Dear Evan - The Joneses (Pt. 01)

Dear Evan - The Joneses - Pt.1

By Jayne

All characters depicted in sexual situations are over the age of 18.

This is a consensual hotwife story. If that's not your thing, please scroll on -- I write for readers who enjoy this dynamic.

Author's note: Jayne writes these letters to Evan and Evangeline ("Eve"), a lifestyle couple she and Chris have never met but who share fun, sexy and interesting stories with them. Each story stands alone, but they share a world.

This is Pt.1 of the Joneses story. Pt.2, the gathering with Tash and Rick, follows.

Dear Evan,

Mischief and naughty, sexy fun comes in all forms and formats.

Congratulations on getting your podcast onto the major platforms. In your recent show, you discussed the difficulties, trials and tribulations of engaging, meeting and eventually swapping partners. You've lamented the lack of full-swap couples in the Dayton, Ohio area and wondered why it is so difficult to find suitable people to play with.

Chris and I are in Sydney, Australia, so we can't comment on your local dating pool. But people are much the same everywhere. There are the fakes, the scammers, the fantasists, the occasional disappointment and, every now and then, a hidden gem.

Which brings me to Mr and Mrs Jones.

Of course, those aren't their real names, but let's call them the Joneses.

This is a slightly different story from the others I've shared with you. It isn't about finding a bull, arranging a meeting or navigating the usual expectations that come with introducing someone new into our bedroom. In fact, it began with something rather ordinary: a message on one of those internet platforms where Australian couples, single men and the occasional hopeful fantasy merchant all gather.

You know the kind. Lots of glossy pictures, carefully worded profiles and an extraordinary amount of confidence from people who may or may not actually turn up when a real plan is made.

Chris and I mostly focus on single men -- bulls, if we're using the language everyone seems to understand. There are plenty of them, which means we can afford to be selective. Chris has never been particularly interested in playing with another woman, so the classic full-swap couple arrangement has never really been our natural habitat. He knows what he likes, he knows what he doesn't like, and he sees little point in constructing a complicated evening merely because someone else thinks that's what 'the lifestyle' is supposed to look like.

Between the two of us, I am the more outgoing one. I will open a conversation, ask a question, send a photo, make a plan and see where the energy goes. Chris is the sensible one. He is the person who notices whether the story adds up, whether the people sound genuine, whether the numbers in a group are getting silly, and whether we are about to create more logistics than pleasure. It is a very useful kind of intelligence, particularly when you're dealing with strangers, complicated dynamics and a long drive home afterwards.

The truth is, Chris doesn't want a crowd simply for the sake of a crowd. He likes the people involved to have a reason for being there. He likes attraction to be mutual, manners to be good and boundaries to be clear. He isn't the man who wants to be talked into someone else's fantasy; he is the man who wants everyone to enjoy the fantasy we've actually agreed on. And I love him for that.

Couples, however, can be a lot of work. There is the famously difficult four-way connection: two people in one couple, two in the other, all expected to feel some degree of chemistry with each other. Then there are the fake profiles, the men pretending to be part of a couple so they can get past the filters, and the situations where a woman's photograph is quite obviously being used as bait while the man does all the talking. Not particularly sexy, perhaps, but this is the unglamorous reality of it. If we can't be honest in these letters, what is the point of writing them?

I do most of the messaging for us. We often move off a dating platform onto WhatsApp or Telegram because it gives you a better sense of whether someone is genuine, responsive and prepared to have an adult conversation. The genuine men don't mind at all; they're usually keen. Chris can read anything he likes, and often does, but he leaves the endless introductory exchanges to me. It's not that he is absent from the decision. Far from it. He simply refuses to spend three nights exchanging the same twelve messages with three different men who all say they're "discreet, clean and very respectful".

Then the Joneses wrote.

Their profile caught my eye because it looked considered rather than assembled in a rush. Tash -- short for Natasha, though I never once heard Rick use the full name -- was impossible to miss: blonde, shoulder-length hair, lovely cheekbones and that slightly authoritative manner some women manage to convey even in a still photograph. She appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties. Rick was bearded, a little rounder than Chris, but not fat -- more solid, really -- and had the look of a man who was perfectly content to let Tash take centre stage.

