She'd found the orgies a disappointment. Not at first, of course, at first, she'd been overwhelmed by the debauchery on display before her headset-clad eyes. Certainly, they were everything that the message boards and pop-up adverts had promised. A pit, she could think of no better word, filled with taut, tanned flesh entwined in every conceivable combination of sexual possibilities. 

The bodies themselves rippled with perfection. No saggy flesh here. No wrinkles. No pimples. No grey streaks or artificial hair dyes. No premature baldness or moles or birthmarks or blemishes or acne scars. A universality of bountiful breasts and finely honed pectorals, of six-packs and bulging biceps, of sinewy tree trunk thighs and shapely calves, where every face was chiselled and every eyebrow had been plucked and shaped to faultless arcs of enticement. 

Which is not to mention the sexual organs. Plump, smooth, or meticulously manicured cunts offered as split, juiced, fruit for the vista of tumescent, swollen poles that thrust demandingly forth from every male groin. A vision of nymphs and satyrs all conjoined in a heaving, thrusting, moaning, screaming, pleasure-sheened, mass of limbs and body parts. 

She'd dived into the morass, almost literally, filled her hands and mouth with hard shafts and purring pussies. Found the twin fuck holes between her wide-flung thighs taken and tended, used and abused, her own pleasure a cacophony of mewling sobs echoing in her ears and thrumming violently through her flesh. Skewered by dildos, consuming cocks, feasting on any cock or cunt presented for her drooling, gasping mouth to savour, her anal star tongue-lashed and phallus ravaged, her breasts suckled and devoured, her own juicy, plump, perfect, sex offering a pulsing, gripping, excursion for every passing tourist.

Yet all she found was emptiness. Amongst all the cum-coated bodies she became lost and alone. Even as she writhed in near-ecstatic release, as her muscles clenched hard, as her breathing became laboured, and as the dopamine high flooded her brain, she felt herself disengage from her pleasure-blessed avatar and retreat into the curled, imperfect husk of her actuality. Which was what lead her to Bill.

Bill was older. A silver-haired fox. Quietly spoken, oozing charm and sophistication. Manners and mannerisms, that's how she thought of him. Solicitous and attentive. Tender and thoughtful. They'd started with a 'romantic date', a dimly lit, bijou bistro with red checked table cloths and candles in wine bottles, seventies retro-chic, everything a far cry from the hurly-burly fleshiness of the world of virtual hedonistic orgies.

He'd held out her chair so she might sit, complimented her on her outfit choice, her hair, her smile, demured to her choice of wine, regaled her with anecdotes, made her feel alive and wanted and valued. Made her feel as if she were the only person who had ever existed in all of eternity as his fingers lightly grazed the back of the hand she'd rested on the tablecloth. He'd insisted on getting the bill, held her coat so that she might shrug herself between its folds, and taken possession of her body with a possessive arm about her waist as he lead her back to his waiting bed. 

His lovemaking had been tender and considerate. His every caress focused on her pleasure, her needs, her desires. His hands smoothing across her skin as he pressed himself into her waiting wetness. His tongue teasing at her blood-swollen nipple as she arched her back, wrapped a leg around his cautiously thrusting buttocks as his length slid back and forth between her slippery lips. He'd fucked her with a steady fluidity pushing her upwards towards her crescendo before pulling back to leave her sobbing against his snowy-haired chest. Taking her rising to her peak again and again as his lips pecked at her skin. 

She'd allowed him to manipulate her around the bed, gradually morphing from one position to the next, his cock never far from the dripping wound of her sex, until, eventually, straddling him, head thrown back, his manhood buried deep within her sopping embrace, she'd gripped his length with her pulsing muscles until he'd spurted his heated salty pleasure to coat her juice slick walls. 

Yet even as she'd cum, even as she'd doused his fire with her own, she knew that this would be no more than an adventurous entanglement. Just another playday, playmate in a world filled with possibilities. 

She allowed it to drag on for a fortnight. Answered his messages, agreed arrangements, ensured her availability to avail herself of his unwaveringly sensitive attentions. And they'd fucked, maybe not like rabbits, but possibly like rabbits that have enjoyed a bottle of wine and a nice meal and pleasurable conversation as an appetiser for their carnal desires. Really the only questions remaining were when, where, and how to end it. She was still dithering when he piqued her curiosity by asking whether she'd ever swung. 

