Wife swapping

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-23

The grand undertaking took place

several years ago during a summer vacation. After more than half a year of patient persuasion and ideological education, my wife finally reluctantly agreed to go on vacation with me, of course, after I made significant compromises.

My wife loves to travel. But apart from our honeymoon, I can hardly recall having had the opportunity to travel and have a proper trip with her in the past ten years. First, we lived apart, then we had a child, then I went abroad to work—a second separation. After the three of us reunited in another city, we were in the early stages of starting our business, focusing entirely on making money. Only after settling down and finishing building our house did we start to indulge in the lifestyle of the bourgeoisie (or at least the petit bourgeoisie)—skiing in winter, going to the beach in summer, experiencing different cultures, sightseeing… My wife bought several Lonely Planet travel guides, and before each trip, she would enthusiastically search for must-see attractions, suitable hotels, and driving routes.

But why was my wife so reluctant this time? It stemmed from two highly controversial “grand undertakings” that were about to take place during this beach vacation!

First, her husband wanted to go to a nude beach, something he had never done before. My wife said, "You can go to the nude beach, but I won't. I can watch you from afar." Of course, I couldn't agree to such a trip where we were practically strangers. After much discussion, we reached a compromise: we could go together, but my wife wouldn't go completely nude.

Secondly, we were going to meet a couple we met online in the US during our vacation. Their profiles and contact information came from a swingers website (some call it a "wife-swapping club"—a translation heavily influenced by male chauvinism). What would we do with them? I don't need to explain. But before the trip, what could we possibly do with them? I wasn't even sure myself, or even if we could actually meet them.

I first heard the word "swinging" on a German adult television program. Although I don't speak German, it wasn't difficult to understand the host's live interviews with the swingers (given my higher education?). The scene of group sex was obviously very stimulating to the senses, and what caught my attention even more was that the swingers didn't seem like a bunch of sleazy bastards, but rather couples who looked no different from ordinary, normal people. Mostly middle-aged, some couples, judging by their cars and clothing, were indeed quite respectable and sophisticated. It was as if the middle class or wealthy were enacting scenes from adult films, actively leading a certain lifestyle trend…

There was no transactional relationship between employer and employee in traditional sex work, no coercion between the strong and the weak. It was as if a group of like-minded people had come together for a common goal. Having sex with a third party has always meant "betrayal," the most intolerable act between spouses or lovers. But here, such "betrayal" is not only forgiven, but almost impossible, because everything here happens in front of one's spouse…

Is this a return to primitive tribal life? Or is a lofty ideal being gradually piloted starting with "shared wives"? Although what's yours is yours, and what's mine is mine, what seems most sacred and inviolable in traditional morality—the body of one's loved one—is willingly shared among residents in this community… There are no other ulterior motives, no monetary transactions, no spiritual betrayal.

No matter how I tried to justify this new, carefree lifestyle and pave the way for entering the community, during the democratic discussion between husband and wife, my wife, though unable to offer any stronger arguments to refute her husband who always prided himself on his high level of thinking, firmly believed: "Swingers are all bad people; good people would never be so lewd." This was already outrageously absurd for ordinary people, let alone a couple acting so madly.

I replied: "That couple claims to be a married couple, and they happen to be near our vacation spot; it wouldn't hurt to meet them. Only by seeing them in person can we be sure if they're mentally sound."

The

beach we were going to meet was Hel Cape in northern Poland. Shaped like a peninsula, it resembled a long causeway, more like a small brother on land. The caress of the waves made it erect, extending over 40 kilometers into the Baltic Sea.

The meeting was scheduled for the day after our arrival. Arriving a day early would give us ample time to settle in, familiarize ourselves with the local environment, warm up to the atmosphere, and recover from the fatigue of our 400-kilometer drive.

The next day, the date was at 4 PM. It was only 10 AM after breakfast when my wife started getting ready, despite her repeated disapproval of the date. The level of detail in her outfit was several levels higher than usual for going out or meeting guests. She changed clothes again and again, looked in the mirror repeatedly, and even changed her lipstick and nail polish several times to ensure they coordinated with her clothes. It was practically like going on a blind date. I've always admired sophisticated women. Normally, I actively help my wife with her preparations, often setting higher standards than she does herself. This time, however, I waited for hours before finally settling on a new look. My wife, whom I've been with for many years, was almost completely unremarkable; now I had to impress her husband—she was a complete transformation. I started to hesitate. Was it too much to trade such a beautiful wife for a date? Was my months-long effort in organizing this event just out of curiosity? Would I regret this foolish decision? Should we really go?…

There was no time to think anymore. It would be rude to stand someone up. Let's see.

