling through their messages, their pictures -- her in that green lace thing, him posing like a cocky idiot -- and getting ourselves all worked up. We'd sex each other up with fantasies we pretended weren't about them, but we knew. Of course we knew.

Then we'd go at each other like addicts. Not making love, not even fucking, just... using each other.

"I don't like this," I told him one night, pulling the sheet up between us like it could give me distance. "It feels wrong."

Archie just looked at me, still catching his breath. "You're the one who said it was better than nothing."

"Better than nothing isn't the same as good," I said. "This -- " I gestured to us, the room, my body still trembling in aftershocks I didn't even want, " -- this is disgusting."

He didn't argue. He didn't need to. We both knew we were on a loop -- stimulate, spiral, release, regret.

Some people would say we had it all backward. That actual swapping is the perversion, but a little vicarious titillation between husband and wife? Just another spice in the stew of matrimony. Add a little onion, maybe a dash of jealousy. Keep it interesting.

I can't buy that. Not anymore.

It felt like masturbation, except my body wasn't even mine anymore. Archie was just... using me.

Jesus. What a revolting thought.

When we finally decided to call them, Archie was useless the entire day at work. Couldn't concentrate. Couldn't stop thinking about it. He told me later he nearly hit a pedestrian in the parking lot. Spaced out at a green light. Spilled coffee all over the quarterly report.

By the time he got home, his nerves were shredded.

"I can't eat," he said, pacing in the kitchen while I poured wine. "I'm gonna screw this up if I wait."

"Then don't wait," I said quietly, setting the glass down untouched. "Call them now."

He looked at me -- really looked -- and I saw the fear behind his excitement.

"You sure?"

"No," I said. "But I want to know what happens."

So he made the call.

The couple we reached were Ana and Sam Small.

Archie used the alias I'd been using on the site. "Hi, this is Elena's Other Half," he said, a little too formally. "I think you know who we are?"

They knew. Instantly.

"Oh, Elena! Of course," Ana said, her voice warm and amused. "We were wondering when we'd hear from you two."

They were both on the line, Ana and Sam, and we were too -- speakerphone in our bedroom, sitting awkwardly close on the edge of the bed, as if proximity could mask the nerves. To our surprise, it turned into a relaxed, easy-going four-way chat, almost like we were old friends planning a double date.

"We were thinking Friday," Sam offered. His voice was low, confident. "Would that work for you?"

Archie looked at me. I nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Friday's good."

Ana's voice slid in again, smooth and direct. "We'd be happy to host, if you're comfortable with that. But if you'd rather meet somewhere neutral, that's totally fine too. A cocktail lounge, maybe? Somewhere we can all get a feel for each other. No pressure. No expectations."

That part hung in the air like a lifeline.

Archie jumped at it. "Actually, we had thought of that. You know, just in case -- "

But Sam cut in gently, no malice in it. "We get it. But we're good, if you are."

That's what it was really about. They were saying they had no reservations about us. That they were confident, settled, experienced. And by contrast, we were the newbies, tiptoeing around the edges of the pool while they were already swimming laps.

We'd actually talked about this before the call. Archie had preferred the neutral location. I hadn't been sure. But now, with their calm certainty pressing in on us, it suddenly felt rude to hesitate.

I leaned toward the phone. "Let's do Friday at your place. We're in."

"Perfect," Ana said, and you could hear her smile. "Looking forward to it."

"We'll text the address," Sam added. "Dress how you like. No theme, no ritual sacrifice."

We all laughed. A little too much.

When we hung up, Archie stared at the phone in his hand like it might ring again and give us a chance to take it all back.

"Well," he said. "That's that."

"Yeah," I said. "That's that."

But I couldn't stop thinking: They were two-up on us already. And we hadn't even met yet.

Somewhere in the middle of the conversation, it hit me -- Ana had a sexy voice.

Poised. Educated. Smoothly modulated, but with just the faintest husky undertone, like velvet edged with smoke.

I found myself responding to her tone more than her words, leaning in, smiling like she could see me. And then the thought landed, heavy and electric:

This woman. This stranger. I'm going to sleep with her in three days.

It was shocking. And wildly exciting. Not the kind of thrill that dances on the surface, but something deeper, darker. Something that curled in my stomach and made my skin buzz.

Friday night came. We left the kids with a sitter -- an unusually well-dressed college student who raised an eyebrow when I said we'd be home "late-late" -- and headed out across town.

