After many years’ travels in search of a nice place to commune with nature as God intended, we bumped into Prairie Paradise, an adults-only nudist resort nestled smack in the middle of wheat country, away from everything. You know, flat as a pancake, surrounded by miles and miles of “amber waves of grain”, with no purple mountains anywhere to be seen.
Cyan and I married 35 years ago, with the mutual understanding that “marriage” did not mean “exclusive”. Not that we encouraged each other to date around — we had indeed found our lifemate — but acknowledging much of our attraction was a hedonistic streak, especially when it came to carnal pleasures. We could technically be called “swingers”, but we’re not, really, at least not in the sense of going to wanton drunken parties just to screw. We simply are open to enjoying physical gratification with others when the opportunity presents.
Prairie Paradise is one of those opportunities. Not promoted as a “swinger camp”, it is made clear in the resort’s rules that sex is allowed everywhere except the hot tub and pool. The operators here recognize the çankaya escort realities of social nudism, versus traditional naturist parks where adults are not allowed to do what adults do, at least not in the open enjoyment of the natural ambiance.
A feature of Paradise is roughly 200 acres of woods breaking the monotony of the surrounding farmland. A groomed grassy trail has been carved through the woods with points of interest including, to our amusement, a small clearing with strategically placed trees for guests wishing to enjoy “tied-up naked in the woods” fantasies. Not our thing, but we appreciate the idea.
This trip we eschewed the tent and rented one of the small cabins. Even though the weather was especially pleasant, the comfort of a real mattress for the overnight was something we wanted to try.
The campground manager knows we socialize, and will introduce us to other visitors, or at least make us aware of others on the property we know or may wish to know. It’s a quiet weekday, so she mentioned that two day guests, single men cebeci escort “Mike” and “Pat”, were separately visiting, and she would appreciate our showing them around.
We catch up with them chatting on the clubhouse patio, introduce ourselves and join the conversation. Turns out that Mike was my age; Pat was quite a bit older, but holding up well. We offer a tour of the grounds, suggesting that we end with a relaxed walk on the wooded trail. They accept, and we continue our chat while familiarizing them with the park.
After touring the fixed facilities, we head out on the trail. Pat tells us he is 10 years’ divorced, surprising… no, shocking us by relating his life of raising three children with his now-ex, all offspring of different men she cuckolded him with, by mutual intent. He said they rarely had sex with each other; their thing was her “entertaining” Black men while he watched.
Cyan was taken aback by this story, and I reassured her that “it’s a thing” and I would explain more later. Since conversation had turned to sex and intercourse çukurambar escort with strangers in particular, all three of us guys were sporting starts of erections.
“What about you?” Cyan inquires.
“I get mine.” His erection reaches the apparent maximum, which he bobs for my wife’s benefit.
Apparently also turned on by Pat’s story, she steps toward him, asking, “May I touch?”
She fondles his cock and balls, then asks, “Suck?”
Kneeling into the grass, she does what she does. Sensing imminent release, she backs away, stroking his penis as he shoots into the air. Impressive for an old guy!
Mike and I are quite hard watching this. Cyan sizes up Mike’s endowment, makes eye contact with him, and smiles.
“You?” she asks.
“Not here,” although she also fondles his package for a bit. “Cabin.”
The four of us turn back for the short hike to the campground. I show all three into the cabin. Cyan and Mike sit on the bed; Pat takes the one chair.
I offer, “Anybody need something to drink? Cooler’s in the car.”
“Yes, please,” all three respond.
Leaving the door open, I walk the 50 feet, fetch the cooler, and return to find Mike between Cyan’s legs, absolutely fucking the shit out of ‘er. Pat is watching and stroking, working-up another hard.
I laugh. No surprises here. I guess I’m third in line.