The date was set for a bar on the pedestrian street in the center of Hel. The street was full of tourists, with a dazzling array of shops, bars, and beer halls, exuding a seaside resort atmosphere. The bright sunshine and relaxed atmosphere eased our slight tension.

...

On the third day, we lazily slept in, had breakfast, and prepared to head to the nudist beach to achieve our first breakthrough. The second feat we had planned might have to wait until later, since nothing out of the ordinary had happened on yesterday's date.

The date (according to my wife's later assessment) was basically confirmed to be a married couple, and one that looked no different from most Polish couples. The wife's name was Elita. The husband's name was Malik. Elita was about 170cm tall and slender, with short, light blonde hair, blue-gray eyes, a high nose, a long neck and lips, and prominent cheekbones and jawlines. Perhaps due to her race or because she never smoked, my wife looked younger than her peers. However, it can be inferred that Elita was a model-like woman in her youth. Her denim shirt had a low collar, drawing your gaze without requiring her to lean forward, involuntarily leading you down her deep cleavage… She didn't speak much, her eyes held a hazy, alluring gaze rather than a seductive flirtation. Her slender fingers, with their meticulously manicured, dark-painted nails, and the way she held a cigarette, were incredibly seductive, an elegant sensuality shimmering in the mist. Malick, of medium build, sported the small mustache favored by Europeans, with regular features and a rather friendly demeanor (though my wife's husband felt he was more handsome). His eyes often sparkled with a smile; he was friendly and talkative.

Perhaps intentionally accommodating Elita's lack of English (to subtly demonstrate my gentlemanly manners), our conversation was primarily in Polish, occasionally interspersed with English words, as our Polish was only sufficient for daily life, and Malick knew a little English.

The conversation ranged from the weather to vacations, from island scenery to the charm of distant China; from our shared interests to beautiful Polish women, and of course, China! My wife, Malik, was already full of praise; we even veered towards the nude beach, slowly touching on swinging…

We learned that they have two daughters (this disappointed me somewhat, because according to my exclusive, yet-to-be-claimed, discovery: women who give birth to sons have stronger libidos. For example, my wife, and of course, others… not just isolated cases—for proof). Malik is a naval officer stationed on the island, and Elita works at the naval hospital. This made us feel very close. Having served six years in the military myself, and with my wife, who has also been a military spouse, many memories were stirred.

When the topic of swinging came up, Elita and Malik exchanged a smile, only telling us that they had had a few unsuccessful experiences. We didn't press them for details, as it was our first meeting. However, it was clear they weren't much more experienced than we were, because when we asked about the exact location of the nude baths, they had only heard of them but had never been there. Naturally, they couldn't provide the exact address. It seems that Elita and Malik, these local residents, are ill-suited for the task of "luring people into the water." The "historical mission" of broadening horizons will depend on how we, the two members of the Red Chinese Expeditionary Force, will shoulder it in the future. The couple's strict adherence to propriety finally prompted me to ask,

"Aren't you worried about your colleagues, relatives, or neighbors recognizing Elita's photos on the swinging website?"

Elita turned to Malik and asked, "Hey, what photos of me did you upload? I don't know about them."

Malik replied, "The photos aren't very big. If someone asks, maybe we can answer: 'Really? Does she really look like my wife? Is she as charming as Elita?'"

Elita added, "People who browse this page carefully are probably interested in this activity. As fellow enthusiasts, even if we bump into each other, we'll just keep quiet."

Since the next day was Wednesday, and they both had to work, we agreed to contact each other again on the weekend. As we shook hands and said goodbye, I couldn't help but kiss Elita's cheek. My lips brushed against her light blonde hair near her ear, and I inhaled her intoxicating fragrance… Elita didn't pull away and even returned my kiss affectionately. Malik, who had already shaken hands in farewell, looked back at our deep bow and immediately pulled my wife back, returning the gesture with equal respect. My wife, though slightly shy, readily accepted. The 40-kilometer-long Hel

promontory

, stretching from its base to its tip, is dotted with five towns at almost equal intervals. The so-called Chalupy nudist beach isn't actually in Chalupy town, but rather on the way from the popular tourist town of Chalupy to the next town. There were no advertisements, no signs (the business opportunity was yet to be developed), the only marker being a parking lot.

