My name is Franz. I am 50 years old. I have lived with my wife Martha for over 25 years. She is now 45 years old, 5’6" tall and weighs about 12 st 10 lb (154 lb). She has dark, shoulder-length hair, greying slightly with age. What I fell in love with when we met were her green eyes, which invariably sparkle. With the birth of our two children, her figure suffered somewhat, but her hips and thighs are still in great shape compared with those of other women her age. Although her breasts sag a little, which is quite normal for her age, she’s still pretty well endowed, and the fullness of her figure is a source of some pride – not just to her but to me too.
Our problem, like that I expect of many couples who’ve been married as long as we had, was that our sex life was becoming a bit routine. When our youngest left home two years ago to study in another city, instead of cheating on one another on the sly and putting our marriage at risk, we decided to look for some other way of giving our sex lives a fillip. In a current affairs programme called Explosiv on the TV, we’d seen a feature on erotic clubs for couples aged forty or above. Now that made us sit up. After a lot of research, we found there was just such a club only 50 miles from where we lived. Even though there is a town nearer, only 12 miles away, we didn’t bother looking there, as we wanted to spare ourselves the embarrassment of being recognized.
So we went, in a state of no little excitement, and I have to say, the entertainment was first class. Each couple had its own table with good view of the stage in the centre of the room. That evening there was a rather sexy lingerie show featuring women in their thirties. This being a club for the over forties, they’d had the sensitivity to avoid using much younger women as models, so as not to provoke feelings of jealousy or inadequacy in any of the female members. There was also a notice board where you could advertise to meet like-minded couples. This had a section reserved for swingers. We enjoyed ourselves so much that we began visiting the club on a regular basis, anywhere from once a week to once every three weeks. Over time, you get to know other couples, particularly those interested in the same types of entertainment as yourselves. This is because the programme of entertainment and activities for the coming month is always advertised well in advance.
As we were leaving, we took a last look at the notice board and saw there was a couple advertising for a partner swap. On the way home and in bed that night we talked it over and we both had to admit that we found the idea of swapping partners with another couple somehow exciting. All the same, it was around two months before we could bring ourselves to try it – it was, after all, a form of infidelity. What we agreed was that since both of us would be doing it, neither would blame the other.
And so it was that the next time we saw the advertisement, we responded. We did this simply by writing at the bottom of the card, beneath the advertisement: ‘We’re interested. Table 18.’
It must have been about two hours later that a couple came to the table to introduce themselves.
‘Hi, we’re Wolfgang and Brigitte,’ said the man. ‘Are you the couple that replied to our ad?’
Caught a little on the hop, I looked at him and replied, somewhat hesitantly, ‘Yes, Please sit down.’
Easily six foot two, he was about four inches taller than me, slim, with dark hair greying at the edges and an elegant pair of spectacles. He was wearing a dark grey suit. She was around five foot eight – a little taller, then, than my wife. Her figure was similar to that of my wife, but she was three years older. She had long blonde hair which she wore pinned up at the back. She was wearing a dark blue jacket with a matching skirt that ended just above the knee. From the look of it, she shared my wife’s fondness for pumps, hers being dark blue with a high heel. Beneath her jacket, she was a wearing a white blouse unbuttoned at the top to offer a tantalising glimpse of her generous bosom. Like my wife’s, her eyes were green and there was something challenging, somehow, in her mien. She had a nice tan, too, the result, I assumed, of a few visits to the solarium.
They sat down with us at the square table, her on my left, him on my right, and my wife facing me. We spent the rest of the evening chatting in an animated fashion, with me, being a bit of a bosom fetishist, peering discretely by turns at her cleavage and that of my wife. Wolfgang, I noticed, was up to much the same game. They told us that their kids had left home, as had ours, and that this was the first time they’d tried wife-swapping.
When the time came to leave, I drove Brigitte back to her house, while Wolfgang drove my wife home to ours. The deal was that at 10 o’clock in the morning, the two men would drive home to their respective spouses. The remainder of the evening was exciting. When we got to her place, we went into the living room, where she put on some nice music and fetched a bottle of champagne from the fridge. Under the heady influence of the champagne, we danced for about half an hour, enjoying the feel of one another’s bodies, and began kissing passionately. On the way to the bedroom, she slowly undressed me, and I her. As I lay on the bed, she came to me wearing only her bra and panties, of which I relieved her slowly, taking my time so as to draw out the pleasure.
