Wasn’t That a Party

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“‘Morning, Gayle,” I said, as I stumbled, snug in my borrowed plush robe, into the kitchen, in search of coffee.

“G’morning, Bright-Eyes!” she replied, in an inordinately cheery voice. We shared a hug, then she handed me a steaming mug.

“Thanks,” I murmured through the steam, before taking a sip. “Well. Wasn’t that a party? Another Mannette success.”

My name is Natalie Roderick and my husband, Dennis, and I used to be next door neighbours with Gayle and Steve Mannette—back in the day—in the upper middle-class ‘white-collar’ neighbourhood where Dennis and I still reside.

Steve was—I guess, still is—a kind of IT whiz-kid. Anyway, he invented some sort of breakthrough medical device and it was a runaway success. He founded a company—of which, he is president and CEO—to manufacture the device, and was suddenly worth hundreds of millions of dollars. So, Gayle and Steve moved away, almost ten years ago—to ‘here’, a very large home, a mini-mansion, really, on a huge very private property in a super-ritzy neighbourhood.

Despite all that, Gayle and I stayed best friends—their only contact with the old ‘hood. Consequently, we get invited to all their major shindigs, and often sleep over, instead of driving all the way across the metro area to get home in the wee hours.

Last night, Gayle and Steve hosted a big, extravaganza-style birthday party for Steve’s fiftieth, and followed it up with today’s annual company golf tourney. Hence, I was, reluctantly, woken up by the guys, Dennis and Steve, heading off, at some god-forsaken hour, to the exclusive country club, of which Steve is a member, to play in the Mannette Medical Invitational Golf Tournament. Many people from the party would be dragging their sorry asses out there this morning. They would be drawing names for foursomes, and finally getting started late morning. I was never so glad as then, wrapped in a cozy robe and drinking coffee with Gayle, that I didn’t play golf. Especially because, after everyone gets through eighteen holes, there will be an extended nineteenth hole—cocktails, dinner, awards, more cocktails. We didn’t expect them back for many hours.

As I sipped, from my steaming mug, a delightful latte, I thought about the event last night. As far as private parties go, it had been big—coming on a hundred or so people, I figured—many of whom I had met before, at earlier events. There were a few ‘old’ friends, from various eras, like us, but mainly the crowd consisted of current neighbours and Steve’s work colleagues, administration and select employees. It had started mid-afternoon, with a lot of beer and schmoozing, then a catered buffet style barbeque dinner outside, with waitresses circulating, offering drinks and canapes. The bartender, manning the open bar, certainly earned his keep. As dusk fell, a DJ fired up the tunes and people began dancing on the patio. I tripped the light a few times myself—sometimes with Dennis, and sometimes not.

Eventually, some guests retired with drinks to the living room or family room, to visit and chill; some went into the TV room, to watch sports, or share a toke; some found the games room and started a billiards competition; others, like me, cruised and mingled. The weather was perfect—warm and cloudless. Everyone seemed to be having a grand time—no one wanted to be the first to call ‘time’, so, it ended up going very late. I think we got to bed just after four.

Outside, the event coordinator’s clean-up crew was just finishing, and the boys had long since left. I looked over at Gayle, and asked, “Well, girlfriend, what now?” Gayle was antsy. I could tell something was up. She was suddenly getting increasingly hyped, like a kid with a secret she really, really, REALLY wanted to share. So, I wasn’t at all surprised when she giddily announced, while walking over to the coffee machine and dispensing two servings, “You’ve got to see this, Nat! I’ve been dying to share this with you.” Armed with large lattes, she led me over to the kitchen laptop station and pulled up another chair. “I had to wait until this morning,” she stated mysteriously, “after the party.” I joined her sitting at computer as she fidgeted with the mouse, then typed in various commands. As the hard-drive whirred, she said, almost pleadingly, “You must promise never to tell another soul—on your mother’s grave!!”

To say my curiosity was piqued would be one hell of an understatement. “On my mother’s grave!” I agreed.

“Okay,” she started, relaxing a bit, now that the issue of confidentiality had been dealt with, “Okay. When we moved in, twelve or so years ago, we were told that this place used to be owned by swingers, and that it—this, our new home—had been the site of many ‘club events’—swingers’ sex parties. Apparently, or at least so the rumour went, the house had been fitted with cameras. Cameras all over the place. With many of the rooms having more than one. However, the only evidence left behind by the previous owners was some old wiring—unidentified bahis firmaları wire ends with plastic screw-connectors hidden out of the way, here and there, and unconnected junction boxes.

