Fake swingers and real creeps: the story of a memorable flop

We often praise the lovely swingers meetups, and thank goodness, there are plenty of them. But today, I felt like telling you about those face-to-face encounters that, on paper (or rather behind the screen), seemed perfect... before turning into a total fiasco.

​Tonight, I'm sharing one of our worst adventures with you. A gem.

​For several weeks, we had been chatting with a very nice couple. Same vision of swinging, same expectations, same wavelength. In short, the perfect match.

​We decide to move on to the next step: a meet-up in a sauna we all frequent. No photos exchanged beforehand, to respect their wish for discretion, which we completely understand.

​Once there, after two hours soaking in the jacuzzi and admiring the view, a couple already there when we arrived slowly comes over and slips me a discreet:

— « Hello Stella... »

​Bingo! It's them. We join my husband, the drinks keep flowing, we laugh, conversation comes easily... The chemistry is definitely there. But for this first time, as good as gold, we leave it at that.

​The following weekend, they invite us to their place. A big hesitation on our side: we're not fans of home setups. In a club or a sauna, everyone stays free to come and go. At someone's house, there's always that heavy-handed politeness that pushes you to try the dish even when it's too salty... But fine! We put on our best outfit, pack a good bottle, a cake, and off we go on the adventure.

​When we arrive, the welcome is lovely: a house tour, a nice little aperitif, smooth conversation. All good.

​And then, disaster.

​Without warning, the husband whispers something in his wife's ear, gets up like an automaton, and unfolds the sofa into bed mode. Awkward. Clearly, no need to bring out dessert: the treat is us.

​The couple starts kissing and caressing each other. A bit caught off guard, we decide to play along and let ourselves go in turn. That's when Monsieur suddenly turns the living room into a film set and appoints himself director.

​— « Kiss Stella », he tells his wife.

​She comes over, hesitating, and kisses me. I can sense her discomfort a mile away. It's unsettling. But the conductor has no intention of stopping there:

​— « Caress her breasts! Finger her! »

​At that point, it's too much. His vocal presence during my little feminine moment is seriously starting to get on my nerves. I stop the works and ask the woman at the center of it all directly whether she's enjoying herself. The result? She sheepishly admits to me that she doesn't even know if she likes women and that she's never tried it.

​No sooner said than done, the husband takes the mic again:

— « Of course she does, she's just too shy! She wants to give cunnilingus and be taken by a woman! »

​Faced with the poor woman's distress, my survival instinct (and my empathy) take over. I look at her and say very clearly:

— « If you don't want to or don't feel ready, don't force yourself. One thing's for sure: tonight, for me, it won't go any further. A kiss if you want, but nothing more. I can clearly see this isn't for your pleasure, but to feed your guy's fantasies. »

​Monsieur pulls a face, but in an attempt to "salvage the situation," the evening continues on autopilot. His wife takes care of my husband (who's starting to get some color back), and the chief director comes over to me. Just as I decide to turn my attention to him, his true nature comes galloping back. He grabs the megaphone again:

​— « Suck my balls! Faster! Spit on my cock! »

​At that exact point, I have a crazy urge to invent the gag so I can shut him up for good. But I can see his little wife finally having a good time away from his orders, so I hold myself back so as not to ruin her moment.

​As for Monsieur, he's going to get a taste of my specialty. Since he's the living caricature of the obnoxious man I can't stand, I decide to put him back in his place my way. The more he orders me around, the tighter I squeeze his bits while firmly telling him to shut his mouth. A little proxy revenge on behalf of his wife.

​And then, plot twist.

​Suddenly, the lady gets up in the middle of things and leaves the room without a word.

The husband looks at us, very matter-of-factly:

— « Don't worry, it's time to feed the baby. »

​Excuse me?! 😳

​Stunned. Horrified. We then found out that there wasn't one child, but two, locked in the bedrooms next door so they could be "quiet".

​No sooner said than done, the glamour vanished at full speed. We grabbed our clothes at lightning speed and got the hell out of there.

Moral of the story: Swinging is about sharing, respect and consent. It's certainly not a lesson in bossiness with children in the next room.

​Since that resounding fiasco, the lesson has stuck: never again a private house party! From now on, we stay loyal to clubs and saunas, where freedom of mind (and freedom, period) is guaranteed.