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The hotel bar was busy as Alice and I entered that New Year’s Eve, the air filled with music and the babble of voices punctuated by the popping of champagne corks and the cheering that followed. In my plain black suit and tight clergyman’s collar I knew I was in for a hot and uncomfortable evening but for a ‘Tarts and Vicars’ party there was only one type of costume I could have chosen. By my side, under her coat my lovely, unfaithful wife was dressed like a LA street whore, ‘Pretty Woman’ style in a very short white plastic skirt under which she wore only a thong, white plastic knee boots and a tight fitting cropped vest top without a bra. Add to that her coarsely applied make-up, huge hoop earrings and large white plastic handbag and Julia Roberts would have had some stiff competition! We looked the part to perfection; Alice in particular seemed to have acquired an aura of sluttiness to match her unfamiliar clothes and to me at least was exuding sexuality. I was trying to play my part by appearing as shocked and confused as a young clergyman should in the presence of such overt sexuality. It was to be a great night out and a real treat for the grown-ups; our two kids were spending New Year at a sleepover party with two of their oldest friends; another family of four we had known well for years. Our friends had long ago insisted that Alice and I take this opportunity to have a late night out; to enjoy ourselves without worrying about coming home in time to look after our kids the next day. We had accepted readily and gratefully because, as Cinderella might have said, it meant ‘we could go to the ball’. *** The ball in question was a grand fancy dress charity affair to be held in the ballroom of a smart city hotel on New Year’s Eve. Elaine, the wife of my work colleague Peter, was heavily into fundraising and this year was going for broke with the biggest event she had ever staged. Over two hundred guests were due to take part in the light-hearted event, which would feature dinner, a live band and dancing afterwards. There would be a piper at midnight and table magicians too so apart from wanting to help a colleague, Alice and I had been keen to go. The tickets were astronomically priced but it was all for a good cause so I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and paid up. Elaine had carefully planned the seating; we were due to sit with them and their friends on a table of ten. Practicality meant that our table was towards the back of the room where Elaine could easily slip in and out without disturbing the guests around. We were to be five couples; Elaine and Peter, our two selves, Carmen and Steve and two other couples who I knew vaguely from other company events. The She-Devil and her husband had been invited by Elaine, who had known them since they had all lived in London years ago. When I first heard that the two of them had been invited I had been highly suspicious and had challenged both my wife and Carmen about the coincidence. In the past, the presence of Carmen and her Stud of a husband – the man who had first seduced my wife in front of me and started us on our inexorable journey into cuckoldry – had usually resulted in my wife’s insemination and my sexual humiliation. Up to now this had been acceptable – even enjoyable but I was concerned; being humiliated and cuckolded in private was one thing; having all my work colleagues know about my cuckold status would have been something else entirely. But I had been assured by both girls that the whole thing was nothing but a happy coincidence. This time at least – there was no plot afoot so eventually my worst suspicions were allayed and I began to look forward to the event again. It had been fun choosing and buying costumes for the night. The dark suit I was wearing had been little-used in my wardrobe for several years. Finding the right clerical collar had required the internet but hadn’t been difficult. Choosing my seriously-uncool hairstyle had been fun. Most of the time had been spent on my wife’s ‘tart’ get-up. We watched ‘Pretty Woman’ on DVD a couple of times to get ideas then, two weeks before the event, spent an afternoon in a nearby shopping centre finding the right clothes. The streets were packed with Christmas shoppers so we were buffeted as we walked round but we stuck to our mission. To my astonishment, clothes I would have considered extremely slutty were easily found in most normal women’s clothes shops. Many were even available in sizes suitable for girls I would have thought still children. I had read about the sexualisation of young girls in the papers and on TV but until now hadn’t really seen it with my own eyes and, despite our own sexual history I was still rather shocked. Alice just laughed when I told her, accusing me of playing the grouchy, prudish Vicar much too early. After an hour or so of searching, we ended up in Ann Summers from where the more racy elements of Alice’s current costume were acquired before heading home. When we arrival at our house we found two messages on the answerphone. The first was from the friends with whom our two kids had spent the afternoon. The message was that they would be staying for supper too so Alice and I were welcome to join them and make it a two-family event. This seemed a very good idea; we were both tired and, besides, our friends were first class cooks. The second message was from Carmen and was considerably less welcome; there were significant problems with their apartment in