“Don’t ask me why, but last month, when Steve was away on an extended business trip, I hired a spyware company and, using much of the existing wiring, got the whole house fitted out with modern high-quality surveillance cameras—nanny-cams, complete with a wireless monitor nexus. I went all out: two or three cameras in each of the master suite, the second bedroom upstairs, the guest-room, the den, the TV-entertainment room, the games room; the family room, kitchen, dining room, living room, even the mud-room and the cloakroom—all motion activated, excellent low-light picture, clear audio.” Gayle stopped and gave me a sort of goofy grin, before concluding, “Yep. Pretty much the whole frigging house! And it’s entirely separate from the outside security system. Crazy, eh?” Turning her attention back to her laptop, she muttered, “Don’t exactly know why, though.

“Anyway, I just got them on-line, just in time for the big party,” she said rather cynically, putting air-quotes around ‘big’. Gayle then added, with a coy giggle, “For some odd reason—tee-hee—I haven’t told Steve. My bad!” Then, angling the screen towards me, she said, quietly, “Look at this.”

The laptop monitor showed ‘us’—from behind, in the kitchen, at the computer / phone desk; with another view—another angle—small in the corner. Gayle demonstrated how she could rotate between the views, then she brought up a time menu, and selected early in the evening of the night before. Suddenly the image on the screen was populated with many more figures than just us. The caterers, hired by the event organizers, scurried about the kitchen like worker bees in a hive. Gayle went on, calmly, not quite successful in hiding her eagerness. “It doesn’t record unless triggered, and shuts off after thirty seconds of inactivity; saves all video for ten days.

“Here.” She fiddled again with the mouse. “Let’s start with the extra bedroom, the second bedroom upstairs.” And sure enough, the recording had triggered at eight thirteen. We watched as two guests—both married men—surreptitiously entered the room, and, surprisingly, fell into a tight, romantic embrace the moment the door closed. “Eeew!” Gayle sputtered, as they began to grope and furtively kiss.

“Weird…,” I observed; watching, fascinated. “But kinda curious, eh?” Neither of us could tear our gaze away from the screen, although, a slight mouse movement rotated through the three camera feeds in that room. The men hungrily sucked face and with one hand behind the other’s head, they both reached down to caress one another’s growing boners. “I’ve often wondered about that Brad guy,” I admitted.

“But Patrick?” You could hear the amazement in Gayle’s voice. “The wonders never cease!”

Meanwhile, over the speaker, Brad hissed, “Christ, I’m hard!” and, reaching down, he helped Patrick with his fly, huffing, “Hurry! Fuck! Feels like I’m gonna rip it open!”

Four hands fumbling with Brad’s fly finally released the vibrating woodie. Apparently admiring it for just a moment, Patrick watched it twitch and bounce before licking his own hand, and wrapping his fingers around, what even on the computer screen, was obviously an impressive girth. With only a few quick strokes Brad began to jolt and judder, spurting several volleys onto the ruffle of the box-spring.

I don’t know if it was due to embarrassment or revulsion, but at that point Gayle hit fast-forward. “Geez-uzz!” she hissed, as we scanned through the rest of the gay spectacle at double time.

They, apparently, glanced at the mess of dripping semen on the side of the bed, shared a laugh, then flicked back into a fierce crush. Patrick, suddenly, backed off, and, holding Brad by the cheeks, deliberately moved his hands on Brad’s shoulders, and coaxed him into a crouch. In fast motion, it seemed almost comical, as Brad tore at Patrick’s fly and set his impressive erection free. Studying it for just an instant, he threw himself into sucking it. Not surprisingly, given the intensity of arousal, Patrick didn’t last long. Head back, pulling Brad tight onto his root, he jerked repeatedly. “The ease with which he swallowed,” I remarked, “I’m guessing this wasn’t the first time, eh?”

As Patrick tucked and zipped, Brad wiped his face with his hankie, then swiped at the mess on the bed. “He may have trouble explaining that—a crusty hankie—to his wife,” Gayle observed in a droll tone, as the guilty pair checked at the door and left.

The screen went momentarily black, before it immediately flicked back to life. Triggered again, the time-stamp in the corner said ten-oh-seven. A grinning woman entered the room with man in tow. She threw herself onto her back on the bed, and, lifting her dress to reveal no panties, said huskily, “Come and get it!”