Across the road from the parking lot, after climbing a small hill and passing through a grove of trees, the beach and the sea unfolded before you.

And of course, what greeted your eyes were: countless living, breathing, naked bodies, completely returned to nature. My wife couldn't help but take a soft breath and exclaim, "Oh!" The people enjoying the sun, the sea, and the air didn't seem to mind our uninvited, civilized-dressed presence. The three points that always evoke voyeuristic desires and attract countless eyes, the focus of tabloids and gossip news, are now laid bare before you, face to face, up close. My wife was a little embarrassed to look directly at these living sculptures, but I was excited by the vivid human figures that seemed to have stepped out of an oil painting, as if I had entered God's Garden of Eden...

People emerged from the hundred or so cars in the parking lot and spread out along the beach, no longer needing to be so close together like parked cars. We easily found a place with a good view. Having long yearned to visit this tribe, I immediately joined in the fun. My wife was reluctant to leave her new bikini, specially bought for this trip, unused. Because of our prior agreement, I didn't try to persuade her repeatedly; we should give her enough time to choose or change. Just being able to experience this place with my wife was already wonderful.

The nudist beach here has no fences or clear boundaries; the carefree attitude of nudists roughly presents a human landscape stretching from tens to hundreds of meters along the beach. Along the beach, the more populated public baths can be seen in the distance. Occasionally, people in swimwear appear to be casually strolling by, their eyes constantly busy, feasting on a visual feast.

We chose to camp in the middle of the long side and on higher ground on the short side. This allowed for an unobstructed view to both sides and significantly reduced the visibility for passersby, as the sand was firmer and easier to walk on in the areas wet by the waves, while the sand further back was quite soft and difficult to traverse.

Most of the people at the nudist beach were couples, and there were also happy families with children (should nudity education start from a young age?). The young children played happily, seemingly oblivious to the fact that their male companions differed from them in every way except for the length of their hair. Teenagers, seemingly fully developed and on the verge of blossoming, face such openness with their siblings, mothers and sons, and fathers and daughters. How will their psychology dictate their orientation? In the prime of their lives, can their bodies and minds withstand the weight of these risks and benefits? We can only turn to sexologists for answers. If their answers are convincing, could you please let us know? I only remember being plagued by erotic dreams in my youth. I had to repeatedly fight against fleeting thoughts of desire, trying to suppress the urge to fantasize about the opposite sex. Oh, and over there are three generations involved! Regarding ethical questions such as the open interaction between a daughter-in-law and father-in-law, and how the son and mother-in-law feel, my mind is in turmoil as I seek answers. Yet, how can my meager ability to worry about the future shake the natural harmony of that naked family portrait?

Evolution and civilization, while teaching us to at least cover ourselves with clothes, have also sealed our values with various restrictions. Lying carefree on the soft sand, my entire body exposed to the sun and sea, I let nature thoroughly cleanse me of the dust and grime of the city, my soul and mind receiving a refreshing purification…

The warm sunshine gradually soothed my initial excitement. All my muscles and nerves slowly drifted into a state of utter relaxation… After what seemed like an eternity, my wife gently woke me, asking, “Honey, why do those foreigners’ little brothers look so much like yours? Oh, and they all look pretty big!” Still half-asleep, I didn’t know how to give my wife’s adorable question a proper answer. But I noticed that my wife had already freed herself from her bikini. Sensing my gaze, she quickly explained, somewhat embarrassed, “There were so many people, but I was the only one wearing a swimsuit.”

Wearing a swimsuit at a nudist beach isn’t like running naked in a public place and getting arrested. But those few pieces of clothing can create a huge barrier between you and the rest of the community. Faced with someone else's complete lack of privacy, your reservations create a one-way perspective, blocking at least visual equality and freedom.

My wife's final act of self-liberation signifies that our preparatory period as naked villagers has been successfully completed. This renewed unity of thought and action gives me a sense of accomplishment, another successful navigating of our marital life, and I'm even more grateful to have such a close comrade-in-arms in this life.

