Marketing Mistress Ch. 01

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Long ago, wife was party-girl mistress of marketing exec.
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Wife tells of her time as mistress to marketing exec

Not kept or anything, but lots of playing with him -- and his crowd

by Mr & Ms Screwloose

Recollections of a time in a galaxy long ago and far away when there was no AIDS, few STDs, and lots of birth control.

Partly fiction, but only partly. Don't sweat the details.

Contains girlfriend-sharing. If you don't like this type of story, don't read it.

Many times over the years, to add spice to our relationship, I've asked my wife to tell me of her previous escapades. Her love life, her sex life, her relationship life, before we got married. It turns me on enormously to hear how she flirted with men, played with sex, enjoyed sex, how she was a hot babe who enjoyed men and how men enjoyed her. Turns us both on. We usually have a lot of trouble concentrating on her story through to the end.

This is one of the stories she told me. It came out in several chapters, because we would get crazy hot and screw in the middle of it. Later we'd pick it up again and get crazy hot again. Took several sessions for all of this to come out.

First, she gave some background that I needed to understand the era and the context of her play time in New York. This is my recording of what she told me. I'll try not to inject too many of my comments.

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(Ms. Screwloose picks up the narrative.)

I was young, just a couple years out of school, living in New York, working for a big marketing company. My roommate and I met a couple guys from similar company. Cute guys. Big spenders. VP types.

They had a pied-a-terre in the city, a big two bedroom apartment. They both lived in Connecticut, had wives and kids and big houses and mortgages and all, but they spent most of their time in New York, came in Monday morning, stayed in the city during the week "working late" and avoiding the long commute, then went "home" to their families on Thursday or Friday. Their wives had to know that the boys were dining and drinking and partying -- and screwing strange women -- sometimes during the week, but maybe they didn't care or maybe they had diversions of their own. This was long before the era of cell phones, so staying in touch meant a phone call now and then from the office or apartment. In any case, that's the way it was; the guys had two lives.

We had a great time at first. We went to fancy restaurants, beautiful bars, downtown jazz clubs, Broadway shows. I lived the life of a rich man's mistress and loved it. No, he didn't pay my rent, but, yes, all my entertainment and even some clothes. My job was pretty humdrum. Playing at night, being taken all over the city like that, with the best food and best wine and shows and music, that was my wonderful life in the city. It was one or two nights a week. I could not have survived doing that every night, perpetual hangover and little sleep.

It wasn't all partying out on the town, though. Evenings always ended up back at the apartment, and in the bedroom. And some nights there were just parties back at their suite: drinks and dancing, smokes and munchies, kissing and groping. Still ended up in the bedroom those nights, too, of course.

Billy was a good lover, though I was not all that experienced yet, so I didn't have a lot of material for comparison. This was at the beginning of my "years of debauchery" in New York, remember. And this was back before rampant STDs and AIDS. A single girl on the pill, living the high life that Cosmo was promoting -- if it moves fondle it! -- and I was often the fondle-ee. My roomie played with the other guy for a few months then moved on; I stayed with Billy for almost a year.

This really improved my cultural knowledge and my wardrobe a lot. He liked to buy me fancy underwear and beautiful dresses. No furs or diamonds, oh, rats, but silk and cashmere and some nice silver and gold jewelry, too.

There were parties in their suite at least one weeknight each week, sometimes two. Typically there would be eight or ten people, usually couples but sometimes extra guys or extra girls. The "couples" were sure not married couples, not even dating couples, just guys in the biz and their local honeys. Yes, it was all guys back then. Be serious. Being honest, they were usually married businessmen from the suburbs and their in-town weekday mistresses. I mean, I was one of those. Billy and I were one of those "couples." (And for a time at the beginning, my roommate and Stevie were another "couple.")

The parties were not openly drunken orgies, but certainly everyone who wanted to get laid did get laid. The girls were all enthusiastic amateurs like me, no professional "ladies of the night." Just guys and girls from the marketing/Ad/PR world.

