Cassie was so sophisticated and nonchalant about it, taking for granted that Brady and I were game for it, that I just let it happen. Brady certainly was game for it. It was going to be the eighties after all. Everyone was going to be free and easy and devil may care. It would be the sixties again, done right. A chance for exercising “all you need is love” without the backdrop of a tragic war in Vietnam.
We were at the University of Delaware in Newark, still defining our dreams for the future. Brady was in graduate school, nearing the completion of his MBA. I had suspended my studies for this one last push to get Brady established. I needed two more years for my teaching certificate, and I’d have my chance when Brady was set up in business. His prospects were bright. Brady was one of the best salesmen I knew. It had been Brady who had sold me on Cassie’s idea.
Cassie was in her junior year in interior design. It was Cassie and I who were friends. I worked as a secretary in the fine arts department—working nine to five for that last push to get Brady his MBA. Cassie was a DuPont, which really meant something here in Delaware. Beyond that, she was a fashion plate and as thin and blonde and sophisticated as they get. I had to constantly watch my weight, while she gorged herself when we lunched together. But that’s another story in itself. Suffice to say that it was symbolic of our relationship, though, and how I let her take the lead. Cassie lived life to the hilt without a hint of a problem. I always seemed on the edge of being something that wasn’t quite good enough.
I think some of what prompted me to go with the flow on this New Year’s Eve idea was that Brady jumped at the idea. I worshipped Brady at the time. I couldn’t imagine how I’d managed to land him. He was a dreamboat and a half and all of the girls in college had set their cap for him.
“That’s a man who’s going to go far,” I remember a professor saying one day as Brady was walking out of a math class we shared. “Whoever manages to hitch to that wagon is going to have a good life.” Although I’d been attracted to Brady, it wasn’t until that point—from something a woman professor said—that I became willing to do anything that he wanted as long as there was a hope that I could get hitched to that wagon.
Of course I let him have his way with me when he got around to asking me out—in the backseat of his Mustang convertible down by the Delaware Canal below Wilmington. He asked me if I’d like to see where F. Scott Fitzgerald’s house was, and it turned out that now it was in an industrial area with vast parking lots deserted on weekend nights and had become a favorite make-out spot. He hadn’t asked me if it was my first time and I didn’t volunteer that it was. It wasn’t the last time that my reticence on that subject would back me into a corner.
The sex was good, though, even though Brady was all about getting his own pleasure. After that first time, I found pleasure in it to—especially in a little kinky fetish of his.
He’d done the right thing when I thought I’d gotten pregnant, but there always seemed to be a sense of resentment underlying our lives when it turned out I wasn’t. This inexplicably was followed by a sense of greater separation between us when I finally was, which happened too soon for his plans.
“It almost spoiled my plans for a business career, with an MBA and all,” he’d said when I first told him I might be pregnant. “And now it doesn’t look like—”
“We’ll be fine,” I’d said, interrupting him because I didn’t want anything I did to be a reason that he didn’t go far in business, as the professor had predicted. “I’ll put my schooling on hold. I can get a job at the university,” I’d said. “We’ll get you through graduated school first and then I’ll go back for my teaching certificate.”
That’s where I met Cassie—at the university. She was a star student, and I was working in the fine arts dean’s office. So, it was me who brought Brady and Cassie together. There were occasions later when Brady reminded me of that, as if it explained away everything else.
Cassie was a newlywed too, which is probably why we got along so well and became friends. It certainly wasn’t because we were alike in any way. And, typical of Cassie, she’d landed the biggest catch in the university. Pete was the star player on the university football team, an all-American halfback, which was saying a lot for a smaller university like Delaware to be blessed with. He was as confident of himself and his worth as Cassie was. And he was known to have tried out all of the top women at the university from the entire cheerleading squad down to the homecoming queen and, it was rumored, that math professor as well.
And somehow Cassie had gotten him to propose the summer between his junior and senior year and they’d been married the same September weekend Brady and I had been. Of course her wedding had been the best that DuPonts could muster up and Brady kartal escort bayan and I were married before a justice of the peace.