As for my little brother, let's leave aside the professionally enlarged versions in pornographic films, but looking at current reality shows, even those foreigners who aren't particularly tall seem to have surprisingly large penises, at least compared to the impressions I had in Beijing's public bathhouses as a child. I remember back then, during puberty, my little brother would often inexplicably swell up during baths. I was often laughed at, which made me very embarrassed. Therefore, I would secretly mutter to myself, fearing that others wouldn't understand. Over time, it seemed to have worked; aside from the occasional burst of brilliance, it was usually quite well-behaved. I was secretly pleased about this.

My usually quiet wife was now secretly eyeing other women's penises and discussing size with her husband. Of course, I wouldn't miss the waves of excitement and the hidden channels that had captivated so many heroes.

Poles naturally have a variety of hair colors. Many women like to dye their hair to frequently change their style. So normally it's hard to tell if a woman is a blonde (assuming you prefer light blonde hair). But now, the answer is easily found. Where? It's obvious, I won't say more, you can tell for yourself.

Because the private parts of the body have been voluntarily brought into the public eye, places that were once the object of prying eyes are now rarely seen with any unruly hair. Like grooming eyebrows, the female nudists who come all seem to have meticulously trimmed their private parts. Some have trimmed them cleanly, revealing slightly pouting labia, as if about to send a seductive kiss; others have left a narrow strip, the fine threads leading you to the depths, exploring its infinite mysteries; still others are fearless women, adorned with silver rings and embellishments, their hidden valleys shimmering with silver light, foreshadowing a treasure-laden shipwreck deep beneath the sea… Women of refined taste, even in their temporary return to nature, still do not forget to display their innate love of beauty; their lives are exquisitely refined. The nudist

beach is a sight to behold: muscular men exude masculine power, girls with devilish figures appear even more alluring, and wealthy ladies and gentlemen, with their protruding bellies, exude relaxed tranquility… There is no difference in wealth, no tension under pressure.

The only slight disappointment in this entire paradise was the lack of any explicit sexual content, despite the presence of mixed-gender bathing. It turns out that people are divided into two distinct groups: swingers and nudists. Many swingers also practice nudism, and not all nudists are swingers. Sexual intercourse generally requires nudity, but more often it's like walking into an art exhibition—you can't touch, you can only observe. You can indulge in fantasies, but you must never mistakenly intrude on someone else's paradise, even if a beautiful woman is completely naked before you, her privacy fully exposed.

From then on, we added a new must-see attraction to our annual travels—the nudist beach.

As for Cap d'Agde on the Mediterranean coast—renowned as the nudist capital of the world, a must-visit for swingers—how it exudes French romantic charm? That's a story for later; please allow me to leave it for now. We can discuss it another time when the interest arises.

The novel and

unconventional experience, the breathtaking scenery, made us momentarily forget the passage of time. One afternoon, we returned to our temporary resort from the nudist beach and found Elita and Malik already waiting for us, realizing it was the weekend.

That evening, we were invited to Elita and Malik's home. Their 100-square-meter duplex apartment with stairs was clean and simply furnished. Several of the paintings hanging on the walls were actually the husband's own work. Also present were Malik's comrades Peter and Robert, and their wives, Isabella. Malik introduced us as his newly acquainted online friends (of course, we couldn't mention swinging). We hadn't seen many Asian faces on the entire island of Hale. The only Chinese couple at the nudist beach attracted a lot of curious glances. These guests from the mysterious East naturally became the stars of the private party for the island's garrison officers that evening. Alcohol was an indispensable part of the party. Perhaps a little tipsy, the only single man at the party—computer expert Peter—became almost obsessively fascinated by my wife's cheongsam. From the brocade fabric to the knotted buttons, he looked and looked, asked and asked, repeatedly searching for where he could buy it. He kept praising how beautiful my wife looked in it! So beautiful he wanted to take it off her right then and there. Peter's childlike friendliness and persistence seemed to leave his boss, the host, helpless. Strangely, Isabella managed to keep him in check. Seeing Peter's slightly drunken behavior, Isabella actually kicked him out of the party and sent him home. Later we learned that Peter had a crush on Isabella, and although he never received any response from the sociable Isabella, he often willingly gave her gifts without expecting anything in return, even wanting to buy her a Lada. He was dissuaded by Malik and Isabella's husband, Robert, because it was too expensive. Peter's fascination with my wife's cheongsam was because he wanted to buy one for Isabella. Isabella was indeed very eye-catching, with almost all ten fingers adorned with rings, and she was also adept at seducing men. Completely disregarding the presence of her husband Robert and my wife, she shamelessly flirted with me, stealing the spotlight from the other female guests that evening. Even my wife seemed a little annoyed, frequently asking me to ask the hostess to invite Elita to dance. Elita, on the other hand, seemed quite pleased to have the Chinese version of her name. My few illegible Chinese characters captivated her all evening. Although Isabella and I flirted openly, I could sense her discomfort with the distance between us when I put my arm around her waist while dancing. Elita, however, was different. I couldn't see any seductive glances, but our cheeks occasionally brushed against each other, and I could feel her breasts resting against my chest…