She was even lovelier in the flesh than I’d imagined. In terms of bust size, she was in the same league as my wife, somewhere between a C and a D cup, her breasts full, with a hint of sag in them – like my wife she was a mother of two – and lightly tanned. My wife’s breasts were perhaps slightly larger and white, with pink nipples, where Brigitte’s were brown. Now those nipples were erect with excitement. Slowly, with avid deliberation, she set about the task in hand. Her upper body, like that of my wife, was in good condition and lightly muscled. Clearly she practiced sport of some kind. Her tum was a little tighter than my wife’s and her backside, too, was firm; her thighs, on the other hand, were a little flabbier. That night we had wild sex. Twice. The next morning, before I left, we did it again.
The other pair seemed to have taken quite a shine to one another too. Variety, we could confirm, really is the spice of life.
We didn’t let it get out of hand, but over the course of the following year and a half, we did a partner swap with them on four separate occasions. We also became quite good friends at the club and even shared a table with them several times.
Around six weeks ago, however, things took an interesting turn. Martha and I were sitting alone at our table and I was studying the programme for the coming month: String Show, Latex & Leather, Ladies’ Wrestling, Miss Topless … I did a double take. Had I read that right? Ladies’ Wrestling?My secret passion! I asked the waitress what the format was. She replied that the organizer of the event, who specialises in such shows, would arrive and set up a ring, and then the girls he’d brought with him would pair off and fight. Afterwards, any women in the audience who were up for it could try their hand against one of the girls in the troupe, or against some other woman in the room.
‘Would you be interested?’ she asked my wife. ‘With your physique, you could certainly give a good account of yourself!’
But Martha seemed reluctant: ‘I’d only embarrass myself against one of you youngsters,’ she replied.
‘Then we’ll find someone older for you to fight,’ said the waitress, unwilling to let the matter rest. ‘I did it myself once. It’s actually quite a turn-on rolling around on the mat with another girl – especially if there’s a boyfriend to play for. But don’t worry. It’s nothing serious. Think it over.’
The waitress moved on to the next table and I looked at my wife. I could tell, she was turning the idea over in her head. For the time being, I decided not to press her. What gave cause for hope, though, is that she hadn’t seemed altogether averse to the idea.
At home, when she was lying naked on top of me in bed, I revealed my secret to her: that I would love to see her wrestle sometime.
‘With your sweetheart Brigitte, perhaps?’ she asked, and gave me a saucy grin. I caught my breath. That was exactly what I’d had in mind. To see those two women in particular locked in a duel would be a dream come true! After swallowing hard, I set about the delicate task of goading her into challenging Brigitte.
‘Against her, I don’t think you’d stand a chance,’ I began, as though I’d rather, really, she tried her luck against an opponent less formidable. ‘She’s a bit taller than you and she’s got powerful shoulders.’
I’d tried so hard to keep it a secret, but it appeared she knew damn well I had the hots for Brigitte and had done for the last year and a half.
‘Looks like I’ll have to show you men I’ve got the beating of that woman on the mat as well as the mattress,’ she said, taking the bait. I looked at her, fearful that she’d seen through me and was taking the piss. Nope! She was serious. She really did want to take on Brigitte in the wrestling ring!
For the next few weeks, I could think of nothing else. Before leaving the club the following week, we went over to say goodbye to Wolfgang and Brigitte. He asked when we’d be coming next.
I replied: ‘In a fortnight at the latest for the ladies’ wrestling.’
Whereupon he confessed the idea rather appealed to him too.
‘Wives are allowed to participate. Did you know that?’ I said, broaching the subject with delicacy.
He shot a look at his wife, Brigitte. Time stood still. She seemed coy. Thinking perhaps a gentle push was called for, I asked her whether she wouldn’t like to compete against Martha. Martha said nothing, but looked at her and nodded, as if to say ‘I’m game if you are’.