Usually people went to one of the bedrooms to get intimate. Sometimes more than one couple in a room, too. Or one of the bathrooms. Or the kitchen, though that was a high-traffic area because that's where the drinks and ice and mixers were. On rare occasion, right there on the sofa in the living room or the dining-room-turned-den. Open nudity was very rare. The lights were kept low, but even so, there were not naked women or men running around the furniture like some cartoon. Usually it was just off with the panties, unzip the trousers, and have a seat, and bounce until done. We women wore slacks to work often, but never to party. Easy access to sex was important in the evenings.

Yes, I was the girl on the couch more than a few times. The lights were dim as I said, so it wasn't all that blatant. I think that Billy liked to do me in public to make it clear that he had the host's privilege, and that I was his territory. Or at least my body was his territory. Most of the time. I'll get to that.

Along with dancing and drinking and just conversation, one would see at least one couple making out, getting serious with feeling up tops and bottoms and inside zippers and buttons. This usually led to a more private session. But sometimes two were joined by another to make three, with the girl sandwiched in the middle between two guys -- or between her guy and another girl with enthusiasm for the bi side (which was pretty unusual back then, not like now).

Billy was the top dog in this crowd, and I was the boss's girl and the nominal hostess for the parties, so I stayed and played with him exclusively. Almost exclusively. Guys were always trying to get to me, the top dog's girl and all. Some guys would stop me in the hall and kiss me, openly and avidly. Not just a little peck. Open mouth, tongue-tangling kisses. Tight clenches. Their crotches pushed into mine so I could feel their erections. These gatherings were openly sexual, as I said. Not quite orgies, as I said, but if anyone was embarrassed by open sexual advances, well, they just didn't come back on future evenings.

There was always way too much booze at these parties. They guys actually installed an extra fridge in the apartment -- if you can imagine such a thing in a tiny New York kitchen. There was almost no room left. Well, no cooking happened there beyond coffee and maybe fried eggs and toast, but they were prepared for *lots* of drinking.

Sometimes the more playful and adventurous guys brought pot. This was a little dangerous, I guess, but we never got busted. And a favorite game was for guys to blow a mouthful/lungful of pot smoke into a girl when kissing. Shotgunning. Nothing like a little weed on top of the alcohol to loosen the inhibitions.

The "fun" deteriorated a bit into more open sex play sometimes. There were a couple incidents that woke me up to how loose I had become. I mean, I wasn't any paragon of virtue or anything at the time, as you know. I slept with a lot of guys those years. I had long-term affairs with four guys at the same time, and that didn't bother me as a moral problem. Plus I went on the extra date now and then looking for Mr. Right Now. Looking back on it, I have to say I'm kind of amazed that I was getting laid that often. I was hardly Miss Homecoming Queen or Miss Supermodel, but there sure were a lot of guys getting into my pants.

Who? The main guys? Oh, you, of course, my serious long-term affair. The love of my life. It took us a while to get it straight but thank god we did. We're still married and happy all these years later, and you put up with all my crap including my loose legs now and then.

And Billy, of course. If I was his mistress, I guess he would be called the master.

And there was Marc, whom you know. That was really a serious affair, not just playing, I'm sorry. It went on hot and heavy for two years and almost wrecked my relationship with you.

And number four? I probably never mentioned this before. Occasionally my boss would take me on the couch in his office after hours. He came on to me one time and I didn't feel that I could resist if I wanted to keep my job. And I really liked him and I really liked the job, so I let him. Off with the underwear, lie down on the sofa in the office, spread your legs, and let the boss fuck you. Not pretty but not rape. He was lots older. He didn't want it very often, mainly just fondling and grabbing, even fingering, stuff like that. He actually screwed me just enough to cement a good working relationship. Oh, that's funny, yes, semen does make a good cement in a relationship.

It was tricky to juggle the demands of four lovers. I didn't want any of them to get in the way of the others, so I like had to keep a lot of spare underwear and stockings locked in the back of a file drawer. You know, guys keep a clean shirt and tie in the office? In case they spill something? Well, girls keep clean panties and pantyhose, along with their tampons, in case something gets torn or lost, or some guys goo starts to leak out. Yeah, girls have to clean up after a quickie. Guys can just zip up and walk out. But you had my weekends exclusively. When we could get together, anyway.