I showed Chris their photographs, partly because I wanted his view and partly because that is the quickest way we work. Once you have real life, work life, fake names, profile names, pictures, messages and half a dozen chats happening at once, you need shorthand or you lose the plot completely. It might look flippant from the outside, but we're not careless. We're selective and decisive.

Choosing a play partner isn't like choosing a life partner. It's more like deciding who can play tennis on Saturday and will actually turn up. Are they pleasant on court? Do they play competitively or collaboratively? Is it singles, doubles or something in between? Will they bring the right energy -- and, importantly, will they pay their share of the court fee or leave someone else with the bill?

The Joneses' photographs were a mixture of history and performance: a rooftop dinner overlooking the Harbour Bridge; sexy black-and-white portraits; and a selfie at a train station where they looked like any ordinary couple heading somewhere. Yet in every image, Tash was the focal point.

Chris studied the screen for longer than I expected.

"They're interesting," he said.

For Chris, that wasn't a dismissal. It was an early positive assessment. He doesn't hand those out casually.

I wondered what he had seen that I hadn't. Or perhaps he was simply looking at the same photographs and arriving at a different conclusion. Either way, I was interested enough to find out more.

The Burner Phone

We moved off the platform and onto WhatsApp fairly quickly.

From me (first message): "Hi sexy people. This is Jayne & C (from RHP)"

From them (their first message):

"Hi Jayne -- you gave me presentky but welcome to communicate with Mrs after she's back from work. This is our burner phone. I was just saying I'd love to photograph you -- nothing weird -- we think you are stunning."

That was Rick. Or at least, I was almost certain it was Rick. He was always complimentary. I re-read that message several times, as I didn't know what presentky was, beyond being a clear typo.

This couple used a burner phone -- say what? Initially I found that intriguing. Then I found it faintly unnerving. A shared number meant I was never quite certain who was reading, and sometimes I was not certain who was writing.

With a single man, I know exactly how to pitch my messages: straightforward, warm, flirty when the moment calls for it.

With a couple, every sentence needs a little more thought. More consideration for the reader (or readers) and how each message would land.

Evan, as an aside, I've had that happen in reverse, when a guy would write "You have a sexy wife". And my response would be: "I am the wife, thank you." Haha, Evan. For various reasons, the assumption behind that manages to annoy and amuse me at the same time. I digress. Sorry.

Anyway, back to the Joneses.

One weekday morning at 10:01, he (I think it was probably Rick, but it could have been anyone) sent three texts in succession.

"We are based in Sydney cbd area."

"Will be heading to Bondi winter wonderland soon"

"Ps. I've just looked at you again on RHP -- there is NO WAY you are that age. Just gorgeous!"

I sent him a picture of myself in a black bra and panties, face half cut off, with my hands pulling down my bra a little to show off my breasts. My caption: "This picture from this week, even my husband of many years said I look fantastic." Followed by a smiley wink emoticon.

He told me he was a photographer for a digital magazine and would love to photograph me -- "nothing weird", he said, which made me smile given where we had met. He told me I had a good body, and I told him I swam, did Pilates and body-balance classes, and ate fairly well. I also said, quite deliberately, that Chris thought I had a good body too. My husband was not a background prop in this conversation. He knew about it, he had his opinions, and he liked me exactly as I was.

The Joneses explained that they enjoyed social dining with couples. Their profile referred to their preference for people with boats, and later they explained that one of their profile names was Cruise Couple -- a flag for boat lovers and boat owners. I found that rather charming. I enjoy boats myself (Chris less so, because he isn't a strong swimmer), but we have been out on Sydney Harbour a couple of times with a good friend who owned one.

The Joneses seemed to want a social world as much as a private one. That became obvious when, in the middle of an entirely vanilla conversation about our dinner booking at Bistecca, Tash threw one of her little curveballs.

"Why not invite us along!! We have never been there."

It was so Tash: she heard an opening and walked straight through it. Rick softened and complimented. Tash pushed and proposed. They were not passive people waiting to be chosen, that was clear. The question was whether their pace would suit ours.

Curveballs

Tash was the curveball. Rick would say something kind and reassuring, then Tash would arrive without warning and send the whole conversation sideways.

