Well, the pandemic put a crimp in the activities of the Play Group, but we found some workarounds that I will describe in later stories, but for this episode I will pick up the story of our group sex life where I left off.
About a month after the poker night described in a previous story, in which my sexy slut wife Melanie impersonated a French maid for the entertainment of my poker pals, we scheduled another one. Our friend Steve, who had given up playing poker with us after repeatedly sustaining heavy losses, had heard about Melanie's performance as Francine at the last game from the other guys in lurid detail, so he had elected to join us for this one, which meant there would be six players this time rather than the previous five.
When I informed Melanie that the boys were all coming round on this Friday night to play cards she smiled like a Cheshire cat and immediately asked, “So, can I play again?”
To be clear, when Melanie said “play” she did not mean cards. She was asking whether she could play the total slut with my friends – again.
“Of course,” I responded immediately. “The guys would be seriously disappointed if you didn't. Why do you think Steve is coming to lose all his money again?”
“Ooh, for me?” Melanie cooed.
“You bet. He's panting for a piece of your ass. Think about it: it's been quite a while since you last banged him.”
“Sure, but Wendy keeps him busy.” Wendy is Steve's blonde wife.
“Yes, but she's not in the same league as you, is she?” I responded.
“Well, thank you, kind sir,” Melanie purred, with a self-satisfied smile.
“So will Francine be back?” I asked hopefully, referring to her tarty alter-ego who had gang-banged the poker group at the last game.
“No, I have a new girl for you this time,” she answered, giving me a lascivious wink.
“Great, what's this one like?” I inquired.
“Sluttier.” She smirked.
“Not possible.”
“Wait and see,” she teased, and would say no more.
**********
Friday night rolled around and all of the guys turned up promptly around seven o'clock. Melanie greeted them all at the door with hugs and kisses, frenching Jake, my best friend and her lover, and Pete, her favourite among the remainder and blond like Jake, shamelessly, to raucous approval from the other guys, who then demanded similar perks. Melanie, bring Melanie, obliged. I noticed that they all felt her up thoroughly in the process, with no protest from my slutty wife. As soon as they were all inside she took off to the bedroom to “get gussied up”.
Steve, Tom and Phil made up the remainder of the poker group. Steve is tallish, about five-eleven, another blond, with a gym rat's body. Only now did it dawn on me that Melanie's penchant for blonds was heavily represented in the group. Jake, Pete and Steve are all blonds. My hair is black, so I guess black-haired guys are keepers, but blonds are playthings as far as my wife is concerned. Yeah, I'm gonna go with that. Mind you, she is Jake's mistress, and that is a permanent arrangement. Oh well, it's the exception that proves the rule. I should probably mention, for the benefit of those that have not read the earlier instalments, that Jake's gorgeous wife Sue is my mistress too: it's a reciprocal arrangement, and she is Mel's best friend, as Jake is mine.
I got the guys settled around the dining table, which was covered with a green baize cloth in honour of poker night, with cold beers in their hands. By the time Melanie reappeared, we had already played a couple of hands of seven-card stud; this was a whole new Melanie! This one was a red-headed tart! Her long, straight, dark brown hair was tucked away under a red wig that tumbled over her shoulders in a mass of loose ringlets and her usually flawless natural beauty was hidden behind a mask of powder, blue eyeliner, scarlet lipstick and enormous false eyelashes. The scarlet of her nails was an exact match to her lipstick.
As she entered the room she was walking directly toward us and I was a little surprised and somewhat disappointed by how demure her French Maid outfit was. The black dress came down to mid-thigh over black stockings and black five-inch stiletto heels, with a tiny white lace apron tied at her waist. A modest amount of cleavage was revealed by an oval cutout just below the halter neck, but that was all. I had been expecting something outrageous, her usual style. The ensemble was completed by a white lace mob cap.
“Bonsoir,” she greeted us in an execrable French accent. “I am called Chantalle. Madame Melanie 'ave 'ired me for zee night. She say I 'ave to make youse all 'appy. Pas de probleme. Chantalle is good at making men 'appy. You like beer now? Ah, bon.”
So saying, she bustled past us to go into the kitchen, walking away from us, and there it was! The dress was totally outrageous after all. It had literally no back! It was secured by the halter neck and a narrow belt at the waist with a velcro closing. And my nympho wife was wearing nothing but a pair of black seamed stockings and a black lace garter belt. The rear view was all gorgeous long, long legs and that perfect, round, world-class ass.
