Swinging in Amsterdam (At the Swingers' Club, #1)

...at the Swingers’ Club

Polly J Adams

James Grieve Press

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© Polly J Adams 2014

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Cover image © Zastavkin

Swinging in Amsterdam

Afters: about the author, and hot samples from other books

F
rom the hotel window Selena could see through a canopy of leafy trees to the canal. Long, narrow houseboats lined the far side, their roofs and gunwales deep with potted plants. A small boat piled high with cardboard boxes chugged past. Beyond, there was a bar advertising Amstel, Heineken and Jupiter beers, with tables outside and more across the uneven street by the canal. Most of the tables were occupied, a mix of tourists and locals stopping for a beer on their way home from work.

Selena stood with her face pressed up against the cold glass, her arms held high, her hands clutching the window frame. She wore a black corset, her breasts pushed up, spilling out, cupped in Martin’s hands, his fingers and thumbs flicking and pinching at the hard nipples.

She pushed back against him and felt his hard dick sliding slowly into her once again. The end pressed against the front wall of her vagina, sending stabs of pleasure through her belly. She tipped her head back, grinding her cropped hair against his shoulder, feeling the scrape of stubble against her cheek.

“Fuck me,” she gasped. “Fuck me hard.”

One hand stole down across the ribbed fabric of her corset to cup her shaved smooth pussy, guiding and controlling her as he thrust deep.

That pressure... the way his hand contained her like that... the way his fingers squeezed her pussy, making her feel tighter... the way the heel of his hand ground and rolled against her, sliding that fleshy hood across her clit...

Outside...

She wondered what they could see, if they could see anything at all. Their room was on the third floor – so high up that passersby would only see reflections, and at best just the shape of someone standing here. Or would they be able to see more? Would they make out her features, her short auburn hair and angular cheekbones? Would they see that there was not one figure here, but two? Would they see his hand on her left breast, see the rhythmic movement of her body as he thrust into her, see the opening of her mouth in another gasp as his other hand adjusted and a finger slid up the wet slit of her sex, parting her lips, finding the hard nub of her clit?

She closed her eyes, trying to picture the view from outside, savoring the thrill of watching and being watched, of being so risky and public.

Just then, he thrust harder, lifting her to her toes, focusing all her senses on his dick inside her and that finger as it circled her clit.

She felt a pulsing, deep inside, a sudden throb as Martin held himself deep. Another throb and a deep grinding thrust and then wet heat as he came deep inside her.

That did it for her, the wetness and the shifting sensations as he came and then started to soften and all the time that finger relentlessly circled, circled, circled.

She gave a long, drawn out groan and then felt everything tighten, a protracted pulsing of the muscles in her pussy, an intense wave of pleasure spreading through her belly. She slumped forward against the glass, face and breasts squashed against its coldness. Her legs had gone weak, threatening to give way beneath her.

Thank goodness for those strong arms around her, catching and supporting her.

She twisted in Martin’s embrace and his dick abruptly flopped out of her, leaving her wet and feeling intensely empty of him. She tucked herself into those arms, that body, and allowed him to guide her across to the bed, lower her, lift her legs up so she could lie and he could tuck in behind her, those arms still looped around her, the two of them wet, tangled, spent.

§

“So what haven’t we done?”

That had become a standard line on this mad tour of Europe’s great cities. Rome, Prague, Berlin and now what remained of the afternoon and then one more night in Amsterdam before heading up to Centraal Station for their train to Paris.
So what haven’t we done?

They’d been to Museumsplein for the Van Gogh Museum and the Rijksmuseum. They’d idled through Vondelpark, and ridden the trams for miles just to see where they would end up; they’d navigated the shopping throngs on the Damrak and then last night they’d relaxed on a champagne canal tour before dinner at a classy little Vietnamese place in the Jordaan.

They lay facing each other now, and Martin’s dark eyes fixed on Selena. They were the kind of eyes you could lose yourself in so easily, meet that look and just forget everything. Being taken from behind, hard up against the glass, had been such a turn-on earlier, but in that position it hadn’t been possible to make eye contact and Selena liked nothing more than locking eyes with Martin as he climaxed. That was such an intense and beautiful thing.

She raised herself onto an elbow so she could lean forward and kiss him. It was a gentle pressing of lips, all the more intimate for that brief, delicate contact.

As she pressed against him she felt that unmistakable stirring as he started to respond.

The trip had been all that Selena had dared hope. They’d packed so much in and seen so many fabulous sights. It had been pretty exhausting, though, and right now a quiet, rude evening in their hotel room seemed the perfect option. This
was
their not-quite honeymoon, after all.

Martin was smiling. “Come on,” he said. “One more night. Let’s go out and explore. What shall we do?”

He could read her like a book. He’d known she was about to suggest staying right here, ordering food and champagne up from the hotel’s restaurant and not budging until morning for the tram ride up to Centraal.

She reached down and took a firm hold of his shaft, and immediately that first, tentative response she had felt nudging against her became something more definite. She tugged gently, then had to change her grip as his shaft pushed upwards.

She ran her thumb over the exposed head of his dick, so wet already.

Then she raised an eyebrow and said, “Really? You want to go out? Okay. Let’s get ready.”

