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“What can I get for you tonight, Mr. Dollington?”
Ken Dollington scratched the chin beneath his gray goatee.
“It’s Ken… and you know what I want, Vinnie.”
“Spaghetti and Meatball Pizza? With extra sauce?”
It was an easy guess. Ken Dollington and his cadre had been coming to Murals, the quaint family-run Italian restaurant in Cranbury, New Jersey, for 20 plus years, and nine times out of ten, they ordered their preference, which the oldest son of the owners had memorized. Vince had made it clear to the other waitstaff that if he was on shift, he and he alone would be the server for these heavy tippers.
He turned his attention to Ken’s wife Krystal, a 50’s-something bottle blonde who took great pride in her oversized saline nubes.
“And for you, Mrs. Dollington?”
Krystal put her menu down and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. She arched her back just slightly, then looked up at Vince with her signature coquettish expression. He smiled, his eyes resting on her deep decolletage, his shiny black hair coming loose from behind his right ear and swinging onto his sweaty cheek. He tucked the hair back into place.
“Oh what the hell,” said Krystal, slapping the table, “I’ll just have what I always have.”
Vince nodded as he took note, Veal Saltimboca, then made his way around the table collecting the orders from the additional two couples.
Like the Dollingtons, the Carys stuck to their script. Barb, a scant 4 foot 11, 90-pound vegan, would eat only one quarter of her personal pan gluten-free vegetarian pizza with no cheese. Being more moderate in his nonetheless healthy choices, her husband Blake ordered baked salmon, but with double the salad in lieu of pasta – dressing on the side. And Jeni and Tom Jones? They split a Greek pizza – a surprise departure from their usual Margherita-style pie.
“Magnum carafe of Chianti Classico?” suggested Vince, as he harvested the menus.
“Oh yeah!” exclaimed Krystal, with two thumbs up. She’d pregamed at home with a half bottle – it had tasted like more.
“And five glasses,” said Vince, smiling at Blake Cary, for he’d never seen the man consume alcohol.
“Sparkling water no ice for me,” said Blake, as expected, and Vince high-tailed it to the bar to get the order in, beating out his younger sister who was waddling her way there with an order for a table of 10.
“So,” said Jeni in a low whisper, “Pam Anderson told me that she and Andy took a bottle of wine to their new neighbors – the ones who bought the yellow house next door to them, and get this!”
Jeni leaned in to further mask the salacious gossip she was about to impart.
“They have a welcome mat and a garden flag with an upside-down pineapple on it!”
Just then Vince appeared with the wine, prompting Jeni to sit back in her seat. The couples were quiet as Vince filled their glasses.
“Upside down mats and flags,” shrugged Ken when the coast was clear, “So they’re halfwits – so what?”
“It’s a signal,” said Jeni, “It means they’re-“
“And sparkling water for you, Mr. Cary,” said Vince, once again interrupting Jeni’s revelation.
“It means they’re swingers!” she blurted when Vince took leave.
“Wife swappers?” asked Barb Cary, her makeup-less face almost the same shade of gray as her long braid.
“It’s more than just wife swapping,” said Jeni, “They mentioned a place they went to recently – it’s in Cancun – Cupidity I think the name is. It’s a clothing optional resort for couples in the lifestyle.”
Jeni air quoted ‘the lifestyle.’
“We’d never heard of it until I did the research,” said Tom, “but apparently there’s a whole subculture of folks who go out to dinner just like we are now, then go back to someone’s house for playtime.”
Like his wife, Tom was a chronic air quoter, so naturally he emphasized the word ‘playtime’ in this way.
“Here we are,” said Vince, as he lowered a large tray onto the buffet behind him, and having positioned the plates in front of their rightful owners, he executed a marginal bow.
“Buon Appetito,” he said, and he scurried away.
While the others adjusted their plates and manipulated their cutlery, Blake considered whether or not to wade in to the lifestyle conversation. Like Tom, he’d done some research, but for a very different reason.
“From what I understand,” he said, treading carefully, “it’s a very respectful community of monogamous couples who just want to spice up their sex lives.”
“How do you know anything about it, honey?” asked Barb, as she separated one slice of her pizza from the other three, then pushed her plate away.
“Yeah, Blake – how do you know anything about it?” Krystal teased with a wink.
“Just some article I stumbled on,” he said.
“They’ve put in for a membership at the club,” said Jeni, “I think we should warn the neighborhood.”