Back to Billy. He was possessive sometimes and sometimes not. I think he viewed me as not just his territory but as his property. One night we were dancing, what passed for dancing in the suite, just holding each other close and swaying. Other men cut in or asked me to dance and I went with them. They held me just as close, and let their hands wander over my body, my back, my butt, sometimes one would be brave enough to reach up to my boob. I allowed all that, drunk and/or stoned as we all were, but no further. A little grab-ass or feel was no big deal. But this time Billy came back and got behind me, sandwiched me between him and the other man. Wow, I can't even remember his name now, the other guy. He was older, about Billy's age, and a little shorter, but perfectly acceptable.

Billy reached around me and grabbed both my breasts and started kneading them. Not just a little feel, but full-on grab and squeeze. Right in front of the other guy. This must have been a signal, because the guy started rubbing me all over: ass, hips, thighs. And trying to lift my dress so he could feel me under it. At this time, I still had my pantyhose and panties on . . . but in the other order.

Aside: You have to understand, Billy liked me to slit open the crotch of my pantyhose so he could get to me, so if I was going to wear panties around him, for visual protection or to absorb, um . . . "things," they would be on *top* of the pantyhose. I always had to do that at these evening soirees. Cut a little canoe-shaped slit out of the crotch of the hose and then cover it up with some small but opaque panties. I did feel incredibly sexy doing that, knowing that I had deliberately arranged my clothing so that my man could easily get to my sex. And he kept me supplied with lots of replacements, so I didn't mind from that perspective.

You may remember, stockings and garter belts were just out of style at that time. Strictly for hookers and skin mags. This was the best we could do. Kinky underwear works both ways. Even if the guy never gets to see it, I know that I'm a sexpot ready for action. Oooooh. End of aside.

So, Billy and the other guy were holding me tight. The other guy was kissing me, hard and deep on the mouth, gently licking my neck, nibbling ears, everything. His hands were constantly in motion on my hips, trying to get under my skirt. I complained: "Billy, he's trying to feel me up." He just hummed, "Mmmm" in my ear.

I squirmed. I tried to hold his arms back away from me. "Billy, he's trying to get under my dress." He just mumbled, "Okay" into my ear. This was getting more serious. Maybe he didn't want to stop the guy from putting his hands all over me. This was a new thing. A guy grabbing your ass on the subway or elevator is, like, commonplace. But having your boyfriend sort of invite another man to grope you, well, that's different. He didn't want to just feel my butt; he was trying to grab me in seriously private places. I admit, it was exciting, but it was uncomfortable. Some protector he was. Where was this going? "He wants to feel me." "Mmmm. Let him feel you." A loud whisper.

Huh? What? The man persisted. He slid my skirt up high enough that he could get under the hem and onto my thighs. Well, thighs covered with pantyhose and panties. He snagged my panties with his finger, and that's when I got really concerned. I clamped my legs shut and tried to squirm away. "Billeeee, he's really feeling me up. He's touching my underwear!" Billy held me back against him. He said to me, "Why don't you let him take those off." Not a whisper this time. Loud enough so the guy heard. He squeezed my breasts hard. "Go ahead, do it." He said it to me, or to the guy, or to both of us, I don't know.

Holy crap! My boyfriend wants another man to take off my clothes covering my most intimate place? A stranger, relatively. In public. And that's my only layer of protection. When that little wisp of nylon is gone, he will find out that direct access to my sex is available. Hey, that's mine! And I get to pick whom I share it with. Or so it had been until then. "Noooooo, He'll go between my legs!" I tried to wriggle away from his hands. Billy held me tight. His lips were right on my ear. "Relax, honey, go with it."

I didn't really have a lot of maneuvering room there, so eventually I relaxed. He hooked the waistband of the panties and pushed them to my knees, and they fell to the floor. I stepped out of them and tried to kick them away so they wouldn't be so obvious to anyone else looking. Yes, I'm sure they were a little wet, too. As frustrating and scary as this was, it was also exciting, to have a strange man groping me when I'm sort of captive.

The guy didn't let up, of course. He felt all over my hips and my ass over the hose. Then he worked around to the front of my thighs. And he tried to get between them, right at the top, the heat, the damp. Again I closed my legs. I didn't want him to find the secret entrance to my pussy through the hole in the pantyhose. He didn't know yet about the opening, uncovered goodies, but he would soon find out if he continued.