“She’s from the office,” kaçak iddaa Gayle said, matter-of-factly, as we watched the fellow pull his trousers open and climb aboard. “I can’t remember her name…, but that’s not her husband. He’s a neighbour from just down the street!”

They fucked hard and fast, to a chorus of grunts and groans, and ‘Fuck; Fuck; Fucks,’ until, stifling a growl, he thrust in hard and came. She appeared to have cum, too. “Thanks,” she purred as she rose off the bed and shook her dress down. “Just love those quickies!” Having put himself back in order, he nodded and muttered something as he virtually fled out the door.

“Wow,” I gasped, as the woman on the screen left. “I thought that only happened in stories!” The real surprise came moments later, when the cameras triggered again, and who should scurry in but the same woman, with another man in tow. “Jesus,” I exclaimed, looking at the time-stamp—ten-sixteen. “It’s been less than ten minutes since she came in the first time!”

“But, that’s her husband, this time,” Gayle said as the woman, once again, flopped backwards onto the bed.

“Come on, lover,” the wife pleaded, flipping her dress up to reveal her naked pussy—this time glistening wet. “Look! I’m so horny that I’m already dripping wet and ready!” The apparently unsuspecting hubby wasted no time diving in face first to eat at the ‘Y’! Laughing heartily, Gayle gave a play-by-play of the active and noisy cunnilingus. After the wife had cum—several times by the look of it—a noise in the hallway made them stop. Standing and smoothing her dress down, she whispered something to her husband about him getting his as soon as they got home, “…or maybe even before!” as she wiped his face with her panties, which she stuffed back into her purse, as they casually left the room. The cameras went out shortly after, and stayed out—for that room, anyway.

Gayle navigated among the recordings; the TV room was relatively benign, other than a bit of surreptitious canoodling between couples who were not married to one another; one of which we’d just seen having a quickie cum deposit upstairs. We snickered at that, idly commenting and wondering about the dynamics of guests who would choose to spend time at a party watching sports.

Gayle pulled up the guest room next. “Isn’t that where we slept last night?” I asked, before realizing the answer was obviously ‘Yes’. The recording was first triggered at a little after nine. Clearly sneaking in, two neighbours gently closed the door behind them, fell into a tight, impatient embrace. “Tsk, tsk, Marcie,” Gayle hummed, then, turning to me, she noted, “Those two are definitely married…, just not to each other!” The guy, managed to waltz his paramour gingerly across the room, to the bed, where they tumbled onto the mattress without breaking their fierce lip-lock. Right away, they both began fiddling with one another’s clothing, pulling garments open and snaking their hands into intimate places. We watched, fascinated, as they took turns sucking nipples and fondling genitals. The guy—never knew his name—got his finger into her pussy—or so it would seem by her reaction—and actively stayed there until she had an orgasm. Hanging onto his erection like it was the horn on a bronco-buster’s saddle, she quivered and quaked, mewling pathetically, until she calmed enough to start stroking his woodie once more. He leaned over and whispered something into her ear about avoiding the mess, and, looking into his eyes, she slid down between his knees, smoothly engulfing him with her rounded lips.

“She’s done that before,” I commented, as she proceeded to give him an expert blow-job. Her fellatio didn’t falter as he heaved his hips up and apparently unloaded a gallon of cum down her throat. The only tell was the flexing of her neck muscles as she swallowed. Rising up, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, straightened up her rumpled clothing, and left him with a chaste peck on the cheek. He took a few more moments to compose himself before following her out. Half-a-minute later the screen went blank. “We-e-ell! That was entertaining!” I observed, circling my shoulders to relieve the knots.

Somewhat later in the evening—shortly before eleven, by the time stamp—two women surreptitiously entered the guest-room. “Now, this should be interesting,” Gayle murmured. “Those two both work in Steve’s front office—I know it’s Chantal in blue; I’m not sure about the other: Diane? Dianna? Di?” As she spoke, the two middle-aged women stood facing each other, their hands on one another’s shoulders. They seemed to be sharing more than just a loving smile, but some sort of non-verbal communication. And, just as Gayle went on to say, “I wonder what they’re up to,” they pulled together in a frantic hug, squirming and crushing, as if trying to meld their bodies and lips into one being. I think we were really quite—well, if not actually shocked—then surprised. Gayle muttered, pulling up another view, “I knew kaçak bahis they were good friends, but I never would have imagined…. They both seem to be happily married!” Fiercely holding their lip-lock, they began to fiddle and pull at buttons, zippers, and belts, threading their hands into openings, exploring and groping and seeking bare flesh beneath their clothing.