When Elita and Malik escorted us back to the resort, it was well past midnight. The gentle sea breeze made the island's night even more tranquil. As Malik and my wife conversed quietly, I, emboldened by the alcohol, put my arm around Elita's waist from behind and slowed our pace. Elita remained as docile as when she danced, leaning gently against me. My hand slowly slipped inside her short dress, touching her back and caressing her smooth skin… Elita didn't stop, nor did she push away or dodge my increasingly audacious hand. The wife and Malik continued walking and talking ahead, not looking back at us, and Malik made no inappropriate advances towards the wife. We strolled along like two couples, one in front and one behind, through the quiet island night, just like in that "Moscow Nights"… Following Elita's smooth back upwards, I could feel the clasp of her bra. Just as I hesitated whether to try unhooking it, we arrived at our resort. This time, Malik didn't hesitate and went straight to the wife for a passionate hug and kiss goodbye. I, of course, wasn't going to be outdone; I embraced Elita, kissing her left, right, and left cheeks, then hugged her tightly and showered her neck with kisses. Hands—this time both hands—penetrated from behind, reaching inside Elita's clothes, caressing her skin, then slowly sliding down to her shapely buttocks… Elita had long legs, and with her short skirt, it wasn't difficult to reach the hem. Slowly lifting the skirt, I could touch her thong, then grope along it… Just then, I heard someone call my name. I turned around and saw my wife and Malik watching everything. It was then that I snapped out of my daze and realized this wasn't just between Elita and me. My behavior had been a bit excessive. Fortunately, Elita didn't struggle, and Malik didn't roar in anger; he simply said, "We'll leave you here. Goodnight!" I felt

a little embarrassed, ashamed of my earlier loss of composure. I hurriedly said goodbye to them, turning to explain to my wife, only to find she had already left me behind.

When I caught up with her, I found her crying. And she had never cried so bitterly before. No matter how I explained or apologized, I couldn't stop her.

I enjoy women and am occasionally a womanizer. But I truly love my wife and would never want to hurt her. So, although I've had affairs, I never allow my actions to directly harm her. After each affair, I always try to fabricate stories to appease her, avoiding the pain of the truth being exposed.

While sweet talk might work temporarily, fabricating lies is always exhausting. Especially with my beloved partner with whom I share almost everything, I feel a twisted and agonizing pain. My enthusiasm for swinging, besides its novelty and curiosity, might also stem from a subconscious desire to legitimize my infidelity in front of my wife.

Clearly, Isabella and I's blatant flirting in public has far exceeded my wife's expectations. My insistence on pursuing Elita is an even more serious violation. The rules of swinging dictate that each participant must be willing, and it can only begin when all four have clearly expressed their consent. If even one person is unwilling, there's no majority rule, and the other three cannot force anyone. Here, no, that's it. No reason needed. And before I acted on my own, did I consult with anyone else? What was once a promising end up so bad is naturally the result of my improper actions. I have no choice but to bear the consequences.

The consequences seem to be more serious than I imagined. The next morning, when I woke up, I found my wife was gone.