“Nah,” said Ken, wiping red sauce from his chin with his palm, “Just don’t accept any backyard barbeque invitations, or you might find an unexpected almanbahis adresi wiener in your buns.”
Krystal rolled her eyes.
“I want to hear more about playtime,” she said, as she poured herself another.
“Playtime happens in playrooms,” said Tom, “There’s mattresses and swings, and ropes and chains, and rocking horses with dildos built into the saddle, and who the hell knows what else!”
Jeni put a finger to her lips to shush her husband, and he lowered his voice.
“Sometimes the room has a theme,” he said, leaning in, “like B…D…S…M.”
“B…D…S…M.,” said Ken, nodding, “I’ll bet everyone here knows what it is, but not a one of us knows what the damn acronym stands for.”
“And I’ll bet you’re right,” said Tom, his eyes traveling around the table, “Anyone?”
Of course Blake Cary knew what it stood for, but he declined to enlighten his friends.
“I think the ‘D’ stands for dog collar,” said Jeni, with a smirk.
“I think the ‘D’ stands for disgusting,” said Barb.
“And I think you’re all under the wrong impression,” he said, “It’s not a free-for-all; it’s really quite civilized. There are clearly defined boundaries – no one does anything they don’t want to do. And when playtime is over, everyone leaves with their respective partners.”
Blake dipped his fork delicately in the Italian dressing and speared some house salad with it, then thought better of his impassioned defense and added, “At least that’s what I gleaned from the article.”
“I just can’t imagine prancing around sans panties in front of a bunch of strangers and especially at our age,” said Jeni, “Tom and I don’t walk around naked in front of each other, and we’ve been married for 35 years!”
“I think it all sounds terribly exciting,” said Krystal, with a shoulder shake, “and if everyone’s naked, I’m guessing the nudity becomes a non-issue very quickly.”
She drained her glass, and anticipating her next move, Ken placed the carafe out of her reach.
“I tend to agree,” said Blake, “And it could be argued that clothing just camouflages the true individual underneath, and by stripping down, one is really stripping away that unnecessary layer of distraction.”
Ken gripped Blake’s shoulder and squeezed it.
“Are you suggesting my shirt and trousers are more distracting than my hairy chest and swinging dick and balls?” said Ken.
“Well, I’d have no problem taking my clothes off,” Krystal said, bending over the table, her bowling ball boobies pendulating up towards Blake Cary’s face as she snatched the carafe from in front of him.
“I guess I’m driving… again,” snarled Ken.
“Of course I wouldn’t engage with anyone but you sweetie… well… unless you wanted to.”
Krystal kissed her index finger then tapped Ken’s nose with it.
“My wife refuses to act her age,” he said, sitting back in his chair, his uncomfortably full belly preventing him from crossing his arms over his barreled chest.
Krystal furrowed her brows.
“Act my age?! Look who’zzzzz talking,” she slurred, “It’s like being married to my frickin’ grandfather!”
“OK, that’s enough, you two,” said Jeni, wagging her finger at the Dollingtons.
Barb smiled and put her meatless arm around her husband’s shoulder.
“Blake and I are old souls,” she said, stroking the strands of salt and pepper hair above his left ear, “We don’t need the lifestyle or whatever other tricks people come up with to keep a marriage going. We’re happy just being together, aren’t we dear.”
Blake smiled softly at his wife and patted her hand, then felt a foot against his shin.
“Can I get a box?” said Barb, turning in her chair towards Vince as he passed by their table, and Blake realized then, that said foot, the toe of which was now lifting his pantleg, was not attached to his wife. He raised his gaze and met Krystal’s crystal blue eyes; they widened and narrowed, pulsing some pattern which he struggled, unsuccessfully, to decipher.
“And the checks too please Vince,” shouted Tom.
Blake rotated his right wrist, then tapped the face of his watch; his grandfather’s Omega 3 Seamaster had stopped again. He picked up his phone; still only 10:30 am – perhaps time had stopped everywhere. In hopes of a cat nap, he reclined in his office chair, crossed his feet on the desk, and lowered his eyelids, but the cell phone buzzed in his hand.
+15556739872: Am I wrong or are we on the same page?
Who the heck is that, he wondered, but unable to answer the question, he deleted the message. Fifteen minutes into his shuteye, the question was answered for him.
+15556739872: It’s Krystal
And that sat him bolt upright.