“Omigod,” I breathed, “Is that hot, or what?!” Eyes glued to the screen, my hands unconsciously crept under my robe to cup my own breasts. “Gad! That makes me horny!”

Gayle whispered, “Makes me damp.” And a quick glance revealed that her free hand had made its way through the front of her robe, onto her pussy. Seeing that, one of my hands slipped down, on its own accord, to run my fingers through my bush.

“Me, too.”

“I’m effing soaked!” Keeping one hand operating the mouse, Gayle drew my hand off my boob into the front of her now gaping dressing gown. “Feel,” she said, pushing my fingers into her sopping pubes. Leaving it there, she pushed my other hand aside, and cupped my bush, drawing her fingers up between my labia. The nearness of her touch, hovering millimetres above my clit was electrifying. My free hand slowly migrated back to my breast, where my fingers began, automatically, playing with my nipple.

Meanwhile, on screen, the mutual masturbation continued; until Di reared back and peeled back her partner’s blouse to uncover her lacey bra-clad boobs. “Oh, I love your breasts!” she cried, pulling Chantal’s blouse clear and deftly removing her bra. “Just like unwrapping a gift!” she cooed as she set to, vigorously kissing and sucking and nibbling, her hands holding the delightful mams together. Chantal quickly became aroused—her chest heaving, her head snapping side to side, her hands tentatively cupping the back of Di’s head, fingers entwining her hair. Di lowered her hips to a crouch, and, reaching up beneath Chantal’s skirt, removed her panties.

I was actually amazed that Chantal was still standing, although her shuddering and quaking was making it conspicuously more difficult for her to remain upright. Flipping her skirt up, and taking firm hold of her hips, Di, settling onto her knees, drove her conquest back, so that Chantal’s butt was pushed solidly against the bureau. Taking a moment to appreciate the glistening—and surprisingly, to us, anyway—clean-shaven cunt, Chantal dove in face-first to begin some serious munching.

Watching silently, as Di expertly performed cunnilingus, apparently bringing her partner to the edge of orgasm, then teasingly backing off, several times, before letting her whimper and writhe through several climaxes, Gayle and I continued our shared caresses. As our mutual manipulations became increasingly active, Gayle began a muttered running commentary on the dampness and heat and trembling vibrations; although it was not entirely clear whether she was calling our game or the one on the screen. I couldn’t believe how fast I became aroused. Out of nowhere—well, of course, from Gayle’s fingers mercilessly strumming my clitoris, and my own finger thrumming my nipple—a powerful orgasm exploded in my fundament, running wild up and down my spine, crackling and discharging in bright, colourful flashes behind my eyes. Fighting to stay upright on the chair, my body trembled and shook for what seemed like minutes.

Meanwhile, on the recording, as Chantal came down from yet another crisis, Di raised her hands to manipulate Chantal’s tits, without letting up on her lingual caress. Feeling warm and mellow, I turned to Gayle and, already coming off my seat to move around her near knee, I asked, rhetorically, “D’ya wanna try a little ‘monkey see, monkey do’?” Then, kneeling between Gayle’s knees, I peeled back her lapels, baring her boobs and her box. I could feel the heat of her arousal emanating from her open nakedness as I reached in to gently caress her tits. After a bit of squeezing and pinching and twiddling, I dropped my bottom to my heels, and leaned forward to plant my nose into her neatly trimmed thatch, pausing to inhale deeply her sweet aroma, before pushing in tight, cheeks clammy against her inner thighs, to kiss her pussy lips, stroke her slit with my tongue, and swirl and flick her clit.

Gayle gasped, “Keee-rist, that’s good! So-o-o nice!” She started reflexively bouncing her buns.

I responded with a simple, “Mmmmm,” and continued to munch voraciously.

“Where the hell did you learn to do that? Oh! Oh, oh, ooohh!” Heat flared from deep within her weeping pussy. I knew she was very close.

“Never done it before,” I squeaked out, grabbing a breath. But I knew what I liked, so it came very naturally.

I watched, on an upstroke, through my lashes, Gayle put her knuckles in mouth to stifle the orgasmic cries, as she twisted and shook under my oral assault, rattling the chair and dropping the mouse.

Back on the screen, as Gayle recovered her mouse from the floor, Di picked up Chantal’s bra and panties, and swung them teasingly. “I’ll hang on to these for tonight. I’ll give ’em back when I see you on Monday.”

Chantal looked a bit stricken. “Oh, come on! Please! Not in the office? Someone might see!”

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