It was a Wednesday lunchtime, the middle of January, and I was at my desk wishing it was Friday evening already. Everything felt depressing; the weather, the 4pm sunsets, the blankness of January after the sociable frenzy of December. I didn’t have exciting plans for the weekend ahead, but at least I’d be at home with Adam, my boyfriend of two years.
I clicked through my personal mailbox as I ate my lunch, discarding the reams of January sale offers. I was about to delete the next message on the list, when the title caught my eye: ‘Valentine’s Fling, by invitation only’. The name in the sender line was simply ‘K’. I'm apathetic about Valentine’s Day, but I wondered if the ‘K’ in question was my friend Kate, and she was throwing a party.
I opened the message and quickly realised this was definitely not Kate's handiwork. The email was headed with an image of a Venetian mask, below which was the question ‘Be our Valentine?’ followed by a date, time and location, given simply as ‘central London mansion'. I kept reading down the page, taking in the ‘seductive’ dress code, and the requirement to wear masks to ‘heighten coming pleasures’ and ‘preserve anonymity’. By the time I reached the sentence inviting guests to ‘indulge yourself as you wish’ it dawned that what had landed in my mailbox was, in fact, an invitation to a sex party.
My instinctive first reaction was to quickly close the message window, not particularly wanting to get caught reading something that could likely get me in all kinds of HR hot water. Once I’d checked there was no one close enough to see, I opened it up again and forwarded to Adam.
How did I get on this mailing list? I typed. Something you want to tell me?! I didn’t actually think he’d signed me up, but how I’d landed the invite was a mystery to me. Adam and I had an active and very enjoyable sex life, and sure, we might’ve talked about the fantasy of including other people (quelle surprise, he was turned on by the thought of me with another woman) but never in a ‘let’s make that happen’ way.
His reply came five minutes later. Not guilty! Glad I read this on my phone, definitely NSFW.
Later that evening, we were eating dinner together at home when he brought it up again.
“So, did you work out how you ended up getting that Valentine email?” he asked.
“Absolutely no clue. Pretty sure I’d remember signing up to something like that.”
He took a sip of his wine, looking like he was hesitating over his next comment. “Are you tempted by it?”
I assumed he was teasing, so responded in kind. “Sure. I’ll grab the whip, you fetch the gimp mask.”
He laughed, and I thought that was the end of it. But, when I looked over at him a moment later, he seemed to be lost in thought.
“Why, are you tempted?” I asked.
He cleared his throat and his words came out in a rush.
“I mean, I knew, in theory, these kinds of parties happen, but I’ve never really considered them before, and we have great sex, I’ve never felt there's anything lacking, but... I couldn’t help but think about it all afternoon, to be honest.”
I was a little taken aback. He actually seemed to be considering it. Adam was not remotely controlling, but I knew that sharing me, with another man, at least, sat way outside his comfort zone. But I’d been thinking about the email a lot, and just knowing that he had too had my mind racing.
“Oh god.” he groaned. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget it. I’m more than satisfied, please don’t think I’m suggesting…”
I cut across him. “Hey, stop, I’m not offended. I thought about it too, it could be kind of hot… and if it was awful, we could always leave. Hell, how often do you get to come home from a night out with a sex party story?!”
We looked at the email again, and now I wasn’t at my work computer, I could freely click to the website for more information. There were tickets for couples or singles, women were allowed to attend alone but all guys must come with a partner, and the rules clearly stated that ‘no meant no’ and women had the final say. Sex was never explicitly promised, but the mention of bedrooms and ‘equipped playroom' certainly implied it.
Merely reading through the site was making me wet, and Adam’s erection was almost bursting through his jeans. A minute later he pounced, and the laptop was put aside in a rush to frenzied orgasms.
Later, relaxed in bed, we came back to the subject of the party. Clearly, there was something about the idea of it that appealed to both of us, but actually going would raise so many questions. Would we just watch, or were we comfortable to join in? Were we okay with being watched ourselves? For other people to join us? Would it change sex between just us afterwards? What the hell do you wear to a sex party, anyway?
After talking about it some more (you try concentrating on this subject without continuous sex breaks), we arrived at a decision. We’d go, and see how the night unfolded, but within agreed boundaries. Observing was fine (unless it was an act we found objectionable), and we’d only participate if we were both comfortable. Being watched was a new, but not entirely unwelcome, idea, our conversation revealed. If a girl wanted to join, then she could do whatever she wanted to me. Adam’s limit was touching, or being touched or sucked - no kissing or fucking. I was comfortable with his boundaries. As for another guy, we agreed that we wouldn’t seek it out, but if a guy wanted to join in then touching and oral sex (me giving or receiving) was as far as it would go.
In the weeks running up to the party, we flitted between wondering what the hell we were getting into, and eager anticipation. The build-up added a kick to our sex life, especially as we went about first selecting, and then ’test driving’, the lingerie I’d wear. We also joined the anonymous chat room for guests that made it clear there would be sex of all flavours, from ‘regular’ to BDSM, and those discussions usually got us so heated that sex was the inevitable conclusion.
Finally, the night arrived. We followed the ‘cocktail party’ dress code given for the start of the evening, me opting for a simple, but slinky, black sheath dress, Adam for smart trousers and shirt. We arrived by cab to the given address, a tall, imposing house on a wealthy London street, and knocked at the door. We were greeted by a suited woman who merely enquired, “Here to fling?” We handed over our tickets and were instructed to leave our coats and don our masks before making our way to the adjacent room.
Masked, and after deep, steadying breaths, we entered a huge drawing room with tall ceilings, dimly lit with a bar set-up at one end. The house was lavishly decorated, with the feel of an upmarket hotel. Although everyone inside was masked, I could feel many curious eyes watch us cross the room to the bar. Whilst Adam ordered glasses of champagne, I looked around, observing about thirty guests, the numbers split slightly in favour of women. Everyone was attractive and well dressed, standing and chatting in small groups. It could’ve been mistaken for a regular cocktail party if not for the over-familiar touches, and heightened sense of excitement in the air.
The room filled further until there were maybe fifty people in total. Then, gradually, people began to make their way, in twos and threes, through another set of double doors. After a second drink, Adam took my hand and led me in the same direction. We arrived in a large, central hallway, a sweeping staircase leading upwards, and various doors leading to parts unknown. A small room off to the side seemed to be serving as a changing room, people emerging either naked or in varying attire, masks now discarded. A man exited totally naked, holding the hand of a woman in stunning lingerie. Adam and I turned to each other as if to say ‘are we ready for this?'.