He rubbed my thighs and tried to push them apart. "Oh, god, he's trying to get into my pussy!" Billy spoke up again. "Why don't you open your legs for the nice man?" Ohmigod, he wanted me to spread myself so this strange man could get into me? I was almost in tears. Why was my lover doing this to me, letting this other man touch me so intimately? "Noooooo, Billy, he'll try to get into me." I squirmed some more, harder, but still to no avail.

"Yes. He just wants to feel you. Your delicious insides. I love your insides. Let him feel, too." I heard him but sort of didn't believe him. Then again he said, "Do it!" and squeezed my breasts hard. And I did. I closed my eyes and moved my feet well apart to make room for his hand to get to my slit.

The man was quite gentle, actually. He cupped my mound, squeezed it. He caressed my pubes and opened my slit. If he was surprised by the open crotch of the pantyhose, I couldn't tell. I could feel that I was wet, his fingers moved easily up and down my lips. He found my clit, which was excited and hard by this time, and twirled around it making me moan with pleasure. I couldn't help crying out my passion when he touched me there. Even through my embarrassment I was very turned on and wanted this to continue. His fingers found my hole and started to press in, but he wanted more room to play. "Spread your legs," he said, and nudged my ankles with his foot. I obeyed. Nothing too bad could happen; my wonderful lover was with me.

My two feet must have been, oh, two feet apart by this time. Anyone looking over at our little group would have seen immediately that the female was wide open so the males could get into her sex. I'm sure a number of other partiers noticed my legs spread like that, wide open for sexual access. He came into me and started to fuck me hard. His arm was moving to pump his fingers into me and my hips responded to his invasions, up, down, in, out. I hated it and I loved it. Onlookers saw my eyes tightly closed, and me biting my lip and moaning with each stroke of his arm pistoning into me.

On the one hand, I couldn't believe that my lover would do this, let another man finger fuck his woman, right there in front of him and in public with others watching. Everyone saw his hand under my dress and knew that he was delving into my sex, my vagina, my pussy, my cunt. Later on, I understood, I think. Billy was demonstrating that he really was my "master" and could order me to do whatever he wanted. He was giving his friend access to this pussy that was his property. Now I see that my lover was passing me around to his friends like I was his whore. Not a protector: a pimp. What crap! I didn't understand it at the time. These days it's political. Then it was just his alpha male dominance and the disdain of powerful men for mere women. Just meat.

On the other hand, it was incredibly erotic. I admit it. I was sex-crazy, hot, sweaty. Those strange fingers were just sloshing inside me. I was so turned on that my pantyhose were wet and juices were almost running down my leg. To have my lover holding me like that, feeling me intimately himself, and at the same time instructing another man to probe my insides, my honey pot, my juicy love hole that only he had access to! He told me he wanted this stranger to feel me, that he wanted me to open up and allow him to; that he wanted the stranger to push inside me, to feel the softness and hot wetness of my fuck tube, to make me grind and moan with sexual pleasure; and that he wanted everyone to see me want it. God, I was so wet and so hot. I came and came. Gangbusters. I think I screamed. That certainly would have got everyone's attention to my shameless, erotic, wanton display.

And then it was over. I shrugged loose and went into the bathroom to collect myself. And to wipe my sex juices from my pussy lips and stockings. When I came out, Billy was there with another drink for me, and the party went on as though nothing had happened.

Well, something had happened. That was probably the beginning of the end of my fling with Billy. After that I was a little less enthusiastic about being with him, partying hard and getting sexual at those evenings. We didn't talk about it directly, but I'm sure he noticed that I tried not to get into those situations.

There was another incident a month-ish later that really was the last straw. I still wanted to party and screw and be the good time girl . . . until I didn't. He wanted to expand our horizons. One night we were drunk and stoned, making out pretty hot on cushions on the floor over in a corner, his hands all over me, on my ass and under my skirt, and I was red hot. He somehow invited another man to join us. He came up behind me, started kissing my neck and shoulders, his hands went around me to my breasts. I was surprised. Not appalled at all, because it felt good. I knew the other guy a little, had certainly kissed him and been hugged heartily by him many times, pat on the ass and all. I looked questioningly at Billy, He said, "I want him to play with us, let him play with you." I guess I was buzzed enough that I didn't object.

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