"For play, we both enjoy a more dominant role, and both very much into sensual, sensory and sensory deprivation. Mr leans into being a masochist, a daddy and primal. I've been known to be a puppy/fuck toy, but only when the moments right....."

I read that twice. Their frankness was not the issue; I am hardly a blushing innocent. It was the certainty of it. They had clearly built a language around their relationship. Chris and I have our own established dynamic too, but we don't need to call it something in every second sentence. We need to know that the people involved are real, respectful and capable of listening.

Then they asked for a photo of Chris and me together. I sent one from a hike -- ordinary gear, ordinary smiles, both of us looking like we had spent the day outdoors rather than like we were trying to attract anyone at all. Their response floored me.

"He looks good! If we get together I hope he doesn't mind me or Tash eating your pussy while he's fucking you."

They meant Chris. I was taken aback, because I am usually the visible one in these messages. I do the writing. I receive the compliments. Chris is a good-looking man, but he is not pretending to be some glossy young stud, and neither of us needs him to be. What mattered was that the Joneses had looked at us and seen him as an active, desirable part of the picture. When I showed him the message, he gave me that half-amused, half-considering look of his. He understood what it meant. They were not asking him to disappear; they were inviting him into the centre of it.

Tash remained impossible to categorise. One day she was shamelessly flirtatious; the next she was telling me about opportunity shops and designer bargains. When I asked whether she was really bi, whether anything actually happens at FetGala, and what she wore, the answers came back one line at a time.

"Sydney fet-parties are very tame"

"Very bi."

"It's a dance party - no sex."

"I wore lingerie."

I was beginning to feel I needed a notebook.

Doing the Sums

At some point, one of the Joneses began to suggest that the more, the merrier. In other words, group play. At the time I was still uncomfortable using the word orgy, since what we were planning had not crystallised. After a while, though, I could see the appeal of a small group arrangement, and I thought about Bill, a regular play partner of mine who had been hinting that he wanted to try a club or a more social setting. You remember Bill -- I've mentioned him in the cruise letter. Bill was curious and wanted to meet and play with more women, but he was not always good at articulating his needs. Chris, meanwhile, was not against the idea but not all in as yet. He simply did the sums.

A larger group meant more personalities, more expectations, more opportunities for one person to feel overlooked, and more chance of an evening becoming hard work. He preferred a smaller, well-matched gathering: people properly considered, chemistry checked, and nobody trying to turn an invitation into a production number.

Meanwhile, I was becoming tired of vetting new men. Sydney is not enormous, and on these platforms you soon see the same profiles, the same carefully cropped photographs and the same promises. Screening people ought to be fun, but it can become a repetitive little job. Tash, oddly, seemed to produce photographs of men I had never come across. We were supposedly fishing in the same pond, but her net was catching different fish. This was a bit of a puzzle to me. Was she casting a bigger net, or was the bait tastier?

Eventually a loose idea formed: each couple would bring one trusted and regular guy. Chris thought about it and said it sounded good from a trust and risk perspective, because the group would be two wives, two husbands and two other guys whom someone already knew. This worked fine for me. I immediately thought about Bill and sold him the idea of Tash as the other woman. I didn't dwell on or explain the other participants to Bill. I just sent Tash a picture of Bill, and I sent Bill a picture of Tash with Rick.

Then Tash threw one of her out-of-the-blue ideas. Guys often flake at the last minute, she said, and we needed to make sure there were enough on the night in question. The date was still open-ended at this stage of planning. The Joneses suggested that each couple bring two other guys -- one known or regular, and one new. Chris and I would bring Bill and perhaps one other. It sounded workable in theory. In practice, it was beginning to resemble exactly the kind of complicated arrangement Chris was right to interrogate before saying yes.

"I thought we were each bringing one friend," he said.

"That was the original idea."

"Then why are we recruiting?"

A reasonable question, Evan. Annoyingly reasonable.

ShyRoman

The funny thing was that, while all this was going on, we were making plans to meet ShyRoman. His profile name was a complete misnomer. Lorenzo was cultured, handsome, Italian by background, and worked in events at one of the private universities in the CBD. He had that particular kind of polish that comes from knowing how to make people feel comfortable without making a fuss about it.

