Our 6-Level Orgy: When Not To

Literotic asexstories – Our 6-Level Orgy: When Not To by JuanSeiszFitzHall,JuanSeiszFitzHall
(Note to Readers: Welcome back to the orgy at Jack’s & Sally’s house, where the middle-aged American couples get steadily friskier. Some people leave before ‘real’ sex, but the rest eventually bang to their groins’ [and brains’] delight. Everyone is more than 18 years old. Way more. Chronologically, this item by one of the participants [an African-American male] begins earlier than the most recently-posted story before this, “Our 6-Level Orgy: Bonnie’s Turn,” but it continues beyond then. This doesn’t make a difference in what happens here. This story stands alone, as did the previous one, and every other one. The sex is straight, and [as it happens] interracial. Please click on the ‘stories’ link above, to find the other items in this, ahem, group. Enjoy!)

***

Black folks know the score. I don’t only mean this, because of the way America is, from history to culture to economic opportunity. I mean score, numerically. White folks have us way outnumbered. Always will, despite what some nut jobs yell about being ‘replaced.’ We grow up knowing this about every aspect of our lives here. There’ll always be more white people.

It’s really obvious at an orgy.

The white skin is everywhere.

My wife thinks this must be what I’ve always wanted. White pussy, clamping around my black cock.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like that. But mostly, fucking is fucking. More pussy, different pussy, no matter what ethnic group. Women with a variety of looks, likes and dislikes, and skills. If the boner pill is working, I’ll bang every willing lady I can. It’s great. And making love to my African-American wife, all those times when there isn’t an orgy. That’s always been great.

Anyway, we’ve all known each other a long time, and most of us were friends before we became lovers. So what goes on with us isn’t race play. The group has another black couple, and a few Asians and Latins.

Am I rambling? I’m supposed to write about the orgy at our friends’ house. I’m the guy who’s been given the name ‘Louie,’ so nobody will know who I really am. My wife has been called ‘Esther.’ We’re stuck with that. There have already been things written here, that mention us. Except we were just bit players. Dare I say, ‘tokens?’

Well, now we’re the story. One thing that the other folks haven’t written about yet is how we interact when we’re not in our group grope. I’ll get into that, and add to the knowledge base our group provides to people who might be interested in this kind of swinging.

And, yeah, as my wife just said while she looked over my shoulder, the knowledge is about what NOT to do when you AREN’T at an orgy.

In case you haven’t read about this before, our orgy isn’t a nonstop fuckfest. It advances in levels, which allows the more modest folks to stay for a while, cuddle with friends, and then leave early if they’d rather not bang outside their marriage. Fake-named ‘Jack’ and ‘Sally,’ who live in the house where we meet, are in charge of the orgy. Except they don’t rule with an iron hand.

What we do, in each level, has gone through some changes. Recently there was a set of amendments where my wife took the lead. I won’t say she ‘spearheaded’ it, because that has both sexual and ethnic aspects that I’d like to avoid. If there’s going to be jokes like that in here, it’ll be because I’ve put them in on purpose, knowing all of the double-entendres.

Yeah, I throw in some ten-dollar words. Blame my wife, Esther has a Master’s degree, and sometimes I have to overwork my brain just to keep up. I won’t say anything about what she does with her lofty education, because we’re trying to hide our identities. Ours, and those of everyone else in the group. Jack is supposed to make sure of this before he takes what we send him, and posts it online, but we’re better off if the people doing the writing hold back any personal details.

So, one night, the break was longer than usual between Level Two (dancing and making out, fully dressed) and Three (the same, but down to underwear). During that break, all the women trooped off to one of the guest bedrooms, without explanation.

At that time, like always, Jack brought into the living room this big wheeled coat rack with lots of hangers, like they have outside hotel ballrooms. A few guys went to the coat rack and shed clothes, and a few stood at the bar and nursed beers, but most were pretty confused.

One guy, Larry, said to Jack, “What’s up? I’ve been at restaurants when all the ladies at a table go to the powder room at once, but I’ve never seen that here.” He chuckled, and a few other guys did too.

Jack smiled and said, “They’ll be back soon. It’s democracy in action.”

Which only added to the confusion. I knew what was going on, but I didn’t say anything.

It was only a minute or two later that the femmes entered the living room en masse. Esther was at the forefront. She’s lean and sleek, for her age. Great dancer. Big brown eyes. There’s a gap between her top front teeth, and she truly doesn’t care.