“Christ on a crutch, will ya get a load of that,” exclaimed Pete breathlessly
“I'm hoping to get a load in that,” rejoined Phil.
“We all are, dummy,” said Tom.
“I'm sure we all will,” I affirmed.
“God, these pants are uncomfortable now,” muttered Steve.
“Ah, I can 'elp wit zat,” 'Chantalle' crooned as she sashayed up to the table with a tray of cold beers. Circling the table she placed a fresh beer before each man, pausing long enough in each delivery to allow all the guys to enjoy the view of her delectable bare ass and those lovely stocking-clad legs, and to fondle her various assets extensively. When she eventually circled back to Steve she bent smoothly from the waist, whipped down his zipper, unbuckled his belt and deftly fished his cock out of his shorts, then dropped to a crouch and stuffed his dick into her mouth, swallowing all the way down to his balls. Her head bobbed up and down as she blew him for a couple of minutes, until his swollen member was as hard as a rock. Then she stepped astride his lap, her back towards him, and slowly impaled herself on his dick until it was fully embedded in her, at which point she swung her long legs up and rested her feet on the table. Nobody was looking at their cards anymore: all eyes were on those long legs and that meat-stuffed pussy. Everybody seemed to be having trouble with their breathing.
“Madame Melanie 'ave tell me,” she began conversationally, “dat Francine no let you mens do 'er trou de cul, 'ow you say en Anglais, um, ass-hole I t'ink. So, me I t'ink, 'ow 'bout we start ce soir avec tous les messieurs do Chantalle's ass-hole, eh? You like?”
At this point, she spread her legs wide and began massaging Steve's scrotum gently with the palm of her right hand. Steve groaned.
“Yes please,” he murmured.
“I'm in,” Jake said loudly.
“Ah, oui, Madame Melanie 'ave tell me 'bout you, M'sieur Jake. You like, 'ow she say? Er, nice piece of ass, I t'ink.”
There was a general chorus of assent around the table, so Chantalle swung her legs down and stood up, with Steve's rigid dick falling from her vagina with an audible 'plop' as she rose. She then placed her hands flat on the table, bending from the waist and spreading her long legs in a wide straddle.
“So, 'oo eez first?” she inquired, slapping her bare buttocks to emphasize her point. Pete bounced up out of his seat and rushed up behind her before anybody else could beat him to it.
Chantalle shook her red head ruefully.
“You must get all dee clothes off, s'il vous plait, m'sieur,” she chided. “Chantalle like 'er mens naked. All 'er mens.”
There was a mad scramble, clothes flying in all directions, as we men all rushed to comply.
Pete sidled up close behind Chantalle/Melanie, parted her buttocks and slid his already diamond-hard penis up to her rectum, easing the head in slowly then ramming the remainder home forcefully. He, like everybody else, had been up there before and knew that my wife, whatever role she was playing, liked to be ridden hard and fast in all orifices. Chantalle thrust her ass back into him and began grinding her hips and making appreciative noises. Pete slid his hands around to the front, inside her dress, and grabbed her by the tits, hauling her back into him to get maximum penetration as he jacked her hard. Chantalle braced herself and thrust back just as hard, equally eager to get his dick as deep inside her as possible. Pete gave her right buttock a resounding slap to encourage her performance and she responded by speeding up her famous ass-grind, slipping into high gear.
Pete blew his wad up her ass after about five minutes at this frantic pace, gasped and pulled out. Chantalle was not even breathing heavily.
Jake stepped up immediately. No surprise there. Despite the fact that he has unlimited access to my wife's sexual favours whenever he wants and the fact that Melanie obliges him frequently, he is still obsessed with my wife's ass. Melanie and Sue both refer to him, justifiably, as the Ass Bandit. I think his ambition is to die with his dick up my wife's ass! Anyway, he was up Chantalle's ass in seconds after Pete vacated the slot, the result of familiarity and extensive practice. He went for it right from the get-go, grabbing her by the hips and hammering home so powerfully he was lifting her high heels from the floor. Chantalle was loving it: she lowered her stance, shifting her grip to the edge of the table, lowering her upper body until it was parallel to the floor and thrusting back hard with her buttocks, so that there was an audible slap each time Jake's belly hit her ass. Jake got carried away as he came up her ass, grabbing the front of her thighs and lifting her into the air on his cock, holding her against him as he erupted. Chantalle flapped her arms a bit to retain her balance. When Jake ran out of gas he placed her softly back on the ground, slipped out of his favourite place and gave her ass a gentle 'thank you' slap. Chantalle turned, placed his hands on her breasts and stuck her tongue down his throat for about five minutes before coming up for air. I guess she had enjoyed that.