Their neighborhood was completely unfamiliar to us. Streets wound into cul-de-sacs and twisted in ways the GPS didn't entirely understand. We missed a turn, doubled back, argued once or twice, then laughed nervously at how ridiculous we were being.

"Maybe this is a sign," Archie muttered, squinting at street numbers. "The universe telling us to turn back."

"Oh, now the universe has an opinion?" I teased. "You didn't seem to mind when Ana said 'no ritual sacrifice.'"

He glanced at me. "She did say that kind of fast. Like maybe they're hiding something in the basement."

I laughed, but my hands were still tight on my lap.

Then we turned the final corner and saw it.

Their house was gorgeous. A two-story red-brick colonial draped in ivy, set back on a wide half-acre lot like it had been there for a century. Mature oak trees towered overhead, limbs reaching like old arms, and the whole property was lit with subtle, golden landscape lights that gave it the feel of a boutique inn -- or a movie set.

"Jesus," Archie said, pulling into the drive. "We didn't know how grand they lived."

I stared out the window. "We still don't. Not really."

The front door opened before we even rang the bell.

Ana stood there barefoot, in dark slacks and a white silk blouse that skimmed her body like it had been poured on. She smiled like she'd known us for years.

"Come on in," she said, her voice just as I remembered -- low, elegant, with that husky thread of suggestion. "We've been looking forward to this."

When they let us in, their son was still awake.

He looked about fourteen -- tall for his age, with the kind of easy confidence that comes from growing up around adults who speak freely. Good-looking kid. Alert eyes. He gave us a quick, curious once-over as we stepped into the foyer.

"This is Josh," Ana said smoothly, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Josh, this is -- " she paused just a beat, then smiled, "our friends, Archie and Elena."

Josh shook our hands -- firm grip, polite, like he'd been taught to do this kind of thing.

"Nice to meet you," he said, then turned to his mother. "I'll be upstairs."

"Don't stay up too late," Sam added from behind us, his voice casually paternal.

"I won't," Josh called over his shoulder as he disappeared up the staircase, already pulling out his phone.

We stood there for a second too long, the moment stretching uncomfortably between us.

Archie cleared his throat. "Uh... nice kid."

"Thanks," Ana said, leading us further inside. "He's a good one."

But the air had shifted. For just a moment, everything felt strangely off. Not wrong, exactly -- just real in a way we weren't ready for. It shook us up more than we expected.

I looked at Archie and caught the faintest flicker of something in his eyes. Doubt, maybe. Or guilt.

We were here for something wild. And yet a teenager had just politely shaken our hands like we were guests at a dinner party.

And now he was upstairs... while we prepared to do what we came here to do.

Archie was definitely impressed with Ana.

He didn't have to say a word -- I could tell by the way his eyes followed her when she walked back from the kitchen, wine glasses in hand. Her figure was flawless in those tailored slacks and that sleeveless blouse that clung just enough. The tiny bathing-suit photo they'd sent us beforehand had already confirmed she looked even better out of them, and Archie, bless his heart, hadn't stopped thinking about it since.

There wasn't a doubt in his mind -- he was interested.

I caught his eye across the couch. Gave him a small, deliberate nod and the kind of smile that said, Yes, I see you. And I'm not exactly dreading Sam either.

Archie's lips twitched. The faintest grin. Message received.

So he leaned back in his seat, glass in hand, and settled in, more relaxed now. We both knew we weren't going to push anything tonight. That wasn't the etiquette. They'd invited us, which meant they'd make the first move.

Still, the waiting stretched out.

Maybe they were waiting for their son to fall asleep upstairs. Or maybe they just wanted the energy to settle, to let us all float a little longer in the safety of small talk.

The conversation drifted easily -- movies we'd seen, vacations we wanted to take, some idle speculation about whether mutual acquaintances from the site were real or just well-coordinated bots.

Sam was funny. Smart, with a quiet charm. Not as obviously sexual as Ana, but I liked his voice -- deep and thoughtful, with a dry wit that made me laugh more than once. I started to picture things. How it might feel, if tonight turned into more than just talk.

It was close to ten when Ana finally leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her wine glass dangling casually from her fingers. She looked at me first, then at Archie, and smiled -- not politely, but deliberately.

"So," she said softly, "do you two usually take this long to make a move... or are you just being polite?"

There was just enough heat in her voice to melt the room's last layer of decorum.

