Dear Sin Edit,
It started with an invitation.
No apps. No blind messages. Just a couple we met at a wine tasting. She wore a red slip dress that clung like it knew a secret. He had the kind of voice that made you lean in. Their chemistry? Magnetic.
But it was the way they looked at us—not just at each other—that made me curious.
By the third glass of Pinot, she leaned over and whispered, “Do you two ever… share?”
We said yes. Or maybe we just didn’t say no.
The invitation came two days later. Their apartment was candlelit, jazz low, and there was no rush. She met me at the door barefoot, kissed my cheek, and took my coat like it was her home.
My partner was already inside, talking with her husband, who poured wine like a priest blessing the chalice.
She was bold—her fingers brushed my wrist, neck, and dress line. My partner watched. I could feel his approval in his silence.
When she kissed me, it wasn’t performative—it was hungry. Slow. Like she’d waited months. Her husband sat back in a velvet armchair, legs crossed, sipping red wine like a ritual. And it was.
Clothes didn’t fly. They floated to the floor. Every motion was deliberate. Her hands explored, hers and mine, mine and hers. And then he joined.
There were four hands. Six lips. Gasps that weren’t mine, but still made me moan.
My partner took me from behind while I kissed her, hard and deep. Her husband touched himself watching us—only joining when I looked at him and nodded.
That’s the thing about swinging. You ask, you wait, you honour the no. And because of that, yes is everything.
We stayed the night—not in the same bed, but with the same energy. In the morning, we drank coffee in robes and smiled like sinners with clean consciences.
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