She spoke for everyone:

“As of tonight, there’s a new opportunity for frisky fun, earlier in the evening than before. This has the agreement of our gracious hosts, Sally and Jack. Please pay attention to the conditions attached to this.

“During Level Four, it is now permitted for a woman to pleasure herself, with her own fingers, on her clitoris and, shallowly, within her vagina. She can do this at any time from Level Four onward. We request, however, that if reasonable, the lady have this fun discreetly in Level Four. If she chooses to prevent viewing, nobody is allowed to interfere, for purposes of getting a clearer view.” Then Esther went all Aretha Franklin. “R-E-S-P-E-C-T, you horndogs!”

The laugh led her into the next point. “It is still not permitted for a man to pleasure himself in Level Four, out here in the living room, in front of everybody. Yes, that’s unequal. If you want the shy ladies to stay a while, and show you their cutie booties, you’ll accept that.

“It is, however, permitted for a woman to use her hands to play with a man’s cock and balls, in Level Four. The play can even go all the way to what we politely call ‘completion.’ This has happened sometimes already, as one-time permission. But even with it now in the rules, it should happen out on the edges of the living room, or partly hidden on furniture. Also, it can be done only if the man’s wife states clearly that she approves.

“It is also permitted, now, for a man to use his fingers to play with a woman’s clit and pussy in Level Four, to whatever the woman decides is an acceptable depth, and completion. This, also, can be done only if the woman’s husband states clearly that he approves. But if the lady is okay with it, this action doesn’t have to be hidden.

“The spouse permissions are for Level Four. From Level Five on, as always, anyone can seek fun, regardless of what the spouse thinks. So if you’re worried about that much openness, you should call it a night after Level Four.”

Esther glanced around at the dozen-or-so women with her. “So say we all.”

The other women raised a raucous cheer. It looked like they enjoyed the flummoxed expressions on their husbands.

Then Sally said, “We’ll add another ten minutes to this break, so everyone can catch up on their prep for Level Three.” Then she went to the bar, as she often does, to deal with requests for mixed drinks.

As people moved around, I approached Esther. “Congratulations,” I said with a grin. “Any guy you’re eager to jerk off?”

“Not me,” she said, snootily. “I don’t want to waste erections.” Then she lowered her voice. “But now, if I get in the mood to do that, I don’t have to stand back while certain women do it hands-free.”

I cackled a little. My Esther is one hot honey, always in demand by the men here–but while her breasts are very nice, they can’t provide a titfuck as impressive as that available from some of the other ladies. It was the group’s decision several months ago to allow titfucking, as early as Level Four, that led Esther to draw up her manifesto. (‘Manifesto.’ Somebody owes me ten bucks.)

Beyond Esther, I saw folks partly undressing at the coat rack, and chatting. Not everyone stripped there, though. Larry’s wife Fiona headed for a bathroom, to put on a two-piece swimsuit, rather than show underwear. (I don’t know what her problem is with that, in Level Four she gets as naked as the rest of us.)

I also saw Amy and Hector, on the way to a bathroom. Hector carried a backpack, which contained what his wife would wear for the rest of the night: a satiny black corset, with suspenders attached to patterned black stockings, and red high heels. In Level Three she’d also have a bra and panties that match the corset, which she would doff from Level Four on. The corset would then reveal all of her fun places, but confine what wasn’t fun for her: a really big stomach.

In our group, the men have no problem going buck naked. Some of the women, though, are sensitive about what they think are problem areas. That’s one reason why our hosts dim the lighting, and allow their guest rooms to be used in Level Six. Hey, all that we can do, in the male contingent, is show the ladies our desire to sex them up. That should declare how attractive we think they are.

So, anyway, the evening progressed pretty much as usual. Despite the new rules, it didn’t seem that much extra stuff happened in Level Four. Except Conchita, our loudest lady when it comes to cumming, did sing out then. I was on a sofa with Margo, and we broke off our frenching to pay attention. We saw, on a floor cushion, Conchita writhing around, with Larry’s hand almost a blur between her legs. From the other end of the room, Conchita’s husband Hugh, who’s a lawyer, said, “I gave consent.”

(Esther, again looking over my shoulder while I’m typing, asked if I’m giving too much away, writing that Hugh’s a lawyer. I thanked her for that, and told her that this insert will call attention to it. Jack will notice it. If he has a problem with that, he’ll cut it.)