Archie blinked, then laughed. "We were waiting for you to open the dance floor."

Sam raised his glass slightly. "You're our guests. It wouldn't have been very gracious to jump you at the door."

"Well," I said, my voice a little lower than I meant it to be, "consider the dance card... officially open."

Ana's smile widened.

"Would you two like to see the basement rec room?" she asked with a little smile that carried more weight than the words.

Archie straightened in his seat. "Sure, that sounds nice," he said, already standing.

I was just about to follow when Sam gently caught my wrist.

"Actually," he said softly, "would you mind keeping me company for a few minutes? I wanted to ask you something about that trip you mentioned earlier."

I blinked, then looked at him -- and that's when it clicked. I smiled. "Oh. Of course. You two go ahead."

Archie paused, glanced back at me, and I gave him a playful shrug. "Go on," I said, and nodded toward the hallway. "I'll catch up."

Sometimes people try too hard to be subtle.

This was one of those times. But when Sam gently redirected Ana and Archie disappeared downstairs alone with me, my brilliant husband -- and I -- finally got the message.

And we were both perfectly fine with it.

Downstairs, the king-size sofa bed had already been pulled out and neatly made up -- sheets smooth, pillows fluffed, a soft throw folded at the foot like it had just been turned down by hotel staff.

It wasn't subtle. It was an invitation.

And Ana? She looked ready.

It was surreal. One minute, she was the perfect hostess -- gracious, poised, pouring wine with a knowing smile. The next, she seemed to shift. Something in her posture changed, something in her eyes. She wasn't just welcoming anymore. She was hunting -- calmly, deliberately, like this was what the whole evening had always been building toward.

Archie noticed the bed first. He let out a soft chuckle and tilted his head.

"Well," he said, glancing toward Ana, "someone came prepared."

Ana smiled slowly, her eyes flicking to him and then back to me.

"I like to make people feel comfortable," she murmured. "Besides, it saves that awkward moment when everyone's pretending not to know what happens next."

Sam appeared behind her with fresh drinks, handing them out like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

I caught Archie's eye again. His grin was still there, but there was something else now -- something edged with nerves, anticipation, the sense that we were stepping off the map.

He raised his glass to me. "To comfort," he said.

Ana clinked his glass lightly. "And to not pretending."

Then she sat down on the edge of the bed, crossed one leg over the other, and tilted her head. Her voice dropped a notch.

"Now. Shall we talk about who sleeps where... or are we past that part?"

But before the grin had even fully formed on Archie's face, Ana was already in motion -- lifting her dress over her head in one fluid, practiced arc.

She wasn't wearing anything underneath.

The dress fluttered to the floor like a fallen petal. Her heels followed with two soft thuds. Then, without a word, she sank onto the bed as if gravity had claimed her -- naked, glowing in the low light, her chest rising and falling in fast, shallow breaths.

It wasn't just confidence.

It was hunger. Urgency. A woman stepping into her own fire.

Archie froze.

Not from hesitation -- God, no -- but from the sheer velocity of it. One moment she was sipping wine and exchanging polite banter. The next, she was pure, raw invitation. For a brief second he just stood there, blinking like a man who'd walked through the wrong door and found himself in exactly the right fantasy.

Then the spell snapped.

He began undressing without a word -- jacket, shirt, belt -- his hands moving on autopilot, as if his body had taken charge and left his mind behind. His eyes never left her. Not once.

I watched from the arm of the couch, heart thudding. Sam was beside me, warm and still, like he knew exactly how this would unfold. His hand brushed mine -- not possessive, not rushing -- just a silent reminder that I was here too, and next.

And I was ready.

She was watching him, too. Not impatient. Just hungry.

When he finally joined her on the bed, they came together fast -- hands on skin, lips searching, bodies tangling in a storm of touch. Ana pulled him close, guiding him like she knew exactly what she wanted, and exactly how fast.

Archie lowered himself, instinctively beginning to move downward, the way things often started nowadays. A bit of soft exploration. The warm welcome of tongue before anything else.

But Ana stopped him, her voice low and breathless. "No," she whispered, fingers in his hair. "Not that."

He blinked, pausing.

"I don't want that," she said. "Just put it in me."

A pause. A beat.

"Your big, hard dick," she said, biting her lip, "put it in me and give it to me. As hard as you can."

Archie didn't need to be told twice.

For a moment, her bluntness threw Archie off balance.