He’d known Crystal Barnes from afar since high school. She was the coolest of the cool kids: cheerleader, volleyball captain, homecoming queen – so far out of his orbit, it would have been impossible to even bang into each other in the hallway. almanbahis adres When she’d returned to Cranbury many years after college, it was with Ken Dollington on her arm, and when they married, she took his last name, and traded the ‘C’ in Crystal for a ‘K.’ They purchased the nicest house in the neighborhood and joined the Country Club, and that’s when he reconnected with her. She didn’t remember him, of course, but eventually she and Ken and he and Barb began to interact socially, facilitated by their children; Blake was their soccer coach. But in all that time, communications had almost always come through Ken, and considering Krystal’s awkward overture last night, her texting was particularly disconcerting.
+15552126788: Hi Krystal. Not sure what you mean
+15556739872: Meet me at Bubbakoos in 30
Blake hesitated as he considered the consequences of accepting or not accepting the directive.
+15552126788: Sure. Everything OK?
+15556739872: Oh so much better than OK
Nervously curious, Blake grabbed his suit jacket from the hook on the back of his office door and headed out. The restaurant wasn’t open yet, but that didn’t matter, because he had no intention of going in. Cranbury was the manifestation of a speculative small town, and Krystal Dollington might have held court there if the place had existed in days of yore; it would serve no good purpose to be seen alone with her. He backed his black Audi A7 into an inconspicuous spot under a tree and waited, and waited, and waited.
“Sorry,” she said into his window, as she maneuvered her candy-cane Camaro convertible into the tight space beside his, “Hope you weren’t waiting long.”
Blake adjusted his side mirror to bring Krystal’s shapely legs into view as they attempted to squeeze out her door; didn’t matter the weather, she was always tanned. She stood and bent over the driver’s seat to grab her purse, her age-inappropriate miniskirt wrapping her upper thighs like duct tape.
“Aren’t we going in?” she asked, bending to rest her elbow on his window ledge and exposing far too much skin for so early in the day, “I’m starving.”
“I can’t; I’m on my way to a meeting,” he lied, imagining an errant raisin or cashew fossilized in her copious cleavage, “Tell me out here.”
Krystal slumped with disappointment, then made her way around the front of his car and got in. She turned towards him, took a deep breath, then stung him with her opening salvo.
“I want to go to Cupidity, but it’s couples only. I need you to go with me – as my husband.”
Blake’s brow knitted with the strain of mental forces as he struggled to completely comprehend the preposterous proposal, but before he could put two words together in response, Krystal hit him with the pitch.
“Now before you say no, Blake, hear me out,” she said, palms up to put a stop to his anticipated objection, “Obviously, we’ll have to share a room, but there will be two beds; that’s typical… you know… in case you want to invite another couple in for playtime.”
She placed her palm on his shoulder.
“The point is, my friend, you don’t have to worry about any complications. There will be no sexy time between you and me.”
Blake realized his jaw had dropped. He closed his mouth and found his voice.
“You’re crazy, Krystal!” he blurted, “Even if I wanted to go-“
“But you DO want to go,” she said, poking the DO into his chest, “I KNOW you do!” Another poke, “And I don’t believe for one SECOND you stumbled on some article about the lifestyle.”
“Stop poking me!” he said, twisting away from her.
Krystal crossed her arms, propelling her counterfeit cantaloupes up and almost out of her pink paisley v-neck sweater.
“Alright Blake,” she said, dragging her right thigh over her left, “Convince me you’re satisfied with your sex life, and I’ll let it go.”
Blake drew his gaze from her chesticles up to her czar-like glare.
“No one is entirely satisfied with their sex life,” he said, quietly, “but be that as it may, I love my wife. I’d never do anything to hurt her.”
Krystal rolled her eyes and her head followed.
“This isn’t about love, Blake; it’s about LIFE!” she said, slapping the dash, “I’m 59 for fuck sake! I haven’t even kissed another man in over 30 years! This is my chance – OUR chance – to step outside our reality and get our freak on!”
Blake’s eyes glazed over as he imagined himself at Cupidity; it would be the culmination of a decade of preparation. Sure, it had all been virtual up until now – cam girls mostly. But oh to actually feel the hot breath of a dom on the back of his neck, her possessive palm on his ass, and then perhaps, a playful SMACK!
He jerked in the seat and back to present tense.
“Welllllllll?” Krystal asked.
“I’m not saying I’m not tempt-“
She gripped his knee.
“Just 5 days and 4 nights of unbridled pleasure, Blake, and before you know it, you’ll be back to your mundane existence, analyzing actuarial data and falling asleep on the couch almanbahis adresi watching Netflix.”
“We’ll get caught,” he sighed.