I nodded towards Conchita and murmured to Margo, “You up for that?”

She smiled sweetly and said, “No thanks.” Then she resumed tongue-kissing me.

A few minutes later, when Level Four ended, Margo and her husband George got dressed and went home. That’s now their usual end point. It used to be Level Three.

In that break before Level Five, the men who hadn’t already taken boner pills got dosed up. Some do that at the bar, toasting each other with hooch. Some men split into camps, mock-trash-talking, sildenafil versus tadalafil. I just down the pill with a cup of water and wait for it to take effect. Even through four levels, my passion builds up pretty gradually. Smooching Margo and groping her titties got me good and hard. I wasn’t frantic, but I’d definitely need release pretty soon. I hoped to get blown in Level Five, and after that the pill would get me through the rest of the night.

And, yeah, Steffi blew me good then. She offered to combine that with a titfuck, but quietly I said no thanks. Because of Esther being sensitive about that.

Her sensitivity is something I should have thought about, much later.

In the last two levels, some of the conversation goes down to moans and grunts. But not all of it. In Level Six, there were six of us (fittingly) in a fuckpile in the middle of the room, on floor cushions. We were the swappers’ orgy ideal, representing six different households. I was balls deep in Amy’s pussy, doggystyle. Amy was blowing and yanking Mitch, who was flat on his back getting face-sat by Conchita, who now and then smooched Larry, who was dividing his attention between her and Bonnie, who pulled his pud for a while, then rode it for a while. Whenever Bonnie got close enough for me to slobber on her world-class tits, I was able to multitask at that while still banging Amy good.

My Esther was on a sofa, cowgirling Jack. Amy’s husband Hector was off in a guest room with somebody.

Amy shifted to only yanking Mitch, so she could say, “Anybody know a good quick-oil-change place? The one near us just folded.”

We treated this as normal conversation. First, we joked about what ‘oil change’ meant right then, with all the lube we were using, and the condom lube in Amy’s mouth. But then we tried to give Amy suggestions. This doesn’t mean the sex wasn’t satisfying. Most of the guys were in steady-state fucking, thanks to the pills, and the women had all had an orgasm or two during the evening, and were nice and high on dopamine, probably on the way to their next cums.

Anyway, oil change joints were suggested, any Amy shot them down as being too far away from her house. Finally I said, “I can change your damn oil, Amy. I know what car you drive.”

And even though Esther was on the brink of cumming on Jack’s rod, she called out, “Your next job is painting the deck, Mister!”

Amy turned her head towards Esther and said, “I’ll paint your deck! It’s worth it to get the oil change done.”

Jack laughed, while wheezing under my wife. “Wow, a swap! Kinky!”

Esther didn’t look happy–well, allowing for the fact that she was going over to what I recognized as her orgasm face–but she said, “All right. (gasp) Pick a day (moan) when we don’t have (whoof) anything else (gasp) going on.”

I told Amy, “You got yourself a deal.” I gripped the hem of her corset and sped up in her pussy. This made the fucking more serious. We came pretty soon after that.

Just like some of the women are sensitive about their clothes and bodies, different couples take different approaches to how they end the night. When their crotches are satisfied, or just finished, some folks get dressed and leave right away. Esther and I like to hang around, to spend some non-sex time with our friends, all of us okay with being naked. This time, Amy and Hector stayed too.

Once we were done bangin’, Amy and I got beer from the bar, and we sat on towels and discussed what kind of paint and oil and filters, and who’d get what. It was easier to plan the details of our work exchange when we weren’t distracted by gettin’ our jollies.

Esther joined us, and so did Hector. Amy leaned on Hector, like a kitten, while he held her with a swarthy arm around her back. (That’s Esther’s word for him, ‘swarthy.’ He’s a second-generation Mexican-American. His hair and beard are still black, in his mid-forties.)

“Amy’s done all the painting in the house,” said Hector, mostly to Esther. “Even some of the exterior. She’s really good at it.”

Esther looked my way, and said, “Louie is a car guy.” Almost grudgingly she added, “I’ve never had a problem with what he’s done on my ride.”

“Sounds like a win-win,” said Amy, with a smile that looked drowsy.

This was household stuff. Perfectly reasonable for the whole couples to know what was going on, and what a spouse would be doing.

***

The next Wednesday, I was home and Esther wasn’t, so there was space in the garage for Amy’s car. Also, space for me to do the necessary work. When Amy arrived, I had her pull in, and showed her the prep space for her paint job.