Four months later, we were moving into a new decade, the 1980s, and when the four of us had met for lunch to go off for Thanksgiving break, where I met Pete for the first time, Cassie had suggested that we celebrate the New Year in style. We found that both couples were still going to be in Newark for New Year’s. I had to work, of course—New Year’s Eve was on a Monday that year, and the university didn’t give us the day off just because we’d be off on Sunday and then on Tuesday again. And Pete wasn’t doing well in his studies and had a lot of classwork to make up because his own football season was being expanded beyond that of the university’s team by his all-star status.
We were discussing what we each expected the eighties to be like, and Cassie and Brady were talking about a new era of free love and doing “what came natural.” This led to talking about swinging and what we all thought about it. Cassie and Brady thought it was just nifty and, I’ll have to say, it seemed to me like it would just be a continuation of the seventies for them. I had felt Brady chomping at the bit about the monogamous life ever since we’d gotten married, and god knows Cassie wasn’t shy about talking about the attributes of every good-looking man she saw. Pete kept pretty silent on the subject, but he had a reputation as a womanizer and user and Pete kept pretty silent about nearly everything.
Pete scared me a bit. He was tall and beefy—not fat, very muscular. Sort of overpowering. And brooding. He didn’t come across as all that bright, supported by the trouble he was having with his studies. But Brady assured me that he had to be smart to be as good a football player as he was. He had to learn and retain many play scenarios and formations. He was sort of like a volcano—reserved on the outside but giving the sense of seething inside, able to break out in violence at any moment. It both frightened and attracted me.
Brady said that was what made Pete a great football player. What I wondered, though, was what about it made him such a ladies’ man. Was it just because he was an all-American jock? Thinking about it scared me, though, so I tried not to. Cassie’s suggestion, enthusiastically backed by Brady, though, forced me to think about the possibilities.
Of the four, I was the weak link. I could talk about the swinging life with bravado, but I hadn’t lived it. Brady had been my only lover. I hadn’t told him that, because I sensed he wanted to have been the man I’d wanted out of all other possibilities. And he was. It just wasn’t because I’d tried them all out sexually.
Cassie’s suggestion was that, since all of us were stuck in Newark for New Year’s Eve, since both couples were struggling financially and couldn’t afford to buy tickets to a blow-out party, and since it was a decade being rung in—one that we all agreed would be a free and easy decade sexually—and since we all had great bodies (which I’ll have to admit I found flattering for Cassie and Brady to say in my case—the other three certainly had 10 bodies), why didn’t we welcome in the decade by partying together and trading partners as the new decade dawned?
And by that, she meant, at the stroke of midnight Brady would be fucking her and Pete would be fucking me. Cassie and Brady discussed it so openly that my eyes went to Pete. But he seemed to be distracted, his eyes following the figure of a waitress as she moved between the tables. No interest in me at all, I thought, so Cassie and Brady could fantasize all they wanted.
I thought at the time it was a joke and it would never happen, but at 9:00 p.m. on Monday, December 31st, 1979, there Cassie and Pete were at our apartment door, carrying a casserole dish as their contribution to a late dinner and a cheap bottle of champagne.
Cassie was dressed to the nines, something considerable cleavage and thighs, like she was going to the DuPont Country Club or the DuPont Hotel for New Year’s festivities. Pete was in a DU sweatshirt, baggy shorts drooping below his knees, and sneakers without socks. Cassie was all bubbly and smart talking. Pete was brooding and quiet. He went straight for our bedroom and switched on the TV to click between the New Year’s Eve football games.
I should mention that our apartment was the attic of a single house. The staircase was at one end and came up into a long room that started off dining room, ran into living area and then was screened off for Brady’s study cubicle. The kitchen was in a dormer off the back of the house, to the right of the entrance into the apartment. Beyond the long living room was a bath in the dormer to the right and then our bedroom. The TV was in the bedroom, against the window wall and facing the bed, close enough to be reached when sitting at the foot of the bed. It was in there mostly because Brady escort maltepe didn’t want the distraction of having it in the living room near where he had to study.