“No we won’t!” she said, “All you need to do is massage your schedule.”
She opened the car door.
“Going through the drive-thru,” she said over her shoulder as she lifted her athletic frame, “I’ll text you tomorrow.”
Instinctively, Blake shut his laptop. His admin, Brianne, was clutching the door jam; she immediately lowered her eyes.
“Sorry to bother you,” she squeaked, barely raising her gaze, “I just wanted to remind you I’m leaving early today for a dentist appointment. You said it would be OK.”
Such an attractive young woman, he thought, but so timid, so naive, so lacking in the qualities he found irresistible in a female.
“Of course it’s OK,” he said.
“Do you want me to make your travel arrangements for the conference before I leave?”
“Yes, that would be great,” he said, but when he returned to the Cupidity website, and to the picture of an oiled ebony Venus squatting to mount her conquest on the steps of the serpentine pool, he changed his mind.
“Brianne!” he called out, then waited while she skittered back across the tiled hallway for his instruction.
“Why don’t you go ahead now,” he said, smiling, “I’ll make the travel arrangements myself.”
“Really?” she said, tilting her head, “But it’s only one o’clock.”
“Go,” he chuckled, gesturing towards the door with a wave, “and lock the door behind you. I’m going to take the afternoon off too.”
Blake repositioned the laptop and navigated through the website; Amenities>Nightlife>Theme Nights>FemDom, and a black and white image slowly pixelated onto the screen. It was the posterior view of an imposing female, unveiled – save for a pair of leather thigh-high boots, her resplendent mane cascading to the upper reaches of her back crack. She was standing spread-eagled in front of a kneeling supplicant, his tongue extended, her hand under his chin, guiding it into position.
That could be me, Blake thought, her fingers raking through my hair, her booted leg lifting to rest her spiked heel on a nearby chair, tilting her pelvis up into my face so I can worship her full female monty and bring her to climax.
And when Blake heard the office door shut and the deadbolt lock, he pulled a clean hand towel from a drawer and placed it neatly on the desk. He slid his hips forward, unbuckled and unzipped, and let his well-oiled imagination take command of his right hand. And when the time was nigh, he stood and bent to brace himself with one palm, then groaned out a “Yes Mistress,” and fired his weapon into the terrycloth target.
“So, what changed your mind?” asked Krystal, as they weaved their way west on Cranbury Neck Road. She would have loved to put the top down, but October had blown in with Jack Frost on its shoulders.
“I took a look at the website,” said Blake, the very recent memory precipitating a prickle of heat to his cheeks and a twitch of his teeter in his trousers. Luckily, Krystal’s eyes were on the road. She snugged her fingers around the wheel to take a tight curve.
“What did you tell Barb?”
“Told her the conference in Las Vegas got moved to Miami,” he said, “She’ll never check – she’s not very interested in what I do.”
“Yeah, I told Ken I was going to visit my sister in Key Biscayne. I don’t think he even heard me; he never listens to anything I say. Besides he loves it when I go down there – enjoys his alone time.”
“Did you use our real names?” Blake asked.
“Not quite,” she said, “I registered as Blake and Krystal Carrington.”
Blake raised his eyebrows.
“As in Dynasty? The TV series? Are you joking?!”
“I figured using our first names would prevent any slip-ups, and then I combined our last names – I’m so creative.”
She winked at him and patted his knee.
“You know you do kind of look like Linda Evans,” he said, slipping into wistfulness, “the blonde… the bangs… your statuesque figure.”
“We can be whoever and whatever we want to be, Blake,” she said, “and I’m not going to waste one minute being Mrs. Kenneth Dollington.”
It was quiet for a bit as Blake watched the farmland fly by his window, and his mathematical mind attempted to determine the odds of exposure and the risk of executing Krystal’s brazen scheme.
“So I guess we’re all set then,” he said, secretly hoping some glitch might have come to light.
“Set in stone,” she answered, turning left into the parking lot of Van Nest Park, “I emailed you the flight details: 9:30 am out of Newark on United, then a short Cancun hop from Miami.”
She giggled and wiggled on the red leather.
“I’m so EXCITED! Aren’t you?”
“I just hope we can pull this off,” he said, prompting Krystal to step hard on the brake, and whiplash him back into his seat. She jammed the car in Park and turned it off.
“Kiss me!” she demanded.
“What?!” he said, pressing his back against the door, “You said no sexy time!”
“Listen to me, Blake,” she said, yanking him by his Ralph Lauren tie, “We have to convince a resort full of swingers that we’re a couple.”
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