When the Joneses mentioned that they, too, had been communicating with him, we suggested that since we were going to the city to meet ShyRoman anyway, why not make it a bigger party. ShyRoman lived at Ultimo and said he could host. That was welcome news. Hotels are always an option, but they come with the need to book and split costs, and they run the risk of someone pre-paying and finding on the day that someone else has cancelled, flaked or ghosted. It isn't just the money, and not just the time wasted, but the wasted opportunity. Let me explain: Chris and I have limited opportunities to make play-date plans, and a lot of time and energy goes into them. A same-day cancellation or a no-show results in a huge disappointment -- the opportunity cost, which is an economic term but apt under the circumstances. It might mean scrambling to find a replacement at the eleventh hour.

Anyhow, we gladly accepted ShyRoman's offer to host. We were to meet on a Sunday and bring champagne and my own toys. When asked about boundaries, I replied:

"MFM husband is straight. We enjoy bare only with regulars, otherwise please use condoms. We love a lot of cum."

"No anal sex but I enjoy putting a vibe plug there. I love doggie and other positions. If you want to go down on me, two fingers inside will be awesome."

His reply:

"Ok perfect. Here are mine:

I'm straight too

No bare back for penetration, oral yes

No marks, bites etc

Videos ok as long as my face isn't in it and you share it afterwrds

No bdsm"

"Perfect. When you're about to cum, pplease remove your condom and cum all over my tummy close to my pussy. My husband would love that."

"Sure you lie on your back and face up, leave your pussy open and I'll come all over your tummy and close to your pussy".

My response was three emojis: eggplant, water splashing and fire.

We acted as a go-between, linking up with Tash and Rick and then with Lorenzo, in both directions.

Our message to ShyRoman:

"Our new friend 'The Joneses' turned off their profile immediately after contacting us. We are now in touch through WhatsApp. They are gorgeous. Work in CBD."

His text:

"I don't mind meeting with you and another couple on Sunday. The issue is that we won't fit in my apartment. It's a 1 bedroom with a queen size bed."

Our response: "I'll get back to you. Thanks for being flexible."

His text: "Yes no stress, just also if we meet with another couple as well make sure that they are ok with me. Happy for them to talk directly if needed."

To which we replied by love-hearting his message.

The plan was for all of us to meet at Lorenzo's apartment on a Sunday late afternoon. With Lorenzo in Ultimo and the Joneses somewhere in the CBD, it sounded like it could work. I was quite excited, but I tried not to let it show. From past experience, a surfeit of emotion can get in the way of Chris's and my interactions. I told myself to calm down and not get ahead of myself. It's hard to explain. It's bad enough being disappointed when it only impacts you, but when it involves your significant other, that seems to make it worse somehow -- it is embarrassing to be seen to care too much about a play date. I find myself more settled each week when I have a play date firmly organised; I suppose that is a weakness of mine. When it comes to meeting new people for play dates, last-minute changes happen 30 to 50 per cent of the time. It is best to keep emotions in check and expectations low in order not to be let down. Something that couples have to navigate.

With Them or Without

I still have the messages, Evan. Reading them back, I can see how much of my time was spent connecting people who had not yet decided whether they wanted to be connected. I was becoming a small, unpaid introductions service. With rather unusual office hours.

Jayne: "I'll share your contact with them"

Lorenzo: "Sure"

Jayne: "The guy has looked at your profile and likes it. He will discuss with his wife"

Jayne: "They will come back to us about whether we all play together."

Jayne: "I will need to talk to my husband as well and see how he feels but in general he will go along with what I like. I've also shared your contact with them."

Lorenzo: "Awesome, let me know how it goes"

That was my shorthand for our arrangement, not permission to make decisions for Chris. I could make introductions and tell him what interested me; we would still discuss the actual plan together. And until everyone had agreed, the Joneses were a possibility -- not confirmed guests.

Jayne: "If it doesn't work out with them, we will definitely come over and play with you ????????"

Lorenzo: "Yes I look forward to meet you with them or without"

I liked that. No sulking at the possibility of a smaller gathering. No suggestion that we needed to produce another couple to make the afternoon worthwhile. He wanted to meet us either way.

