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Moving her hand, draping it over his waist, “Mitchie…” Actually the last thing Marsha wanted to do was… “stop!” Wiggling away, “She’s right, we’d better stop.”
Breathily “Yeah.” Looking at Sandy and Ken. Exposed now, having no way to hide his erection but by covering it with his hand, and that seemed such an obvious move that, Let it go away by itself, he thought. However, noting that Sandy was looking at him, at ‘it’, to whatever degree he may have softened, ‘it’ wasn’t any longer. Not knowing what to do, taking hold of Marsha’s arm, moving her back to him, “You want to go to ‘a room’?” he whispered.
Marsha never drinks!
Now pretty well soused on seven or eight ounces of wine and wanting, desperately wanting to have intercourse with her husband, but sober enough to know that she doesn’t have the courage to walk, naked, the length of this field with all of these people looking at her. To walk naked across this field with all of those people watching as she prepared to have sex in a semi-private room was just a little more than even her besotted mind would allow her to do.
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ElysiumFields18: Wife Swap
Topanga Canyon, California
Saturday, May 17, 1986
3:41 PM
“I’d love to, Mitchie; you have no idea how much I’d love to! But I can’t do it! I just can’t walk across,” her hands making an all-encompassing gesture, “this place with all these people watching and go into one of those rooms where, God knows who’s been laying… having sex on that bed, on those sheets or cover or whatever they have on those beds…”
“Marcie, honey,” whispering directly into her ear, “I’ve such a hard-on for you!” For emphases poking into her thigh. “I want to fuck you so badly!”
“Me, too, Mitchie! Me, too.”
Once again, a slight digression.
Born in 1936; To Rhea, Marsha’s mother, Marsha was truly an unwanted child.
Marsha’s mother was a prostitute.
Oh, not a lady that stood on street corners. No, the men she was “nice” to were usually the ones in her everyday life: the banker, the jeweller, the furrier, the local hack politician. As a means of rationalization, she must be attracted to the man… Of course the more affluent the man, the more Rhea was attracted.
Her men friends thought of Rhea as beautiful and refined; a “classy dame” in need of more than her workingstiff husband could provide, and so long as they were careful, the situation was ideal because Rhea provided a safe rendezvous for their tryst—and she was a married woman with a family after all, who was not about to advertise their liaison, or affair.
Unable to speak of her problems or go to any member of her family for even the slightest mental or physical comfort, Marsha had developed insecurities, which she was able to mask only with a quick mind and a farcical sense of humor. And—although her husband thought she seldom showed any sign of emotion during sex—in a subdued way Marsha was a sexual person but, due to her mother, she vowed to never be as her mother and found it hard, if not impossible to show emotion during those intimate times.
Consequently, though Mitchell always achieved orgasm, he never knew if Marsha had and this would leave him depressed because, sex-wise – though the only times Marsha had shown passion were at the times of reconciliation after their three periods of separation – Sex-wise, Mitchell Lipensky wanted to give, at least, as he received and being a very ‘oralistic’ kind of person he would do anything for as long as his wife allowed in order to hear a passionate utterance or rapidly indrawn breath.
Elysium Fields
Topanga Canyon, California
Saturday, May 17, 1986
3:41 PM
“Marcie, honey,” whispering directly into her ear, “I’ve such a hard-on for you!” For emphases poking into her thigh. “I want to fuck you so badly!”
“Me, too, Mitchie! Me, too.”
“I’m so horny, honey.”
Feeling ‘him’ pressing onto her thigh, fighting the urge to take hold of him. “Mitchie, try to calm down,” bumping her thigh onto him, “then let’s go back to the pool.”
Understanding, and agreeing with her reluctance at being seen going into a ‘really good friend’s room’, then laying on a bed that others had lain on. “Yeah.” Thinking, calming down now would be a good idea. Sitting up, grabbing a nearby towel, glancing at Sandy who’s back was now to him, placing it onto his lap he covered himself.
Sitting up also, Marsha took a short swallow of wine.
After a few Minutes, “Okay?”
Though knowing of course, “Yeah,” lifting the towel and looking beneath, smiling, “I think it’s safe.”
Extending her arms, “Okay.” hands forward, Marsha waited for him to stand and help pull her to her feet.
Cutting across the field away from the Meeting, Lecture and, really good friend’s rooms, after spending the morning and most of the afternoon at Elysium, seeing what eighty percent of the women here looked like in comparison to herself –could be the wine speaking – considering herself… Actually truthfully considering herself to be one of the best looking women here, no longer embarrassed at being nude, also proud to be seen holding hands with Mitchell, whom, after the time spent in a fully erected state, having a residual penile affect, ‘it’ wasn’t exactly in his somewhat hidden normally endowed state.
Hand up, palm moving from side to side, “Hi, there!”
Passing their blanket, “Uh,” motioning with his hand, “Hi.”
“You know him?”
“No.”
“He sounded like he knows you.”
“No,” Mitchell said, “I’ve never seen him before.”
Into the pool area:
Walking to the deep end, Mitchell dove in as Marsha walked the three steps into the waist deep shallow end. Swimming beneath the water to the shallow, lightly grasping Marsha’s ankles he, kind of, slithered his way up – his hands, of course caressing her buttocks – until, standing chest to chest they kissed.
Coming down the steps, “Hi again.” Holding his hand forward. “I’m Clyde, an’ this here’s my wife, Tina.”
Possibly twenty-eight or nine, on the burley side, Clyde was handsome in a, kind of, rough way. About 5’8”, he had fine black hair covering his arms and chest and the hair of his head was tied in a long ponytail. There were colorful tattoos of parrots on his chest, one beneath each nipple and two smaller, undistinguishable tattoos on each of his – as though either a motorcycle rider or one that spends a lot of time working in the sun wearing a T-shirt – Clyde’s well-muscled arms were darkly tanned.
“Hi, Clyde….” shaking the man’s hand, “…Tina,” nodding his head. “I’m Mitch, and this is my wife, Marsha.”
Appearing to be much older than her husband, beyond chubby, about 5’6”, Tina had ripples of belly fat, black rooted, bleached blonde hair and huge, unnaturally straight standing breasts.
Actually the first, obvious ‘boob job’ either Marsha or Mitchell had ever seen both did their best to try to look anywhere but at Tina’s breasts.
“Ya know,” Clyde said, “the two’a’ya are a really nice lookin’ older couple.”
Hardly knowing how to respond to this backhanded compliment, “Thanks,” Mitchell muttered.
“Matter’s’a’fact, Tina noticed both’a’ya earlier today and commented, ‘what a nice lookin’ older couple you are’. Didn’t’ya, Tina?”
Coming closer to Mitchell, prodding him with her breasts, “Yeah, Clyde.”
“An, we was wonderin’….”
Moving from the hard probe of Tina’s breasts…
“We, Tina an’ me, we live in Reseda an’ we’re havin’ a couple’a other couples over tomorrow, an’ was wonderin’ if ya wanna come, too.”
Thinking, Four couples? “Uh, Marsha and me, we don’t, uh, play Bridge.”
“ ‘Bridge’?” Clyde laughed. “It ain’t Bridge Tina’n’me are thinkin’ of.”
Prodding Mitchell again, “No, Clyde, It sure as hell ain’t Bridge we’re thinkin’ of.”
©August 30, 2011 / Mark M. Lichterman
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