Spain which meant that they would have to spend most of Christmas and all of New Year over there dealing with builders. This of course meant that they would not be able to come to the Vicars and Tarts Ball with us. Apart from the disappointment, the tickets had been ruinously expensive so their absence would have wasted a great deal of money – admittedly theirs, but it was still a waste. Alice was disappointed too. Whether she had hoped as I had that the evening might end up with her and Steve in bed together somewhere discreet I don’t know but she was subdued for a good two hours afterwards. Fortunately, things improved significantly on our return from dinner with our friends. The food, as always had been excellent, the wine light and cheerful and the conversation the same. As I was shepherding our kids towards the bathroom I heard my wife’s mobile phone ring. A few minutes later she joined me in the bedtime scrum upstairs with a broad smile on her face. “Who was that? You’re looking pleased,” I grinned as I fought the nearly-empty toothpaste tube. “Carmen!” she replied smugly. My tummy felt tingly. Carmen’s calls were seldom without implications for me. “What did she want?” “She says she’s sold their tickets for the ball.” I raised my eyebrows in question as the toothpaste tube finally yielded its remaining contents. “Julie’s bought them. She says it’s about time she had Gary had a Escort izmir bit of fun.” “What about the baby? He’s very young still,” I frowned. “Julie’s parents are happy to have the kids for a few hours. But they’ll have to leave straight after midnight.” “Great!” I smiled. That was indeed good news. The thought of having only work colleagues to talk to and people I didn’t know hadn’t sounded like a fun New Year to me. With Julie and Gary coming, at least the four of us would have plenty in common. I looked forward to the Ball once again. *** As Alice and I crossed the bar foyer, a raised hand caught my attention. I looked in its direction; a good-looking man dressed in similarly clerical clothing was standing by a booth against the wall and gesturing for us to join him. I smiled and waved in acknowledgement at our friend Gary, the newly cuckolded husband of his lovely wife Julie who was sitting close by him on the bench seat. We had agreed to meet in the bar of a smart hotel across the street from the hall in which our Ball was to take place. Arriving unfashionably early would have been a faux pas so a little pre-dinner chat would be very appropriate. Besides, it was some little time since we had met up with our friends, especially since their new baby had been born and I for one was keen to know how for their new lifestyle had progressed. “There they are,” I said, and began fighting my way through the crowd to where the young couple sat. My wife followed close behind in the slipstream of parted bodies. After much jostling, we arrived at the booth and flopped down into onto the benches, Alice next to Gary, me alongside his pretty, unfaithful wife. The two country Vicars inspected each other and grinned. We looked ridiculous; perfect for the evening of dinner, dancing and drinking that lay ahead of us. I turned and gave Julie a ‘hello’ kiss on the cheek. She smiled and flushed a little pink as I settled alongside her. Julie looked simply amazing. Her baby had been born only three months earlier but already her figure had slimmed down to what Carmen assured me was even more slender and considerably sexier than she had been before; before both the baby and the first big step down the road to infidelity she and her husband had recently taken. Knowing what effect the Hotwife lifestyle had on my own wife’s figure I could easily believe it. Julie’s chosen costume was almost a negative image of Alice’s with a black plastic skirt and boots and a tacky, garish yellow top. She wore similarly large amounts of costume jewellery, her lips were bright red, her eye make-up heavy and badly applied and she exuded cheap scent. Where my wife was blonde, Julie’s hair was dark and shone in the bar’s low lighting. She looked so sexy I had an immediate erection which my tight underpants began to strangle painfully. It was impossible to sit next to this lovely woman without remembering the night at Carmen and Steve’s ‘gathering’ not so many months ago; an incredible night during which my lovely wife had been fucked wildly by both of her lovers and had lost her anal virginity right in front of me. What was even more extraordinary, while this was happening I, Mister Cuckold had given the heavily pregnant Julie her first ever oral sex. It had been simply incredible; Julie’s body had reacted more intensely than any I had licked, kissed or sucked before and she had almost immediately reached a shattering orgasm pressed hard against my face. The smell and taste of her vaginal juices – so different from my wife’s or Carmen’s – as they gushed into my mouth will remain with me forever. Although I was not permitted to go on and fuck Julie, in my own small way I had become both a bull and a cuckold in a single evening. Life is strange! The fact that her husband had watched all this happen and had done nothing to prevent it mirrored my own situation with Alice so many times, bringing us closer together if not actually close as friends. “How’s the baby?” I asked after we had kissed our hellos, perhaps a little more intimately than might have happened in the past. “She’s great,” Julie beamed. “Mum and Dad are keeping an eye on her for a few hours.” “Will she be okay without you at this