Jayne: "There is a single guy whom I have my eye on"

Jayne: "Younggun27"

Jayne: "I've not approached him about meeting together"

Jayne: "He was the person I had in mind, apart from the couple"

Lorenzo: "You are really horny"

Jayne: "lol. I'm not"

Jayne: "I only meet for play dates once a week. Hence why my eagerness to make things happen"

Lorenzo: "Fair enough you want to make the most of it"

An important distinction, dear Evan. A person can enjoy the possibilities and still have a diary. My available time was limited, and I wanted the arrangements to become an actual date rather than another week of messages. I had not even approached the other man. There is a considerable difference between having somebody in mind and adding him to the guest list.

Around then I sent Lorenzo a photograph of Chris and me from an evening at Vivid. Not the hiking photograph I had sent the Joneses -- this was a different picture, taken on a different night. We were smiling together, dressed for an evening out.

Jayne: "This is my husband. We went out for vivid"

Lorenzo: "What have you done after this pic? Something naughty"

Jayne: "No nothing at all. Just went home to zzz"

Yes, Evan. Sometimes the exciting conclusion to an evening out is going home to bed and actually sleeping. I refuse to apologise for that.

Jayne: "How many times a week do you have sex"

Lorenzo: "Usually every weekend if Friday/Saturday/Sunday depends on what I'm doing and if I can sometimes maybe once during the week"

Lorenzo: "But isn't constant depends on how busy I'm"

Lorenzo: "I'm single so it's more casual rather then a commit thing"

Jayne: "Understand. Sounds good"

Lorenzo: "I'm really looking forward to meet you Sunday"

Jayne: "Same here sexy Italian"

There was nothing especially shy about his messages, but I appreciated how uncomplicated he was being. He had his own life and schedule. We had ours. Sunday was something we were all looking forward to, not an obligation anyone was trying to manufacture.

Jayne: "Did they get in touch with you"

Lorenzo: "Yes they did we had a brief chat so far"

Jayne: "Nice"

Lorenzo: "Are you bi? She's hot as you said"

Jayne: "I'm not bi but not adverse in group situations to having girl and girl play"

Lorenzo: "That will be so hot"

So the introduction had happened. They had spoken directly, which was better than my relaying everything between two conversations. Still, a brief chat was not the same as a settled arrangement.

By Saturday morning, 2 August, my message had become rather more definite:

Jayne: "Good morning"

Jayne: "Don't think it's going to work out with the couple. So we can meet you alone or invite that other single guy."

Lorenzo: "Good morning, let's just keep it us. If the couple wants to come good if not we can have fun us 3 without the single guy"

Jayne: "Perfect. See you tomorrow 4 PM - excited!"

And that was where we left it. No extra man to approach. No need to keep enlarging an afternoon that already had three willing people in it. Lorenzo had made his preference clear, and we had a time: Sunday, four o'clock.

The Joneses did not join us. They didn't give a reason, and we didn't ask further. Whatever the complications of that proposed introduction, they did not have to become complications in our own date.

An Afternoon in Ultimo

Dear Evan, after all that messaging, the afternoon itself began with the least glamorous detail imaginable: parking the car. Sydney CBD parking can be a small lesson in logistics.

I had put on my day dress -- Bec & Bridge floral silk, the colour of butter with fuchsia pink accents, V-neck and off the shoulder, showing off the shape of my lightly tanned breasts, with a strapless push-up lace bra whose tops could be seen peeking under the neckline, and a flattering asymmetrical skirt that fluttered in the wind. Chris had on his favourite leather jacket, matched with dress jeans and a light yellow linen shirt. He checked the address while I gathered the bag and the champagne. Once we had settled on a plan, he was quite happy to get on with it. No prolonged discussion on the pavement. We were expected upstairs, and we were on time.

"Got everything?" he asked.

I lifted the bag, which held my cordless mini wand, condoms and lube. "Everything."

Lorenzo was waiting in his apartment. He opened the door with a smile and greeted us both before stepping aside. It was a neat, tidy one-bedroom place, compact without feeling cluttered. Beyond the living room, we could see Darling Harbour in the distance. I stepped out onto the balcony, where a few pot plants sat, to get a better look. Chris followed.