I gave her car pretty much everything she’d get at a cheap oil change place: Draining, new filter, fresh oil, topping off the other fluids, all that. I was done before Amy was. As I wiped the gunk off my hands, I watched her carefully coating the deck with a long-handled pad. She looked cute in her overalls. Her long blond tresses were ponytailed, through the half-moon gap in her ball cap, but they gleamed golden in the sun. At this distance, her age wasn’t obvious.

I started to get hard.

We’ve been fuck buddies for years now, but only at the orgy. When it’s obvious what’s going on. When Esther and Hector have no problem with it. When they’ve chased down fuck buddies of their own.

So, what I was thinking about Amy, and feeling, didn’t seem wrong.

But it didn’t seem right, either.

Even at my age–and even without a boner pill–when I get a serious hardon, something has to happen. I’ll need to finish. Maybe not right away, maybe all alone, but I can’t just wait it out. That’s not how my body works. Also, I only take the pill at the orgy. What I had now was my usual blood flow.

I called over to Amy, “Lookin’ good.”

She smiled, and nodded towards me.

I could have meant that two ways.

She could have taken it both ways.

Maybe I could have gone into the house, ducked into a bathroom, and rubbed one out. But her work was almost finished. I should at least be there to say thank-you, even if I then had to send her on her way.

As she was putting everything away, she replied to my thanks with, “And thank you! Can I get a beer?”

So then we were at the kitchen table, each with a bottle, and I was sitting as comfortably as I could.

She showed a little smile and said, “I know that look.”

“Oh no, Amy, I’m sorry!” I blurted. “I shouldn’t be–”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Only I don’t know what we can do about it.”

“Don’t have to do anything!” I said, “We’ve already done what we were gonna–”

“Relax, Louie.” Her smile went from mild to naughty. “Tell you what. We’re on our own, here. There aren’t any six-level rules. Do you think Esther…”

She shook her head, and drank some beer.

I couldn’t help but smile. I let myself sound a little down-home. “Whatcha got in mind, Sweet Thang?”

She smiled back, with plenty of mischief. “You know, there wouldn’t have to be a condom…for, you know, blowing.”

No lie, that sounded a lot better than using my hand. Maybe it showed. I shifted around, in the chair.

“Just that,” she said quickly. “Our own version of, you know, level five.”

“Just that,” I repeated. In my head I was all, Esther has seen me fuck this woman. Can’t be anything wrong with going off in her mouth.

But that was just my side of this. I said, “Would, uh, Hector have a problem…?”

Her eyes widened. But then she chortled and said, “I have mouthwash at home.”

I nodded. Okay, I told myself, she thinks she can work that out.

Then I said, “I’d be glad to level-five you right back.” That’s the usual at the orgy, most of the women are okay with getting tongued raw.

Her mouth closed into a tight line. Then she said, “How dark is it in your bedroom?”

“Very. Thick drapes.”

Obviously, she didn’t have the corset with her. She could blow me while still in overalls. To get her carpet munched, she’d have to bare her gut.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

She was in the bathroom for about five minutes while I waited, in the dark, in my boxers, on the bed where I sleep every night with Esther.

Yeah, I’m writing about that now, in those terms. I didn’t think about it that way, at the time.

All I did was remind myself that I wasn’t going to fuck Amy’s pussy.

When the door opened, I saw briefly that Amy was in her overalls, but carried something, I guess her underwear.

Then the door closed. And then, I felt the mattress move under her weight.

(Now, we could have just gone into the basement rec room and messed around on the rug. But there are window wells, it can’t be as dark as it is in the bedroom.)

(No, I’m not blaming Amy.)

I heard the fasteners on her overalls clinking.

I ditched the boxers. My hardon was now raging.

We chuckled as we groped around until we made contact.

A quick kiss and hug. Then we separated our crotches. I think that showed that we both set a boundary. Good for us. Right?

She put her head between my spread legs, and licked.

I could have gone off right then. But maaan, I didn’t want to. I tightened up, hoping to get everything she was willing to give me.

She closed her mouth around my shaft, and slowly lowered it. Her lips slid down, cell by cell, with a thick but smooth grip, leaving saliva in their path.

My head jerked back. I grabbed the sheet with both hands.

She sucked hard, then eased and licked. And repeated.

My thighs shook under her hands.

She pulled back enough to say, “Feels so good, licking cock skin, and, and, comfort!”