Unable to find my wife anywhere in the resort, I ate breakfast alone, reflecting on my mistakes. It was already past one or two in the afternoon, though it was supposed to be breakfast. Elita and Malik arrived. Still somewhat embarrassed by last night's abrupt behavior, I felt awkward around them. The couple, however, acted as if nothing had happened. After some pleasantries, Malik quietly asked, "Could we arrange a sexual date today?" Faced with this long-awaited—desired—I felt a bit like the man who professed to love dragons but was terrified of them, completely at a loss for words. I hadn't even discussed this with my wife; I had planned to gradually build up the atmosphere before seizing the opportunity, but last night's drunken recklessness had ruined what seemed like a promising plan, and now I couldn't find her. Not only was there no suitable atmosphere to talk to her, but I was also preoccupied with worrying about where she was, so I had no time to think about pleasure. Just as I was caught in this dilemma, my wife returned. She was carrying quite a few things, including a large bath towel, a parasol, and a windbreak. Why buy another set when we already had beach gear and our vacation was almost over? But then I remembered that haphazard shopping is a common tactic women use when they're angry. Although my wife rarely does this (because her husband is always excellent and rarely makes her angry), there are often scenes like this in movies, except the items in those scenes are mostly designer shoes and clothes, rarely sunbathing products.

Seeing my wife return naturally improved my mood. Perhaps because we had guests, she didn't seem angry anymore. Before I could even relay Malik's earlier question, my wife suggested going to the beach. Except for Elita, who said they needed some time to go back and pack, all four of us thought going to the beach was a good idea. By the time we arrived at

the nudist beach , it was almost four in the afternoon. Most of the nudists had already left, with only a few scattered on the sand.

We tacitly found a secluded spot on the beach, laid out four towels side by side, and began setting up camp.

The windbreak fence was made of a piece of colorful cloth, about one meter wide and five meters long, connected to four single-pointed wooden poles. When unfolded and the four posts were planted in the ground, it formed a private, three-sided, sheltered fortress. It offered a view of the sea, protection from the wind and sun, and privacy from onlookers. Perhaps because the Baltic Sea winds are a bit stronger, it wasn't commonly used by tourists on other coasts. We connected two windbreak fences together, creating an independent kingdom, a closed castle, completely cutting off outsiders' view. I began to understand why my wife, always so thrifty and hardworking, had bought a new fence.

Elita generously and methodically stripped naked. Malik, my wife, and I followed suit, also naked. Perhaps because we were familiar friends, the sudden change made us slightly embarrassed to look at each other. Malik stared intently at my wife's naked body but didn't dare approach, only sitting half-sitting beside Elita. At the crucial moment, I said, "Could I lie down next to Elita?" This eased the slightly awkward situation. Malik immediately and eagerly moved to his wife's side. But the four of us remained silent, staring at each other. I tried to break the silence again, so I gently placed my hand on Elita's thigh and began to stroke it. Seeing my action, my wife's face immediately showed barely suppressed jealousy. She quickly turned her face away and got up to get our luggage. Had my actions upset her again? Worried that she might get angry and want to leave, I quickly removed my hand from Elita's leg. Just as I was about to sit up and soothe her, I saw her pull a nylon clothesline from her bag, tie it to the wooden poles in the middle of both sides of the enclosure, and then take out clothespins to hang her newly acquired bath towel on the nylon line. A barrier immediately divided the four of us in two: Elita and I on one side, and my wife and Malik on the other. It turns out that my wife's "crazy shopping spree" during her morning "runaway" had produced quite a few props to "calm down." To compensate for the temporary screen's lack of sealing, my wife simply turned her head away (of course, Malik followed closely behind). This way, even if she turned her head to the side, she could only see the four feet of the two people in the other "room" through the gap.

The man and woman were "living together" in the same room, naked and alone, so I immediately climbed onto Elita and started "working." As my fingers and tongue explored her body, Elita enjoyed it, occasionally stroking my back with her long fingertips as encouragement and caresses...

The two people next door didn't seem to be as quick as us; their four feet were still spread apart, or their toes were pointing upwards or downwards, as if they were whispering something...

Elita's lower body quickly became wet... My little brother, of course, was no ordinary man, and he roamed freely in her maze like a fish in water...