age?” “I’ve left a couple of bottles but we’re leaving on the stroke of midnight anyway.” “It’s a pity the She-Devil can’t join us,” I asked then flushed pink in embarrassment. “Who?” Gary asked. “Um… Carmen,” I replied. “Is that what you call her? It’s perfect!” Julie explained with a giggle. I looked across at my sexy wife. Alice seemed lost in thought; no doubt the thought of Carmen and Steve in Spain had brought back memories of that holiday into her mind too. Eventually she noticed me watching and grinned broadly before asking brightly: “Where’s the waitress? I could do with a drink!” “No table service at New Year,” Gary told her. “It’s too busy.” “I’ll go to the bar,” I volunteered. “I’ll come with you,” Gary added. “What would you like, Ladies?” Julie was well in character and ordered the sort of flashy, ostentatious drink that a cheap tart might well choose. Not to be outdone, Alice ordered a cocktail with an even more sexual name and a moment later Gary and I were jockeying for position at the crowded bar. Getting served wasn’t too big a problem but waiting for the girls’ complicated cocktails to be prepared took some time. As we returned to the booth, our hands full of brimming glasses we saw a middle-aged man in a lounge suit leaning over and talking to Julie. Seeing us returning, he stood up quickly and guiltily before slipping rapidly away into the crowds. As Gary and I placed the drinks on the table, it was clear from the girls’ fits of giggling that something hilarious had just happened. I slipped back alongside Julie who was covering her face with her hands. “What’s going on?” I asked my wife who was trying to suppress a convulsive laugh. “Tell them, Jules,” she urged. “You tell them. It’s embarrassing,” she responded. “Someone tell us, for God’s sake,” Gary demanded, the girls’ laughter becoming contagious. “Okay, Okay,” Alice eventually said. “I think we might have done a bit too well with our costumes tonight.” I raised an enquiring eyebrow. Julie burst out laughing. “Your wife and I have just been propositioned,” she said, giggling. “What?” “That… Gentleman was trying to book the pair of us for a girl-on-girl show for a few of his friends after midnight.” “He thought you were real prostitutes?” Gary gasped in disbelief. “He certainly did. He asked how much we wanted for an all-nighter with the four of them,” Alice added. “Jesus!” I exclaimed. “What did you say?” “I asked what he usually paid,” she replied. “She did!” Julie spluttered. “I couldn’t believe you were so cool about it, Ali.” I suddenly realised Julie had called my wife by the pet name only her first lover, Steve used. Clearly izmir escort bayan Julie had been spending a lot of time with him and they had been discussing my wife and me. The thought unsettled me for a moment but Alice’s response snapped me back. “He offered five hundred quid for what was left of the night.” “Two fifty each?” I asked stupidly. “Too right, Cucky-Boy. I’m not just a cheap whore you know!” We all laughed but I could tell that something in what had happened had had a profound effect on my lovely wife. Julie and Gary knew about my cuckold status only too well; Gary being in a similar place himself, but to use our private name in a crowded bar meant my wife was at least partially aroused already. “Where is he now?” I asked. Julie pointed to a far corner booth where two rather brassily-dressed girls in their late twenties were sitting. “Maybe he’ll get lucky this time,” she giggled. I stood and watched for a moment. The man had moved alongside the taller of the two girls and appeared to be negotiating with her. There were lots of smiles and chat then he began to reach into his jacket pocket for his wallet. The girl alongside him immediately put her hand on his arm to prevent him, whispered something and a minute later all three of them left the bar together. Intrigued, I returned to our table and re-joined the bubbly conversation. After a couple more drinks we made our way across the street to the function room where our party was to take place, laughing and giggling all the way. *** The ballroom’s foyer was crowded as we queued up for the cloakroom. Gasps and giggles accompanied each guest’s appearance as coats were removed and costumes revealed in all their glory. A small cheer rose when Alice and Julie’s street-hooker clothes were exposed and I had to agree that in a coarse, slutty way, the two girls looked stunning. The whole world could see that Julie had clearly recovered her pre-baby figure – there was precious little costume to conceal the fact and of course since she had become a Hotwife, Alice’s figure had become more slender and more athletic by the month. I felt proud of my desirable, unfaithful wife as we entered the dark, crowded, over-heated ballroom and made our way towards our table. My eyes bulged in astonishment; although our costumes had looked outrageous at home and in the hotel bar, as soon as we entered the ballroom I realised that we had actually been relatively modest. I saw at least three Bishops in full regalia and even one Pope, blessing the other guests with champagne as he passed through the crush. But it was the way the women had dressed that made my eyes pop and my mind boggle. Alice and Julie looked like street hookers; some of the other wives and girlfriends had taken the word ‘tarts’ to lengths I hadn’t imagined. Acres of female flesh were visible all around us (whether or not that flesh was suitable for display) and I learned whole new meanings for the words ‘short’ and ‘revealing’. There