Brigitte thought for a moment. Then, to my relief, she looked at me and said with a smile: ‘Then you’d better brace yourself, hadn’t you, because your wife’s in for a humiliating defeat.’
We said our goodbyes, and the women exchanged hugs and kissed one another on each cheek, but it had more to do with feeling out the body of a future opponent than any sudden affection they'd conceived for one another.
At work, in the weeks that followed, I spoke to Wolfgang quite often on the phone. He, too, was looking forward to the encounter and we began to speculate as to which of our wives would win.
The night before the fight, I was in bed with my wife, both of us naked. We were lying belly to belly with her on top. I felt her back, her firm buttocks and her thighs. And as I did so, I began to gee her up: ‘You’re a strapping lass,’ I whispered. 'You're built for this. Your thighs are firmer than her thighs. The muscles of your upper body are firm too. You're going to take her tomorrow. I'm sure of it.’
She beamed at me. It was what she needed to hear. I could tell.
‘I’m going to weave your precious Brigitte into the ring ropes!’ she promised me, certain now of victory.
*
The big day came.
I was waiting in the car with the engine running, while she locked the front door. She had a small bag with her containing all her fighting gear.
When we got to the club, she made straight for the changing room and went through the details with the organiser. He told she wouldn’t be on for at least another hour and half, so she might as well go and sit with her husband. We sat down at a table. After a while, Wolfgang and Brigitte arrived and joined us. The greetings were amicable enough. Both women, once again, looked stunning. Brigitte looked at Martha. ‘Well?’ she asked, with a smile that wasn't one. ‘Ready to lose?’
Martha looked at her coldly: ‘You would not believe how much I'm looking forward to pinning your shoulders to the mat!’
We sat watching the wrestling matches between the young women who made up the troupe, until someone – the wife of the organiser, we supposed – came to our table and asked Martha and Brigitte to follow her. The women stood up, gave us each a farewell kiss, and went to the changing room.
Now alone, Wolfgang and I began discussing the upcoming fight.
‘Is your Brigitte fit?’ I asked him.
‘She's done a bit of sport in the last few weeks,’ he replied, ‘So I think she is, yes. What’s more, she’s hell-bent on showing your Martha a hard time.’
I assured him that my wife was fit too, and just as determined to put Brigitte in her place.
‘Maybe so,’ he replied, ‘but I still think my old lady's going to whip yours. Only last night, as we were lying in bed together, I was massaging her tight shoulders and firm thighs and picturing your Martha in her leg scissors. Wincing. I confess, I’m rather looking forward to that.’
He gave a little laugh.
Although I didn’t say so, I was rather afraid he was right. Brigitte was a bit more solidly built, especially in the shoulder region, but I took comfort in the thought that Martha was stronger than she looked.
*
Now our women were being called to the ring. First Martha. I was curious to see what she’d be wearing as she’d been very secretive about this at home. One thing I was sure of was that she’d opt for something sexy to get the rest of the men in the room on her side.
She entered, wearing her dark pumps and a white silk kimono that ended halfway down her firm thighs, but she removed this as soon as she'd climbed into the ring. Beneath it, she was wearing a skimpy black bra with cups that were semi-transparent so you could make out her nipples. Her breasts seemed in danger of spilling over the top. Below, she had on a skimpy black thong that left her butt cheeks exposed. To judge from the applause, especially as she was introduced, she had the crowd behind her.
‘Here,’ began the announcer, ‘we have Martha, who is 45 years old, 168 cm tall, and weighs 67 kg. [Translator’s note: 5’6", 12 st 10 lb (154 lb)] Like Brigitte, her opponent this evening, Martha is a mother of two. Brigitte is 48 years old, 175 cm tall and weighs 72 kg.’ [Translator’s note: 5’8", 13 st 3 lb (159 lb)]
Now Brigitte made her entry. The sight of her took my breath away. Like Martha, she was wearing dark pumps, but her kimono was dark blue. It, too, ended mid-thigh. After climbing into the ring, she removed her kimono, exactly as Martha had done. She, too, was wearing a skimpy black thong. Above it, a cross between a bra and a top, except that the fabric was a kind of pantyhose nylon. Whatever it was, it was completely transparent, and her big breasts were placing such a strain on the fabric that already it seemed about to come apart. The position of her nipples, too, was easily discernible.