Swinging was a closed world, even in the fantasy make-believe of The Hub. You had to belong, had to be part of the scene, had to be invited, and had to be a couple. No room for singletons in the Swinging Scene. No turning up, paying your fee and diving into the orgy pool, or wiggling your rump at drive-up and drive-away dogging events. And it just seemed possible that Bill might have the access codes that unlocked those curtained windows and shuttered doors. 

Which is how she found herself holding his hand in a suburban cul de sac as electronic doorbell chimes pealed behind a stained-glass decorated PVC door. Inside was as her imagination prescribed; bright-lit, fussy and comfortable, the furnishings and its residents high street cheap and styleless. There were six of them, eight if you included Bill and herself, all comfortably middle class and middle-aged, exuding smug self-satisfaction with themselves and their world. The women were well put together; conservatively dressed, hair blow-dried into submission, make-up subtle, soft-spoken and contained. Their husbands dull smart-casual as, with puffed out chests, conversationally they strutted themselves and their achievements. 

She accepted a glass of white wine, extracted herself from Bill's clutching fingers, and joined 'the ladies' to make 'dinner-party polite' conversation. It was all so normal, so every day, that she barely noticed when her neighbour in the lady natter circle, her name might have been Belinda but she'd never been very good at remembering names, stepped across the room and started stroking her hand up and down Bill's trousered groin. An act that, from the rapid tenting of fabric, appeared to be much appreciated. 

Turning her head back she felt Amanda's, definitely Amanda, fingers on her cheeks, her lips poised before her own wine wetted lips, her eyes questioning as her mouth descended. She gave herself into the kiss. Mouth parting. Tongue flicking forth as Amanda pulled her head up to taste her. A hand placed firmly on her rump, commanding their bodies together, breasts pressing determinedly into each other. 

And then she was sandwiched. Something hard, insistent, male, pressing up against her back, hands placed on her shoulders, a mouth descending to shower kisses along the nape of her neck as she felt Amanda's fingers dancing expertly down the line of her blouse buttons. Hands turning her, blouse flapping, nipples tight and visible in their sheer containment as she was pushed down to her knees. Pushed down so that her eyes, her nose, her mouth were level with his groin. 

She struggled with his belt, hindered as Amanda extracted first one and then both her arms from her blouse, before unzipping and releasing him to flop half-rigid into her waiting hand. She encircled him with her fingers, head bobbing forward to lap her tongue around his glans, digits sliding back and forth along his length feeling him firming beneath her caress. Licking up his slit, dragging the taste of him into her palate; musty and pleasantly tangy; as she found the squidgy delight of his ball sacs and squeezed. 

She was close-eyed with him buried deep within her mouth when she felt Amanda's cheek alongside hers. Pulling herself free she turned and offered her cock flavoured mouth for her to taste, ogling Amanda's now freed breasts as they jiggled provocatively beyond her reach. 

Amanda dived forward pulled the recently neglected cock between blush-pink lipstick-smeared lips, her fingers closing about its length so that in unison they could jerk the cum from that swollen muscle into her expectant mouth. 

Freed momentarily she glanced across the room to where Belinda was bent backwards across a divan, her neck stretched, a cock obvious as it bulged in her throat, balls smacking into her nose and eyes with each thrust whilst between her thighs Bill was frenziedly pistoning into her squelching cunt, his arse muscles tense, his hips ramming his cock home with sledgehammer ferocity. 

Maybe she thought, as she dipped her head beneath the fully erect cock now glistening from both Amanda's and her own attentions to slurp the pair of softly furred man-plums deep into her vacant mouth, maybe she'd give Bill another month just to see how things worked out. 

Later, exhausted, slumped, and sated as she wallowed in the afterglow of pleasure, entranced by Amanda's fingers as they absent-mindedly caressed her pubic mons, Belinda reappeared from the kitchen carrying four headsets and asked if anyone wanted to join her for a virtual fuckfest on The Hub. 

How could she possibly decline such a lovely invitation and, who knows, maybe fantasy would be even better than reality.