"Not a bad view," Chris said.

"Especially when the lights come on," Lorenzo replied.

Music was playing from the computer. On the screen, a motor-racing programme was running with its sound turned off, cars sweeping around a circuit while an entirely different soundtrack filled the apartment. That little detail stayed with me. It was his home, not a carefully staged photograph. He had been watching something before we arrived.

Lorenzo offered us wine. We handed over the champagne, and he found some glasses. There was time to talk, look around and discover whether the easy conversation we'd enjoyed in our messages also existed in person. It did. Chris asked about the neighbourhood, and Lorenzo told us a little about his events work at the university.

I was pleased by how ordinary it all felt. After spending so much time coordinating people and preferences, I could finally stop watching my phone for the next reply.

We sipped our drinks and chatted, mostly about work and property prices around the Ultimo area. Somewhere between the second glass and the property prices, the conversation turned to the practical side of this life: where people meet when nobody has a spare apartment and nobody wants to pay for a hotel room that might go unused.

"Hotels are fine," Lorenzo said, "but there are other places in Sydney."

He mentioned two. The first was a bookshop on George Street -- an actual bookshop, right there in the middle of the city, with shelves and bestsellers and a till at the front -- which had a back room that it rented out to people who had something other than reading in mind. The second was Sydney Sauna, on Oxford Street. A gay institution, he explained, practically part of the furniture of the community, but one night a week it opened its doors to couples, single women and whoever else was curious.

Chris raised an eyebrow. I nearly choked on my wine.

A bookshop, Evan. Scandalous indeed. I have walked past the bookshops on George Street for years and never once wondered what was behind the staff-only door.

"You've been?" I asked.

Lorenzo gave a small shrug, the kind that means yes without saying so. "It's useful to know what the options are."

I filed both away for another letter. Chris, I noticed, filed them away too.

I began to relax as the wine sent a pleasant warmth through my body. When Lorenzo offered to show me the bedroom, I looked at Chris. He smiled.

"Go on. I'm fine here."

He stayed in the living room because that was our arrangement, not because anyone had overlooked him. He was comfortable, I was comfortable, and we didn't need to turn that into a speech.

The Bedroom

The bedroom was simple: a bed with white cotton sheets, a bedside table and a full-height mirror on the wardrobe door. The blinds were half drawn, and the late afternoon light came in soft and gold. We set our glasses down. In the reflection, I could see us standing together beside the bed, two people who had finally managed to get past the introductions.

"Comfortable?" Lorenzo asked.

I placed my mini wand and lube within easy reach on the bedside table.

"Yes."

"I see you've brought your toy," he said.

"I have."

He didn't rush. That was the first thing I noticed. He stood close enough that I could smell his cologne -- something clean and citrusy -- and simply looked at me for a moment, as though he were deciding where to begin. Then he took the lead with a quiet assurance, drawing me close and kissing me. It was a slow kiss, unhurried, the kind that asks a question and waits for the answer. I slipped my arms around his shoulders and gave it.

"You're not at all shy," I said, laughing lightly as I played with his dark hair.

"I get that a lot," he replied.

"So why ShyRoman?"

"I was shy when I was younger, I am from Rome, and my English isn't very good. So, putting those things together, I came up with the name."

"You should be called SexyRoman," I said, kissing him again.

He turned me gently so that I faced the mirror, and stood behind me. In the glass I watched his hands find the zip at the back of my dress. He drew it down slowly -- so slowly that I could feel every tooth of it give way -- and the silk loosened and slid off my shoulders, catching for a second at my hips before it whispered to the floor. I stepped out of it. The strapless bra was all that was left, and he looked at me over my shoulder in the mirror for a long moment before he unhooked it.

His hands came around me then. Over my stomach, up over my ribs, cupping my breasts, his thumbs moving across my nipples until they hardened under his touch. He kissed the side of my neck, then the curve of my shoulder, then back to my neck again, taking his time, while I watched the two of us in the mirror -- a woman with her eyes half closed and a dark-haired man behind her who clearly knew exactly what he was doing.