Even then I assumed that the swinging business was all a joke and that we were just having dinner together, would go and all sit on the bed and watch Dick Clark bring in the New Year and then Pete and Cassie would go home and Brady, wound up by cheap champagne, would ravish me on the bed. Which was fine with me. I even was looking forward to that little fetish of his. I’d grown to enjoy it.
I knew that Cassie would come looking like a fashion plate, so I had taken some of the money I siphoned off my overtime to cover gifts and things I didn’t want Brady to see the bill for and bought myself a matching silk blouse and skirt that had looked a lot better on me in the mirror at the department store than it did in the mirror on the back of our bedroom door.
Dinner was fine. Even the cheap wine Brady had pulled out for dinner was fine. The conversation at dinner was fine and free. No mention was made of anyone trading partners later. The Grasshoppers we had after dinner were fine. Brady was on a kick of celebrating with the cocktail that was a third Crème de menthe, a third white Crème di cacao, and a third cream. He thought it made us sophisticated. He referred to it as our NYC cocktail. Even the one joint we passed around was fine, although I was already getting a little woozy by then.
Twenty minutes before twelve—before the onset of the 1980s—we repaired to the bedroom and sat along the foot of the bed like birds on a power line, watching Dick Clark trying to make it seem like everything was just too exciting for words and that we were building up to something.
We were building up to something. We all hoped that the eighties would be life changing for all of us. Since we were coming out of the university into careers, that seemed a good bet.
Cassie had already asked who would be kissing who at the stroke of midnight and Brady had reminded her that we were switching couples, so Cassie was sitting next to Brady and I was sitting next to Pete. OK, I thought, this would be “it” as far as the trading partner’s bit went.
I was a little put out that Cassie and Brady started practicing kisses before it hit midnight. Maddeningly Pete was still clicking between Dick Clark and the football games on the West Coast. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees and acting like he was going to launch himself into the TV screen.
At the stroke of twelve, though, as balloons were going up on the TV screen and Auld Lang Syne was wheezing out of the speakers, he slid back onto the bed. Leaving the channel on Dick Clark and the beginning of the televised firework displays from across the world, he turned and enveloped me in those beefy arms of his and smothered me to his chest. His mouth went to mine and he was French kissing me. It took my breath right away. It was both brutal and overpowering—and a complete surprise. He hadn’t said much all evening. He certainly hadn’t shown any interest in me. In contrast, Cassie and Brady had been flirting with each other outrageously.
While fireworks went off on the TV, Pete had come off the bed while still locking my body in his embrace and my lips with him, and was insinuating his knees between my thighs. A big paw went between our chests while his other arm was encircling my back, and I felt the buttons of my new blouse—my never-worn-before expensive silk blouse—being popped as my blouse was being ripped open. He arched me back, pushed my bra up above my breasts, and moved his mouth from mine to my breasts. His mouth was all over them, and he was sucking hard on my nipples. I perhaps should have tried to push him away at that point—which would have been futile if he didn’t want to be pushed away—but I was involuntarily moaning for what he was doing with my breasts.
I went limp, my arms dangling at my sides, and, sensing my quick surrender to him, he gave a muffled little laugh from the cleft between my breasts.
I was too shocked to cry out or anything, although I was moaning and groaning. I looked to my side for help from Cassie and Brady, but they both were gone.
The paw went under the hem of my skirt and I felt him tear the fabric of my panties away. He cupped my mound and I felt his index finger searching for and finding my clit. He somehow got the sweatshirt over his head and his shorts down on the floor without giving me the feeling that I would be free enough to struggle away and retreat.
It was obvious that he’d done this many times before and that he was used to having his way with women.
He was heavily muscled and hard bodied, and I moaned in want for him even though I knew it was wrong. Brady was hard bodied, but not nearly as muscled—or as movie-star handsome—as Pete.
I made ineffectual sounds that I meant to be objections but pendik escort that came out more as moans of want. Brady was a good lover, but he wasn’t anything like this. He wasn’t overpowering and insistent and so, so big down there, as I now knew as Pete’s engorged staff rubbed on my belly and thighs and moved into position. I involuntarily widened the stance of my legs, instinctively knowing that he was going to fuck me no matter what and that it would be a chore taking all of him inside me.