Some of my brain must have worked, because I knew that to mean how she felt without the corset.

Then she went back to work, and got both hands in play, on the balls and the base of the dick, as she licked, sucked, licked–

“Gonna cum!” I kept that to a whisper. There are neighbors.

“Mmm hmm,” she affirmed, keeping her mouth on my dong.

I smacked into the roof of her mouth, while smearing it. Again and again. Flashes raced in my tight-shut eyes. My legs bucked hard.

Yeah, much better than rubbing out!

In time, I set my shaky hand on her head. She had taken off her cap, but was still ponytailed.

Her swallow gave me one last rush.

She ended contact. The mattress told me that she had eased over my leg to the other side of the bed.

“I always wonder how a guy tastes,” she said quietly.

So, did that mean that after the orgy, with all the condoms, she isn’t completely satisfied? Or was this just her idle curiosity?

That might be a fascinating subject for a long conversation. But now that she had painted my deck, I needed to change her oil.

No, those don’t really work. Maybe she changed my oil, and now I’d paint her deck–

(Esther, reading from over my shoulder, just told me to get back on task.)

So. I found one of Amy’s legs, and shifted around. “I already know how you taste,” I said. “Just fine.”

She spread her legs, and hummed when my mouth met her labia.

I put my hands under her thighs, and beyond, and reached up to fondle her belly.

She moved my hands away.

I put them instead on either side of her cleft, to finger the labia apart. Past the outer, lightly on the inner.

She was damp with sweat, and then also with my spit, and then also with her juice.

She cooed. Then moaned.

I felt her weight shifting.

Her clit was already stiff, getting past the hood.

I couldn’t recall her reacting that way, when I’d mouthed her at the orgy. She’d enjoyed it, and I think she came. But this seemed to be another level.

Another effect of her ‘comfort?’

I tongued from her vulva, up to circle her clit, then back down, repeat, repeat, with my lips rubbing and pressing all around. She started whimpering.

It didn’t take long. I could hear that she hauled a pillow over her mouth, muffling most of a slow, gargly cry. Her whole body spasmed, at least five times. I managed to keep my teeth from any contact with her.

She finally found a word: “Done! D-done!”

I drew back.

After several long breaths, she sat up and kissed my forehead, then scrambled off the bed. I heard the clinking again, and then the door opening and closing.

After that, we did a pretty good job of acting like the friends who had arranged to work for each other. We agreed that the deck was done in one coat, as advertised by the paint manufacturer. When she started her car, Amy declared that everything sounded fine.

So, as I was alone in the house, I felt really satisfied, physically. While something felt off, mentally or emotionally.

***

When Esther got home, we went about our usual evening stuff. I didn’t completely forget what I had done with Amy, but it faded to the background. It emerged from the background when Esther looked out at the deck, and agreed that Amy had done the work very well. After that, though, background again.

But then, at bedtime, Esther entered the bedroom.

She stopped. Looked puzzled. Inhaled, through her nose.

“Louis,” she said, “tell me what happened in here.”

Louis!

She almost never calls me that.

And by that, I mean, she used the formal version of my real name. Damn, Jack, the whole fake-name thing makes for a lot of editing.

Anyway, it was only then that I realized that the bedroom still smelled like sex.

My fear wasn’t that Esther was angry. It was that I had hurt her.

I told Esther what happened.

I didn’t make excuses.

More than anything else, she was confused. She told me that what confused her was her own reaction.

“You, having sex with Amy,” she said, working through it. “It happens. It has happened.” But then she looked at me, and I saw that she was hurt. “But not here.”

I guess if I’d been worried, or felt guilty, when Amy left I would have opened the window and turned on the fan, so the room wouldn’t smell like pussy. But this is the point: I wasn’t worried, or guilty. Until that moment.

Esther asked, “Does Hector know?”

“Um…I’d have to ask.”

“If he doesn’t know, he should.”

***

Esther shook it off in a few minutes. She reminded me, just now, of the exact words she said then: “I’d get mad at you if you gambled away the retirement fund. But getting your rocks off for free, without picking up an STI? That’s just man stuff.” But I challenged her on that. And she admitted that it did hurt. For a little while.

Then there were some phone calls, full of surprise and hurt and guilt. You can probably imagine. I won’t go into detail. As bad as this was, we cared about each other. The spouse, and the other couple. We wanted to make it better. At first, we didn’t know how.