He didn't like being told how to make love -- not like that. Not in such raw, transactional terms. It rubbed something the wrong way, like she was issuing instructions instead of sharing the moment. It felt... de-balling, in a way.

Still, he caught himself. The customer is always right, he thought wryly. So he got on -- and rode.

And almost immediately, his skepticism started to melt. Ana wasn't what he'd expected at all. The fast and direct start had made him peg her as the quick-and-dirty type, someone chasing sensation without much nuance. But once they were in motion, he realized he'd misjudged her.

She moved with surprising grace -- muscular control, perfectly timed rhythm, and an uncanny sense of what he wanted before he even knew himself. She wasn't rushing. She was intensifying. A woman with instincts.

It wasn't tender, not in the usual sense. Her style was all about one thing.

Phallic, Archie thought. That was the word.

She was entirely focused on him -- on it. The size. The feel. The pressure.

And she wouldn't stop talking.

"Oh God," she moaned into his ear. "You're so big. You don't even know what that does to me."

Archie grunted, trying to stay in rhythm.

"Jesus," she gasped. "It's perfect. Hard as a rock. Just fill me."

She clawed at his back. "You know what it's like having something like that inside me?"

Archie couldn't help the smirk forming at the corner of his mouth. Maybe it was a little over the top, but she clearly meant it.

She arched beneath him and whispered, "You're ruining me for other men. No one's ever had anything like this."

He didn't answer.

But here's the thing about Archie. He happens to be packing a seventeen-inch cock.

So... yeah. Ana had a point.

The way she was acting, you'd think she'd just stumbled upon the Holy Grail between his legs -- and frankly, I couldn't blame her. She looked like she wanted to kneel and light candles around it.

And I wasn't about to object. It's good food for the ego -- my poor, scrappy little ego, always hungry for scraps, and now feasting on gourmet-grade affirmation.

Meanwhile, down in the rec room, Archie was putting in work like a man on a mission. And Ana? She was very responsive. Enthusiastic. Creative. Tireless. Like she'd just remembered what her body was capable of and wanted to explore every setting on the dial.

She didn't seem overly concerned with variety -- so long as every variation involved keeping him plugged deep inside her. They ran through positions like a well-rehearsed routine, but with all the spontaneous energy of improvisation.

From behind, she braced herself and pushed back hard, her voice thick with need: "Yes -- yes, just like that. Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

On top, she rode him with the ferocity of someone chasing a vision, hair flying, hips rolling in perfect cadence. "God," she cried out, "you fit me like you were made for it. It's perfect."

They tangled and twisted like dancers in heat -- exploring angles, syncing rhythm, breath to breath. Ana moved like someone who hadn't been cooled in years. Or maybe someone who refused to cool down now that the heat had returned.

It wasn't just lust. It was relief. Release. A letting-go so intense it was almost a purge.

Archie lasted as long as he could.

And to his credit, he held out admirably. He'd put in good work early -- steady rhythm, just enough pressure, a few clever moves that clearly landed. No complaints. None. Ana had gotten hers, and then some.

But eventually, even the best machinery runs hot. He hit his limit -- slick with sweat, spent, his breathing ragged as he flopped onto his back. The kind of collapse that says, mission complete.

Ana curled up beside him, the heat still rising off her skin like she was freshly forged. Her hair clung to her shoulders in damp tendrils, and her fingers began tracing slow, idle shapes on his chest.

There was a softness in her, but not sleepiness. Not yet. "You know," she murmured, lips brushing near his collarbone, "I could've kept going."

Archie turned his head, gave her a breathless little chuckle. "Yeah," he said. "That was... obvious."

She laughed too, quietly. But it didn't quite reach her eyes. There was still something glowing behind them -- not frustration, not quite -- just a pulse of unfinished hunger.

"Guess I wore you out, huh?" she teased.

"You and your furnace," he replied, half-laughing again. "I'm only human."

Ana didn't press, but the air between them didn't exactly cool. She rested her head on his shoulder, and for a moment, they both just listened to the ticking of their hearts settling back into rhythm.

Archie was done for now. That much was clear. But Ana? She hadn't stopped burning.

Meanwhile, I was upstairs on the living room couch, finding out exactly why Ana was the way she was. Why she needed what she needed.