Tom gave Jake a shove to move him out of the way, turned Chantalle back to the table and jammed his dick up her anus as soon as she was bent over, holding her buttocks apart so that he could get in right up to his balls. Chantalle reached between her legs and rubbed Tom's nuts for the first few minutes, until things became so tempestuous that she needed both hands to retain her balance. Tom's emphasis seemed to be on making sure that his balls were right up against her rectum at the end of every thrust. He pushed Chantalle down until her torso was flat on the table then leaned over her to try to get even further up her ass. When he came he stayed pressed tight into her anus until his dick stopped throbbing. When he finally stepped back Chantalle turned to him and murmured, “Magnifique, m'sieur. You can 'ave more of dat later si tu veut.”
“You bet,” Tom replied with a huge grin. “I really like you, Chantalle.” Tom being playful, that's a first.
Steve and Phil both got up at the same time then paused uncertainly.
“Go ahead, Steve,” said Phil gracefully.
“Thanks, man,” Steve replied. “I honestly think if I have to wait any longer I am gonna pop my cork.” Phil laughed and waved him ahead.
Steve was not exaggerating. He drove his swollen, rigid cock up Chantalle's ass in one smooth stroke, banged her ass enthusiastically for less than three minutes, then flooded her ass so copiously with his semen that Melanie later told me she thought he might never stop.
“Ah, m'sieur, 'as it been so long?” she asked sympathetically.
“No, not at all,” answered Steve, blushing furiously. “It's just that you're so damned sexy.”
“Ah, you 'ave another go later zen? Yes?”
“Yes.”
“C'est bon.”
Phil looked at me enquiringly: I nodded him ahead.
Chantalle had resumed her position bending over the table. Phil, who is an easy-going, soft-spoken guy of average height with longish mid-brown hair and a neatly trimmed cowboy moustache, moved in behind her then paused to examine the fastenings of her half-dress. He quickly pulled apart the velcro fastening at her waist then lifted the halter off over her head without mussing her red ringlets and finally refastened the velcro around her waist, leaving her with her ample breasts fully exposed. Chantalle responded by turning towards him, cupping her breasts with both hands and inquiring, “You like my tits, M'sieur... ?”
“Phil. And yes, they are lovely. May I?” Phil replied, holding his hands palm out a few inches from the items being discussed.
“Bien sur,” Chantalle agreed, stepping forward to thrust her tits firmly into his grip. Phil took the nipples between his thumbs and index fingers, tweaking them gently until they stood up hard and proud, then bent over to suckle on each in turn. Chantalle, alias my wife, pulled gently on his crank while he did so. When she had him fully aroused she turned back to the table, resting on her forearms this time, reached between her legs to grasp his cock and eased it into her back door. Phil rammed it all the way home, parting her buttocks with his thumbs and spreading them wide until his balls were ensconced in the crack. Then he really gave it to her, hard, fast and deep, just the way she likes it. Reaching around, he grabbed two generous handfuls of tit and used them to haul her hard onto his cock at the end of each stroke. Chantalle began moaning and slamming her ass back into him as hard as she could, riding his dick like a rodeo cowgirl. Phil did her like that for a good twenty minutes before giving her the fifth load up her ass.
I stepped up while he was still pulling his dripping cock from her ass and slipped my diamond-cutter erection up that freshly lubricated tunnel in one swift slide, bottoming out with a bang.
“Ah, Madame Melanie's 'usband, Nick, n'est pas? Madame Melanie, she tell Chantalle to, 'ow she say, bang your brains out. Is right, yes?”
“Sounds like Mel,” I answered with a grin that she could not see with her back towards me. It was hot, wet and slippery up there.
“Chantalle do you good,” she purred. And she did. Based on her subsequent performance you would never have known that she had already ass-fucked five other guys. She shimmied and shook like a sheet in a hurricane, alternately pumping each leg up and down in an accelerating rhythm, circling her hips and grinding her ass back into me so hard it actually began to hurt. 'Hurts so good,' eh? Just like the old song says! You bet!
I have to admit, she shagged me rather than me shagging her, milking me with her ass. I blew my stack after ten minutes or so at her frantic pace and fairly staggered back to my seat. That's why I went last; I knew she always saved the best performance for last. And the evening was just beginning.