Seeing her in this outfit, much of the audience came over to her side. As you can imagine, Wolfgang and I were following the proceedings with bated breath. The two women removed their pumps, bending each leg in turn and reaching behind them to do so, before performing a few stretching exercises. The referee stepped forward and called them both to the centre of the ring. There they were again reminded of the rules: No hitting, punching, biting, kicking or pulling hair – on pain of disqualification. Any rough treatment meted out to the bosom or vaginal area would also result in immediate disqualification. The fight would be the best of five falls. To win a fall, they had either to pin their opponent’s shoulders to the mat for three seconds or get her in a hold from which she was unable to escape for thirty seconds. Both women indicated that they understood and accepted the rules, and went to their corners.
Then it was on.
As they closed in the centre of the ring, they stretched their arms, challenging one another to a test of strength. Their hands clapped together and the muscles of both women were soon straining with effort. Leaning forward slightly, each was trying to force the other back. Dismayed for my wife but at the same time exultant for the woman upon whom I had a secret crush, I watched as Brigitte slowly, ever so slowly, began forcing Martha backwards, though the latter managed rather skilfully each time to avoid the ropes. I was a bit vexed, all the same, to see that Wolfgang’s wife really did have more strength than mine.
Everyone in the club, now, was shouting encouragement to one or the other of the two fighters, so our own voices were almost lost in the din. The upper body muscles of the two women were taut. Suddenly, with a deft sidestep, Martha had Brigitte stumbling forward into a void. In a flash, Martha turned, came alongside her and clamped on a headlock.
‘Nice work, baby!’ I cried, overjoyed.
My darling spouse began tightening the headlock and shifting her weight to force Brigitte to the mat. Slowly Brigitte succumbed, ending up lying on her side with Martha on top of her. My wife strained to force Brigitte onto her back but Brigitte resisted. Meanwhile their legs – now interleaved, now kicking out wildly – were engaged in a war of their own, which made for a highly erotic spectacle! Slowly Brigitte managed to twist onto her belly, but her head was still in chancery. You could see her going red in the face and gasping for air. My wife was lying on top of her, with her right arm still wrapped round Brigitte's neck, hoping she'd give up. But Brigitte had no such intention. She managed to bend her left leg and get it under body, which allowed her to turn both herself and my wife onto their backs. For a split second, both my wife’s shoulder blades did seem to be touching the mat, but the referee decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and didn't count. Above her, her legs spread wide, Brigitte placed the soles of her feet on either side of Martha’s and lifted her pelvis as high as she could to apply maximum pressure to Martha’s upper body and force her shoulders back down to the mat.
Desperation was written all over my wife’s face as she struggled to avoid being pinned. She was on her back with her left shoulder touching but she was managing to keep her right shoulder just off the mat. The referee was lying flat on his stomach beside her so he could see whether or not both shoulders were down. With all her might, my wife tried to sit up. The full weight of Brigitte’s upper body was pressing down on her breasts.
Trusting she could hear me, I was shouting: ‘Fight it, baby, fight it! Try and turn over!’
But with Brigitte’s leg muscles piling on the pressure, after a minute or so, Martha began to weaken and slowly her second shoulder blade sank to the mat.
First blood to Brigitte.
Both women got to their feet and went to their respective corners.
‘Damnation! It began so well!’ I complained.
But Wolfgang retorted: ‘What did I tell you? Brigitte’s giving your old girl a thrashing!’