See, she couldn't get it at home. He didn't have one.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

When they went downstairs, Sam stayed behind. He leaned in and kissed me -- softly at first, almost shy. Then his hands found my body with a kind of nervous reverence, and before I quite realized it, he was undressing me, not himself, and easing me back on the couch.

He didn't even unbuckle his belt.

What happened next... well, he was good. Really good. A master of oral. Maybe it's compensation. Maybe it's desperation. Maybe it's devotion. I didn't care. His tongue knew its craft, and he wasn't in a hurry.

I made it, with a low gasp and my fingers gripping the couch cushion like a lifeline.

Afterwards, we collapsed into a comfortable silence. I adjusted my skirt. He adjusted his glasses.

I turned to him and smiled. "Isn't there something I can do for you?"

He shook his head with a little chuckle. "Not now," he said. "I'm fine."

But something about the way he said it made me tilt my head. "Did you...? I mean -- did you come, too?"

His eyes flicked toward mine, then down, sheepish. "While I was down there," he said. "It happens."

I blinked. "Wow. I -- I should've saved it for you, then. Found the proper receptacle."

It was a dumb joke. A really dumb joke. I regretted it as soon as it left my mouth.

He smiled politely, then paused. "No need," he said softly. "I don't have one."

I stared at him. "What?"

"I mean it," he said, calm but deliberate. "I don't have a penis."

The words hung in the air like smoke. Not tragic. Not dramatic. Just true.

"Oh," I said, because there was nothing else to say at first. Then: "I'm sorry. I didn't mean -- "

"It's all right," he interrupted gently. "It's not a secret. Just... not something people expect."

I nodded slowly, searching his face. There was no shame there. Just quiet acceptance. Maybe even pride.

And then, suddenly, I understood Ana a lot better.

"A swinger without a penis," I said, still trying to wrap my head around it. "Isn't that incredible?"

Sam just smiled. "Oh, I don't know. I'm a swinger without a penis."

That shut me up for half a second. Then, perhaps defensively, I said, "Just -- just incredible. A swing-errrr without a penis," I sang softly, half under my breath, "is like a ship... without a sail..."

He raised an eyebrow. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

"Fair enough," I muttered. "So... it wasn't the war, right?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Car accident. Long time ago. He showed me what he had left -- not much. Just scar tissue, really. But the testicles survived. And believe it or not, they still work."

"You mean..."

"I can still come, yes. If I'm really aroused. It's just... different. No penetration. No thrusting. What you'd call..." he smirked, "all dressed up and no place to go."

"That wasn't even funny," I said, frowning. "Why are we joking about this?"

"Why not?" he replied. "I've had years to figure out how to laugh about it."

I bit my lip. "Because if you really want to know, just thinking about it gives me a full-body case of the chills."

"Castration fears, sweetie?"

"More like... an inverted case of penis envy."

That made him chuckle. "I like that. You should copyright it."

"Well," I said, trying to pull the conversation back to somewhere safe, "to make a long story short -- "

"Which, ironically," he said with a grin, "is what my accident did. God help me."

We both laughed then -- not cruelly, not nervously. Just... because it was absurd, and sad, and real.

And then we stopped laughing. And just sat there. Quiet. Close.

He had an artificial phallus. That's what he and Ana used. He told me they used it sometimes... and of course, he'd go down on her. But it wasn't about that. It was what he didn't have that got them into swinging in the first place.

More for her sake than his.

I felt I should offer... I mean, something.

It didn't feel right otherwise -- not with Archie still catching his breath downstairs and Ana glowing like a sunrise. There was this low, expectant silence between me and Sam, and I couldn't just sit there like an art piece.

He sensed it, too. Gave me a small smile, warm and a little shy.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," he said gently.

"I know," I replied, pausing a beat. Then I added, "But I kind of do."

That changed something in his eyes -- not hunger, but something softer. Something reverent.

"The thing that really gets me off?" he said, his voice quieter now, as if confessing. "What really thrills me? It's making a woman come. That's it. That's my thing."

I blinked at him. "That's it?"

"That's everything," he said.

And then... well, he set to work.

For the rest of the night, that's all he did -- over and over again. Once with a strap-on -- which I'll admit was bizarre at first, almost clinical -- but somehow turned sweet in the way he approached it. Focused. Careful. Like he was borrowing something delicate and precious.

The other times? Just with his mouth and hands. And I don't mean casually. The man was relentless. Not rushed, not forceful. Just... committed.