were belts masquerading as skirts, dresses so tight a surgeon would be needed to remove them and necklines so low an escaping breast was inevitable – possibly even planned. Going by the extremely high cut of some of the underwear being ostentatiously worn, I suspected the local salons had done brisk bikini-line business too. Alice of course was always fully shaven ‘down there’ so the sight of stray and escaping pubic hair on some of the other women wasn’t something I was expecting. We were the last to arrive at the table but were immediately made very welcome and introduced to the other guests. Alice and I already knew Elaine and Peter from work events, though not very well. Peter was a tall, muscular man in his late thirties who had started playing rugby at school and never stopped. Taller than me, he had a rather intimidating, powerful frame, short dark hair and an engaging smile which he used often, especially with the ladies. He was dressed like me, as a country parson but unlike me, his jacket struggled to contain the muscles underneath. Elaine was one of those competent, well-organised, pleasant-yet-slightly-officious women who permeate British society. A little older than her husband and significantly shorter, she had clearly been very pretty at one time and still possessed a nice, if perhaps slightly plump figure. She was recognisably dressed as a ‘tart’ but a very modest one, more like a Second World War ‘honey trap’ agent than the two street prostitutes I had arrived with. From the start Elaine announced that she would probably have to be away from the table a lot to ‘keep an eye on things’. This prediction was amply fulfilled; I don’t think she spend more than a quarter of the meal in her seat which, something which certainly contributed to the later events. The other four guests were friends of Peter and Elaine from the village in which they lived, about fifteen miles out of town. A good twenty years older, they were friendly and welcoming too. The two men had clearly been shopping in the same place as their friend because, apart from the bottle-thick glasses one of them wore, they all looked identical. Their wives though had made much more of an effort. Despite being obviously in their fifties or even sixties, both had chosen stockings and suspender belts with high heels. Hilary, the older, blonder woman was wearing a basque which presented her surprisingly-firm breasts so well I suspected a surgeon’s handiwork. I had to admit that, despite the age difference, both women looked remarkably attractive. Of course Alice and Julie went down extremely well with the woman and especially with the men, whose eyes began to undress them from the first handshake and polite kiss on the cheek. Peter seemed particularly smitten and insisted that they sit either side of him because ‘he would be without a wife for most of the evening’. And so the evening began and began well. Before dinner arrived there was a great deal of chat, a lot of drinking and of course hilarity at the costumes all around us. There was a fair amount of bitchiness from the girls too about the inadvisability of larger women choosing tight fitting costumes but it was all in good humour. Peter seemed to have a personality as big as his physique because from the start, he had both my wife and Julie in stitches of laughter. I suspect as the evening went on, his jokes and comments became more and more risqué and I could see there was a certain amount of touching going on under the table but I saw little to object to – not that Mister Cuckold would have objected anyway. Sitting across the table from me, Gary seemed less pleased with the way things were going. The seat next to him on the left should have been occupied by Elaine but her frequent absences meant almost all his conversation was necessarily with Sandra, the older of the ladies on his right. izmir escort As I watched her during the meal, I realised Sandra was considerably more attractive than first glance would suggest. Though not trying to hide her age, she was certainly in very good shape for it and had a bright, mischievous sparkle in her eyes that was captivating. Her ‘tarty’ costume showed off her slim legs to good effect; knowing this, she kept crossing and uncrossing them throughout the evening. She was clearly an experienced and sensitive dinner companion too and good company but even she struggled to keep conversation going with Gary; who kept scowling across the table at his wife whose full attention was on her new rugby-playing friend. Peter was dividing his time between the two ‘hookers’ either side of him with apparently hilarious results. I would have felt as jealous as Gary and a bit excluded were it not for Hilary, the lady on my right who, it turned out, had travelled widely and had a wealth of genuinely interesting stories to tell me. She accompanied her conversation with a good deal of friendly and rather-more-than-friendly contact with my arms above the table and my thigh below and made sure I had plenty of opportunity to look down the front of her basque top. When I took advantage of these opportunities I was once more convinced that there was more within her corset than merely nature had provided. Still she certainly looked good for a woman her age – for any age in fact. It was unusual for me to experience the appreciative hands of an attractive, if rather older lady on my body. It made me feel attractive myself and I began to get some idea of the way so having much male attention must make my wife and Julie feel. The