A while later, Esther and I went to Hector and Amy’s place, to talk. Nobody suggested doing this at my place, despite Amy’s nicely-painted deck. We probably all thought my house was a ‘crime’ scene.

This session began with sincere apologies. While I think Hector and Esther wanted to hear them, they also wanted to go past that. It wasn’t so easy.

There was a point when Esther went into detail about what she called my “fear of blue balls.” She acknowledged that the physical effect can be real, but also blamed me for letting it convince me to do what I did.

Amy and Hector told us about their past situation, which differed from Esther’s and mine. Amy and Hector were in an open relationship when they first married. For various reasons, like having kids and keeping jobs, they had gotten away from that.

Hector told us, “We’re happier now, with going to Jack and Sally’s. Even when we were exclusive, though, I think we still thought we could be open.” He looked at Amy, and I saw both ire and affection. “In the old days, we didn’t always check in with the spouse before adventuring.”

“That hadn’t been a problem before,” said Amy, concerned about Hector’s look, but not avoiding it. “We didn’t have any bad experiences. I, uh, thought that could still be true, now.”

“But that’s just it!” said Hector, upset. “You thought it’d be no big deal, because you didn’t fuck! You just did–” (He made finger-quotes.) “–Level Five! And…damn!”

He stopped. Then: “If it was me, in that situation, I might have thought the same thing.”

He looked distraught. I saw Esther nod.

“Didn’t think I’d feel this way,” said Hector.

“Neither did I,” said Esther. She looked at me. “We’d never discussed this.”

Amy squeezed Hector’s hand. Her mouth was in the tight line I’d seen when I’d suggested eating her out.

I asked, “What should we do about this? Anything could be on the table. We stop going to the orgy. Or one couple goes only when the other couple won’t go.” I looked at all three people, then said, “I’d like us to stay friends. Or if we aren’t, anymore, to find a way to be friends again.”

Amy said, “Let’s both skip the next orgy. And tell Sally and Jack why, but nobody else.” She too, looked at all of us. “And in the meantime, we spend some time together, all four of us, just as acquaintances. And see if we can return to being friends.”

Esther already had her phone out. “The food pantry always needs volunteers. This Saturday?”

***

I won’t claim that we were all kumbaya, and right away got back the way we were. We set down rules for ourselves. Whenever any two of us, across households (or three of us), have something planned, the uninvolved people would know in advance what it is, and be assured that there’d be no surprises.

We actually skipped the next two orgies, but all of us went to the one after that. I didn’t get involved with Amy. While she and I agreed that it would be only fair, Esther and Hector didn’t get involved with each other. (They’ve banged before, and enjoyed it.)

The four of us weren’t wallflowers. In Level Six, I fucked Bonnie and Fiona, Esther did Jack and maybe also Dan, Amy rode Mitch really hard and then was under Larry for missionary, and Hector nailed Gail. And that’s just what I did, and saw.

We all agreed, as things were winding down, that night, that we felt okay about the experience. But at the very end, the four of us hung around after everyone else left, and we hashed out the situation with Sally and Jack.

Sally suggested, pretty strongly, that I write this.

For all of you folks who have considered swinging or group sex, learn this. You have to set up barriers. In order for casual sex to be really just that, casual, and not a problem for your (most-) significant others, you don’t allow the sex to drift in when and where it shouldn’t. In the case of us six-level folks, that means we get group-freaky only at Jack & Sally’s, only on orgy Saturdays.

Maybe other folks can make looser rules. Go all polysexual, or try ‘relationship anarchy.’ (Who the hell came up with that idea?) Bang whenever and whoever you want, and hold no grudges if the other people in your life do that without giving you a heads-up. But if you assume that there won’t be consequences, you may find out otherwise, in a very bad way.

Since we returned to the orgy, I haven’t moved on Amy in Level Six, or Level Five. But the month after our first time back, I snogged with Amy in Level Four. I think that’s important, for me to show my good friend that I think she’s attractive, so she might feel better while trussed up in the corset.

We were getting handsy, thanks to the new Level Four rules. I was a little skittish about this. But then Hector and Esther strolled over, and stood where they blocked the rest of the room’s view of the sofa we were on.

Quietly, but with a grin, Hector told Amy, “Jerk him off already.”

Esther, the author of the new rules, told me, “You know where her G Spot is. Light it up!”

We laughed more than we moaned.

When we were done, Esther tossed towels at us, and Hector did ironic slow hand-claps.

The four of us were friends again.