It wasn't about lust, not in the usual sense. It was more like watching someone carry out a sacred mission -- like he'd trained for this, like he measured his own worth in gasps and shivers.

And I gave him plenty of both.

At one point, when I thought I couldn't take another wave, I whispered, "Sam, you really don't have to..."

He looked up from between my thighs with a grin and said, "Oh, but I want to. You have no idea how satisfying this is."

And somehow, I believed him.

Later, when I was lying there in the afterglow -- flushed and a little stunned -- I couldn't help but compare.

It wasn't fair, really. Archie and Sam were nothing alike in bed, and maybe that was the biggest surprise of all.

Archie was all heat and hunger. He liked the chase, the rhythm, the feel of his body moving inside mine. With him, sex was a kind of dance -- physical, passionate, even playful sometimes. We knew each other's steps, could read each other's silences. And when it worked, it felt like flying.

But Sam... Sam was something else entirely.

With him, it wasn't about conquering or chemistry. It was about attention. Intensity. He listened with his fingers, responded with his breath. Like his whole purpose in that moment was to make me feel things I hadn't expected to feel. Not just pleasure -- though there was plenty of that -- but seen. Almost revered.

And that shook me, more than I wanted to admit. Because it had been a long time since I'd felt that kind of... devotion. Not just being desired, but worshipped. Even stranger: it didn't make me uncomfortable. It made me melt.

When I got dressed and padded downstairs to check on Archie, I expected something in me to feel guilty. Or awkward. But instead, I found myself smiling.

He looked up from the couch when I came in, still shirtless, hair tousled, eyes warm.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," I replied, sitting beside him. Our knees touched.

"Was it... okay?" he asked, not quite meeting my gaze.

"Yeah," I said. Then, after a breath, "Better than okay."

He chuckled softly. "They're... something, huh?"

"They really are," I said.

We sat there in silence for a while.

"You look happy," he said.

"I think I am," I replied, leaning my head on his shoulder.

And in that quiet, I realized: I wasn't just comparing. I was waking up.

We drove in silence for a while. The road shimmered in the headlights, ghostly and infinite.

Then Archie exhaled. "You know, I'm still trying to decide if that night was beautiful or just plain bizarre."

"Both," I said. "Definitely both."

"I mean... they didn't want anything more than two-by-two, separate rooms, rinse and repeat."

"No group play, no mixing it up. And her whole thing -- Jesus, it was just you. Your dick. That was her entire focus."

"Yeah. The cult of the dick," Archie muttered. "It got old fast."

"We even talked about not seeing them again, remember?"

He nodded. "I remember. And then we started comparing them to Ken and Barbara."

That cracked me up. "God. The difference. Night and day."

"We couldn't stop laughing. But it wasn't... really funny."

"No," I said softly. "It wasn't."

Archie glanced at me. "It was the idea, wasn't it? Swapping with them regularly. Seeing them exclusively."

I nodded. "It was like imagining the rest of your life on a flat gray plateau. Comfortable. Controlled. Grim."

We both laughed again, this time with a bit of a shiver underneath.

"It's not their fault," Archie said finally. "They're doing the best they can."

"Yeah. But I don't want to spend my weekends helping people cope."

"Nope," he said. "Me neither."

One grim idea led to another.

"I mean, seriously," I muttered, flopping back on the bed. "All that planning. All that careful coordination and secret phone calls. Just to make square love with a cock-crazy freak and her prickless husband."

Archie raised an eyebrow. "That's one way to put it."

"Well, that was how we thought of them at the time. God forgive me."

He laughed, but there wasn't much humor in it. "It's true though. All that driving across town like horny missionaries. For what?"

"For that."

We stared at the ceiling. Silence stretched, then I sighed.

"I was ready to call it quits. The whole scene. Swinging, swapping, club memberships, all of it. I mean, Sam was... nice. He was sweet. But also just so..."

"Sad?" Archie offered.

"Yeah. Sad. And I couldn't even hate him for it. Couldn't despise him. Which made it worse. Pity just kills the buzz."

He rolled onto his side and touched my arm. "But you did enjoy yourself with him."

"In a way. It was good. Technically. He was attentive. But it left a bad taste. Like eating a perfect soufflé at a funeral."

That made Archie grin.

We lay there for a moment. Then he said, "You know what's weird?"

"What?"

"I'm kind of turned on right now."

I blinked. "From this conversation?"

"Yeah. I mean, just talking about it. Reliving the whole messed-up night."