food took a long time to arrive but was worth the wait. Catering for large numbers can result in rather bland fare but all three courses were excellent. The wine was less impressive but after the third bottle for the table was opened, nobody seemed to care. The coffee was dark, the after dinner liqueurs strong enough to be inadvisable and by the time the tables were being cleared, the feeling of wellbeing within our group was palpable. Even Gary had mellowed. Peter had rather monopolised both Alice and Julie during the meal and the amount of physical contact under the table had greatly increased. From his position opposite, Gary could not have seen all of the antics taking place but I had enjoyed a largely unimpeded view, at least of my own wife’s rather easily-accessible body. Alice of course had made only token objections to Peter’s straying fingers; I determined to find out how far he had pressed his luck once the meal was over. Julie appeared to have taken one too many glasses of the champagne she had stuck to all evening. My view of her from the waist down was not as good as I would have liked but I was pretty certain Peter’s huge, rugby-players’ hands had made much more progress with my friend than with my wife. Dinner being over, the live band struck up and it was time for dancing. I know it’s big-headed but I’ve always considered myself a good dancer – better still when my wife was in good form too. We began dancing as a group then became more spread out as the evening progressed. It felt great to relax and really let our hair down for a change without the kids to worry about and for a long time we let the music carry the good feelings. As the night went on and midnight slowly approached, the dance floor became packed with the hot, moving bodies of every kind of churchman and fallen woman imaginable, Soon it was almost impossible to dance with one individual partner, rather we had to dance with whoever the crush placed in front of us at the moment. Over the next hour I danced with Mata Hari, Cleopatra, Nell Gwyn and half a dozen Julia Roberts, including the blonde version I was married to and the brunette we had arrived with. The two more mature tarts from our table turned out to be great dancers as well as good company giving me plenty of opportunities to admire fishnet covered legs, bottoms and to get rather too many glimpses of suspiciously buoyant breasts. Alice danced with half the Catholic Church and more than a few tarts too. It was surprising how many supposed churchmen were not above giving my wife’s bottom a good squeeze and for their hands even to stray ‘accidentally’ to her tiny breasts as the crowds dancing threw their bodies closer together. The almost non-existent nature of her skirt and top gave them plenty of target area to aim for and they took full advantage of the fact. In other circumstances my unfaithful wife and I might have made arrangements for her to take a selected clergyman upstairs for an hour’s intimate ‘confession’ but this was not the right time or place and she patiently returned wandering hands to more appropriate places on her body with an indulgent smile. To my shame, watching my wife being groped in public in this way sent shivers of excitement through me on several occasions and generated so many erections that I was glad of my dark, unnoticeable trousers. I suspect Julie enjoyed similar treatment as the dancing began but after a few songs we got separated in the crush and I lost track of her for the next hour or so, engrossed in my own enjoyment and in watching my wife being pawed by strangers. I did bump into her husband Gary several times in the bar and by our largely-abandoned table. He appeared to have mislaid his wife too and to this day we still don’t know how she spent the hour leading up to midnight. Eventually she was discovered, dishevelled, on the dance floor with a crimson dressed cardinal whose arms appeared to have several hands each if the way he was touching her was anything to go by. Julie didn’t seem to be offering even Alice’s token resistance. I could tell from his expression that Gary was far from comfortable with this but he too did nothing to prevent his wife being openly groped on the dancefloor. As the magic hour approached, the music grew louder, the songs more familiar and cornier in their selection until with five minutes to go before midnight and the arrival of the New Year, an image of Big Ben was projected on the wall behind the stage. Instinctively, the dancers began to dissipate in search of our friends, loved ones and champagne glasses to welcome the New Year in traditional style. “Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Happy New Year!” The amplified chimes of Big Ben filled the room, accompanied by cheers, the clinking of glasses, the downing of drinks, the shaking of multiple hands and the kissing of multiple cheeks. There were more than a few kisses from unfamiliar lips too and the fondling of unfamiliar bottoms, including my own but the first of January dawned with my lovely wife in my arms, her lips on mine. The band struck up the intro to ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and within seconds a long line of tarts and vicars had formed, holding hands and singing mis-remembered versions of the words in truly terrible, out of tune voices. Just like every other New Year, in fact. Afterwards the band began playing dance music again and I looked around for our friends, still holding my wife’s hand tightly.

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