With that, she pushed away from him, releasing her grip so that his dick slapped against his belly.

Standing by the bed, she looked back down at him, loving the way those dark eyes explored her nakedness.

“Well what are you hanging around for?” she said. “Let’s get ready.”

§

They ended up drinking white beer at a canal-side bar, a short walk from Dam Square.

“You happy?” Martin asked.

Selena nodded. “Never more so,” she said, and it was true. She’d just turned thirty when she met Martin almost a year ago. She’d never married, although she’d come close. In each of the three big previous relationships in her life, she’d believed it was the real thing, that this was how love
was
, but it hadn’t worked out. With Martin, though, she could see just how different the real thing was, how those previous relationships had only been vague approximations of what she had with him now.

They’d agreed early on that marriage wasn’t for them. Martin had been there before and emerged with the scars, and now that Selena had Martin nothing else mattered to her.

“We don’t need paper and certificates,” she’d told him. “We just need
us
.” So instead of having a wedding, they’d had what they called a Weddon’t, a big party where they stood before friends and said of course they were going to make this thing last because why would you
not
?

And now... here on their not-quite honeymoon, they sat by a Dutch canal watching the world go by.

“You want to explore?” she said now. This canal led up into Amsterdam’s Red Light District, a part of the city they had only seen in passing from their canal tour that morning.

They drained their drinks and stood, then hand in hand they followed the canal-side street north.

A short time later they paused, leaning on cast iron railings by the canal. Further up Selena could see the bulky form of the Oude Kerk, the old church at the heart of this district, an odd feature of an area that was coming alive for the early evening now. The tables outside the bars were crowded here, and the streets were alive with people: couples, groups, even families, just walking along and taking in the sights. Just behind Selena, a coffee shop painted in vivid graffiti gave off that distinctive marijuana aroma so heady you just had to stand outside and take a deep breath to get a bit of a buzz going.

Across the canal there was a row of glass doors, each with a lingerie-clad woman standing behind it, trying to catch the eye of anyone passing by. As Selena watched, a middle-aged guy in a gray suit stopped at a half-open door and started to talk with the woman inside. After a minute or two the door opened wider, he stepped inside, and a blind came down over the glass.

“How long do you think he gets?” asked Martin. He’d clearly been watching the same encounter.

“Shall we wait until he comes out?”

They laughed, stood away from the railings and walked on. Now there were more of the famous glass doors. The women came in all varieties, and all ages, it seemed. As Martin and Selena walked, the prostitutes kept making eye contact, smiling, posing.

“You fancy?” asked Selena.

Martin laughed and answered, “Do you?”

“Some, yes,” she said. “I hadn’t expected them to be so hot.” She’d never hidden from Martin the fact that one of her previous relationships had been with a woman. She always said that she didn’t care what gender someone was: if there was a spark, there was a spark. She’d often told Martin he could easily have been a woman, and he knew exactly what she meant.

The wide paved area around the Oude Kerk was fringed with bars, coffee shops and more glass doors. Even the church itself had glass doors around its flanks.

They looped around and headed back down the other side of the canal. After a few minutes they paused outside a small theater. Its neon sign read LIVE PORNO and LIVE SEX SHOW, and photographs of its shows festooned the walls outside.

“Hey, hey,” said a big guy in a leather jacket. “Live sex show, best in Amsterdam. We have a couple of seats left. Show starts soon. You wanna see what they’re all talking about?” The guy patted Martin on the shoulder, and went on: “You wanna make the lady happy, right? I got you special deal. Normally it’d be a hundred euros just for the tickets, but you’re young and in love – I give you two tickets, a free drink each, all for eighty euros.”

§

The cramped stairwell opened into the back of a small theater, rows of red velvet cinema-style seating ranked before a stage concealed by a long black curtain. The walls were decorated with classical-style murals of naked men and women, their limbs all out of proportion and their poses awkward and unnatural.

“This is weird,” said Selena.

“You don’t say?”

About half the seats were occupied, and Martin and Selena took seats at the end of a row in the middle. Selena took a long drink from her plastic cup of beer and looked around. There was a loud and excited group of young women over at the front on the far side, wearing tiaras and sashes and false breasts. The rest of the audience was made up of small groups, couples and lone men, one of whom was taking photos of the murals.

“You feeling horny?” asked Selena.

“Not remotely. You?”

She reached down and dragged her nails up his thigh, before brushing her hand across his crotch. Those thin linen pants didn’t leave much to the imagination.

“Not yet,” she said, drawing her hand back across a new hardness. “You regretting not staying in the hotel?”

He put an arm around her, resting it along the back of her seat. There was something about the way he did that, the way it emphasized his strength and drew her in... It was a subtle and unusual turn-on, but it always worked and he knew it.

“We can always make our own entertainment,” he whispered into her ear.

Just then the background music became louder. The curtains drew apart to reveal a blonde woman standing there in heels, a split black skirt, white blouse and thick-rimmed glasses. The music cut to “Sexy and I Know It” and she started to dance, turning to shake her ass as she unbuttoned her top. It was a standard striptease routine, destroyed by the bored look on the dancer’s face.

“She looks like she’s thinking about her shopping list,” said Martin.