His mouth was possessing mine again, stifling any form of resistance I might give. But my body was betraying me. I didn’t want to put up any resistance. I clutched at his beefy shoulders as he slid inside me, thick and long. I was wet and open for him, as he probably assumed I would be.
He let me arch back on the bed, with one arm encircling my waist and the hand of the other one cupping the back of my head as he pumped in and out of me. I was in full flow, so, other than the size of him, there was little pain—mostly, I had to admit, pleasure.
He alternated between holding his face above mine, staring into my eyes with his—his bearing a somewhat vacant stare that I took as a somewhat business-as-usual getting his rocks off with an available coed—gaze. Somehow this helped me. I shouldn’t want him inside me, but he was such a hunk and overpowering and . . . and good at the stroking, withdrawing his bulb from time to time to press on my clit, before diving in again and making me almost lift my body off the bed at how filling he was and at the changing in the intensity of pumping of the cock, making me flow and jerk—and approach and explode along with the fireworks on the TV and then rise to new levels of pleasure, because he had stamina and was still fucking me after I’d experienced my first orgasm.
He wasn’t just rushing to his own ejaculation.
For nearly half an hour we worked—together—in rhythm, with me moving my pelvis with his, answering his rhythmic thrustings with ever-increasing cries of pleasure and encouragement that made the fucking a well-oiled machine of mutual giving and taking and that must have given him assurances that I wanted just what he was giving me. At the height of pleasure the bulb of his cheap condom burst and I was gloriously bathed with his cum as I jerked into a spasm of orgasms fed by after spurts of his cum.
I felt him shudder and collapse a bit on me. As he rose off me then, he lowered his face and nuzzled and kissed each of my nipples in turn.
“That was good. Enjoyed that. Nice tits. Something to grab and hold onto. Curves. Most college girls are too angular,” he said as he rolled the spent and ineffectual condom off his cock, both of us pretending at that point that it had done its job, and lobbed it expertly into the wastebasket across the room. I had no idea when he’d rolled that on or where it had come from. A false feeling of relief rushed over me, though. I hadn’t thought about protection the entire time he was fucking me. He’d at least meant to wear protection. This was followed by a sharp stab of concern that the condom hadn’t held.
I was still in a daze as he turned and changed the TV channel to the West Coast games, immediately becoming engrossed in the play on the field.
It was mostly the liquor and the joint, I realized, that had made me so passive. But it also was because I hadn’t said anything about the proposal to trade partners. Pete took it so matter-of-factly. Like it was what I wanted and expected too. Like any girl he wanted would open their legs for him—which probably was close to the truth.
I had to think that I had made the others assume that I was open to it. I was embarrassed and, yes, feeling guilty—and more than a little cheap. A slut. But then there was a bad little fairy sitting on my shoulder telling me that I’d loved being fucked by this athletic hunk. I’d even enjoyed the impersonal nature of it. I’d certainly enjoyed some of what he did to me that Brady didn’t.
Welcome to the eighties, I thought. This was just what Cassie and Brady had said it would be like.
“Wonder if they’re still getting it on,” I heard Pete say. He went to the bedroom door and looked into the living room. “Yep, still goin’ to town,” he said.
He turned back to me. He was naked except for the sneakers, and his body was beautiful. And the cock. I’d had no idea that I’d had something that big inside me. Brady’s cock was fine, but. . . . I wondered about taking it Brady’s special way from Pete.
“Yep, that sure was nice. Happy New Year’s,” he said, as he came back to the bed below me—I hadn’t moved a muscle since he’d left me. I was still lying on the bed, my butt on the edge, and my feet on the floor, my legs spread, my tits pushing out between the ripped-open blouse, my bra up at my neck, and my skirt pulled up to my waist.
He laughed. “That bra ain’t doin’ you much good,” he said. He leaned over, moved his hands around to my back inside my blouse, and expertly unhooked the bra, just like he’d done that a thousand times before. Which he probably had. He just as expertly pulled my blouse off my back and then my unhooked bra over my head. The skirt followed, and I was just as naked as he was.