I turned in his arms and undid the buttons of his shirt, one at a time, deliberately, because he had made me wait and it seemed only fair. His skin was warm and olive and smooth under my palms. I pushed the shirt off his shoulders and let my hands wander over his chest, his stomach, the waistband of his trousers, and felt him draw in a breath. The music continued from the living room. We put aside the conversation, then the rest of our clothes.

"How do you like it?" he asked.

"I like it when the man takes charge."

He smiled at that and eased me back onto the bed.

I lay back on the white sheets, fully nude and relaxed. I could feel my body flushed pleasantly from the wine. He did not go straight to where I wanted him. He kissed my collarbone, then my breasts, lingering, then moved down over my stomach and along the inside of one thigh, and then the other, close and then away again, until I was shifting my hips and making a small impatient sound that made him laugh softly against my skin.

Then he opened my legs and buried his nose and lips in my pussy.

I let myself relax fully, and the focus narrowed to just the two of us in that room. His mouth was patient and thorough. With his hands, he reached up and played with my nipples, rolling them between his fingers in time with his tongue. I reached for the wand on the bedside table, and without a word he took it from my hand, switched it on and pressed it where his mouth had been while his tongue moved lower. The combination was almost too much. My back arched, I felt a lovely heat spreading through my body, and my pussy spasmed of its own accord.

"Did you cum?" he asked.

I nodded, feeling a little shy.

"I thought I felt a small splash," he said with a grin.

"Really?" I was genuinely surprised. I didn't think of myself as a squirter, but I guess my body must have done something.

He came up to lie beside me and I let my breathing settle for a moment, my hand resting on his chest. Then I reached down for his cock, closing my fingers and thumb around his shaft and stroking him, up and down, slowly at first. I looked into his eyes and held his gaze.

"Do you like this?"

A groan escaped him. He let me continue for a little while, his hips moving with my hand, his jaw tightening -- and then something in him shifted. He moved quickly and pushed me back onto the bed. He reached for a condom from the bedside table, slipped it on and pushed himself into me.

The first few strokes were slow and deep, as if he wanted me to feel every inch of the way in. Then his pace changed. His thrusts became hard and fast. I smiled up at him, gripping his shoulders, encouraging him.

"Keep going. Don't stop."

His hips took on a momentum of their own, driving into me. I turned my head and caught sight of us in the wardrobe mirror -- his back, the muscles moving under his skin, my legs around him, my hands on his shoulders. I found myself loving this, the pain-pleasure I could feel inside. I tightened my arms around him, my nails pressing into his skin, and wrapped my legs higher around his waist to pull him deeper.

The bed creaked. The music played on in the other room. Somewhere beyond the half-closed door, Chris was sitting with his wine, and the thought of him there -- close, calm, knowing -- made everything sharper.

At the corner of my eye, I sensed rather than saw a shadow at the doorway. Chris had come to watch. I caught his eye and raised an eyebrow before turning my attention back to the man who had his cock inside of me.

I whispered in his ear: "You can come now. Come for me, Lorenzo."

"Aah," he groaned, quite loudly, and then stopped moving altogether, burying his face in my neck.

So much for the carefully negotiated plan about my tummy. Arrangements made by text, Evan, do not always survive the moment, and neither of us was complaining.

We lay like that for a while, his weight on me, both of us breathing hard. When he finally lifted his head, he said something in Italian that I didn't understand, and then kissed me.

"What was that?"

"I said you are trouble," he told me.

I laughed. "You read my profile, then."

Later, when I returned to the living room, Chris looked up with an easy smile.

"Hello, you."

I sat beside him and took his hand. "Hello."

Lorenzo joined us, and the conversation resumed without awkwardness. That was something I appreciated: we had enjoyed our afternoon, and we could still sit together afterwards and talk. The lights were starting to come on over Darling Harbour, just as he had promised.

As for his profile name, Evan, I thought it might be due for a revision.

To be continued...

A note from Jayne:

In Pt.2, Chris and I finally meet Tash and Rick in person. We find out how much of the burner phone was Tash and how much was Rick, whether Tash's way of walking straight through an opening works as well in a room as it does in a chat, and what happens when the Joneses' idea of a small gathering meets ours.

-- Jayne. Find more letters in my Literotica profile. Comments and feedback genuinely welcome.