Suddenly, I heard a soft moan coming from next door. I glanced to the side and saw that my wife's feet, toes pointing upwards, were tightly gripped by Malik's feet, toes pointing downwards. I could imagine Malik lying face down on top of my wife, writhing up and down, while my beloved wife allowed a man who wasn't her husband to be naked beneath her, without any resistance, without any cry for help, only low moans… This was my beloved wife? Right next door? Accepting another man's defilement with equanimity… I couldn't accept it! A nameless jealousy welled up inside me, my blood boiled, my whole body was aroused, and an uncontrollable flame, like molten lava, erupted with a shout…

Elita smiled and hugged me tightly, caressing my back, letting my little brother throb inside her like a volcano after an eruption…

I don't know how much time passed before I awoke from the gentle caresses. Elita was lying on top of me, gently sucking and cuddling my penis. Her magical tongue licked and rubbed my scrotum, gradually rekindling its heat, and my penis proudly stood erect again… We merged a second time, this time Elita on top and me on the bottom…

There was no sound from next door. But the image of our four legs intertwined, the low moans, still haunted me. Driven by jealousy, I made love to Elita wildly… The second round of our battle lasted an unknown amount of time, but it was certainly protracted, until Elita began to moan and her body began to throb. As she reached her climax, my penis also gushed forth… We enjoyed the aftershocks, no, the resonance…

When the four of us met again, the two original couples had seemingly reformed into two new couples. I noticed that the wife's slightly embarrassed expression radiated an undeniable glow.

Because we had to rush back to Warsaw the next day, and Elita and Malik had to go to work, the four of us reluctantly said goodbye, still wanting to relive the experience. Of course, the kisses weren't limited to just cheeks...

That night back at the resort, whether it was because my jealousy hadn't subsided and I wanted to make up for what I'd lost; or because I realized my wife wasn't solely my property, and others were also interested, and that if she wanted, it wasn't just my exclusive right to sleep with her; or for some other reason; a strange and novel attraction suddenly arose between us, this old married couple. We made love twice that night. And again the next morning. Good heavens, in less than 24 hours, I did it five times!

On the way back to Warsaw from HEL, my wife and I talked about this unusual trip and our newfound feelings. My wife told me that Alec's sexual prowess was very strong... We talked with such excitement and passion... breaking through any dead ends in our conversation, from then on, we could truly talk about anything!

What had become mundane and even somewhat dull, to the point where we sometimes only had sex once every two months, suddenly became twice a day a little over a month after our return. It was as if we had returned to our honeymoon more than a decade ago… Not long

after

, Elita and Malik had a second date with us. This time, it was the four of us sharing a room and bed, and my wife could now face and watch her husband having sex with other women. Elita was still so obedient; she didn't even resist when I tried to explore her clitoris…

Looking back, over the years, our partner-swapping partners have come from various countries including the UK, Italy, France, the US, Ukraine, Slovakia, and Switzerland, and even some of Arab descent… (Oh! We've almost become an international play-couple without realizing it!). Of course, most of them are local Polish partners (Elita and Malik still keep in touch with us). If you're interested, how many pairs have we had? Certainly not a handful, even if you add up all four of my wife's and my hands. For some reason, or perhaps due to a variety of reasons, we haven't yet met a Chinese partner, or even an overseas Chinese partner. Not being able to communicate with our partner in our most familiar language during moments of passion is somewhat of a regret.

Once, during a meal and drinks with a friend from Hong Kong, we got into a lively conversation. He boasted excitedly about his various experiences with women and prostitutes, and in the heat of the moment, I inadvertently brought up the topic of "wife swapping" (of course, one shouldn't easily reveal their private hobbies in front of close friends). My friend, a seasoned player, immediately declared righteously: "We are Chinese." Does engaging in wife swapping make one Chinese? Already prone to being slow to react, I was almost stunned by his solemn declaration and didn't know how to respond. I could only secretly rejoice that I hadn't blurted out anything that might cause trouble. I only heard Professor Li Yinhe say that mainland China still has legal provisions that "group sex can constitute hooliganism," which are yet to be amended. Those who engage in wife swapping should be cautious and avoid it. I never imagined that our free Hong Kong compatriots, who have only recently returned to China, would have such a strong traditional sentiment, even elevating it to the level of national identity. No wonder we're still largely confined to the circles of "foreign devils."

As for "wife swapping," it's true that many couples have the husbands initiate the swinging, like in our family, but we've also encountered many wives who readily agree with their husbands' participation. Should we then call it "husband swapping"? Or would "partner swapping" be fairer and more reflective of gender equality?

Perhaps it's necessary to clarify: partner swapping—swinging—is currently a minority activity, not mainstream. Not only is it off-limits for those under 18, but it's also not very suitable for older singles. Furthermore, it may not be suitable for every couple.

But would you be interested in trying it?

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