The fight resumed without a pause. Both were soon back in the middle. With their upper bodies bent forward, they began probing for a weakness. Martha, being one fall behind, was the more aggressive of the two and launching the more frequent attacks, but Brigitte successfully evaded them. Then, Martha feinted to go right, causing Brigitte to take a step to her left, which Martha then did too and they collided, chest to chest, and immediately wrapped their arms round one another, each trying to lift and throw the other to the ground. Once or twice my wife did manage to lift Brigitte off the ground but she wasn’t able to throw her. Now, Wolfgang too was shuffling nervously in his seat. Then, though, by leaving hold briefly, Brigitte was able to position herself somewhat lower on Martha’s body, and quickly bent her legs. Now, reapplying the bear hug, she straightened her legs fully and lifted Martha right off the ground. She wanted to throw her cleanly but since Martha still had a firm hold of her, she had to go with her. They crashed to the mat simultaneously and began rolling around. Their legs, already with a shiny film of sweat, were tightly intertwined. The struggle became intense; neither wanted to yield the advantage. After they’d rolled over several times, it was my wife who ended up on top. The equalising pin was right there, I could see it. But, with a swift movement, Brigitte caught my wife between her thighs. Crossing her ankles so she could squeeze harder, she began exerting crushing pressure to my wife’s ribs. Although in considerable pain, my wife tried gamely to force Brigitte’s upper body to the mat to level the score. Brigitte, however, had her arms bent and both elbows on the mat with her upper body raised, so my wife had no way of pinning her. Trapped between Brigitte’s thighs, Martha was in considerable distress, but her opponent was relentless and gave her a smug grin. Whenever Brigitte increased the pressure, flexing her legs in a jerky movement, her breasts jounced up and down in her flimsy bustier. It was a glorious sight! After around fifteen seconds, realising my wife was trapped, the referee began counting, and after a further thirty, Martha was delivered from her torment.
Second fall to Brigitte.
The two women went back to their corners. My wife looked at me in despair.
At least, Wolfgang was happy. Taking a sip of his beer, he shouted: ‘Way to go, Sugar Bee!’
His wife responded by blowing him a kiss. My head was spinning. Was my wife so much weaker than Wolfgang's? Or had Brigitte just been lucky? Why was it that Martha began so well each time only to fade later?
I was still pondering these questions when the two women closed for the third fall. This time it was Brigitte who seemed the more aggressive. The first series of attacks concluded with another test of strength. Brigitte again proved the stronger, which came as no surprise now, and began laboriously but relentlessly driving my wife in front of her, with my wife, each time cleverly avoiding the ropes as she had done earlier.
Now, as Brigitte attempted to drive her into the corner, Martha sidestepped adroitly when she was only two metres away, only this time it was to the left and not the right. Brigitte stumbled forward and ended up with her upper body draped over the second rope. Quick as a flash, my wife was on her. With her legs on either side of Brigitte’s body she reached over the top rope with both hands, grabbed Brigitte’s chin and lifted it. Bent back over the top rope, Brigitte’s upper body was fully stretched, with her breasts seeming ready to burst the bustier. The fabric began to tear. Brigitte struggled mightily to free herself but my wife had got her over the proverbial barrel. When, after ten seconds, she still showed no signs of escaping, the referee began counting. Brigitte was grimacing, clearly in considerable pain, her neck bent backwards as far as it would go, After 30 seconds, she too was delivered from her torment.
Relieved, I leaned back. ‘You see? My wife isn’t quite so hopeless after all,’ I said to Wolfgang, who was as impressed with the hold as I'd been.
‘Yep! That time, I’ll admit, your girl got her good!’
As Brigitte returned to her corner, you could see her massaging her neck. The fight resumed. Once again they met in the centre of the ring. Again, there was a great deal at stake. If she wanted to stay in the fight, my wife needed to take this fall too. Of course, her opponent wanted the same thing, so they were both anxious not to make a mistake. They circled one another, leaning forward. Reaching out with their hands, they began another trial of strength, only this time, since their bodies were almost horizontal, it was their legs doing all the heavy lifting. To my surprise, I realized my wife was actually the stronger in this situation. Slowly, she forced her somewhat larger opponent, who seemed now to be running out of steam, to retreat. I was cheering her on as loudly as I could, and Wolfgang did the same for his wife. In the end, Brigitte’s left arm buckled, and now my wife’s right arm was free. She fell forward, but with an effortless, deft turn, got Brigitte in a headlock again.
‘Watch out!’ yelled her husband, but Brigitte could do nothing as Martha, after a dour struggle, was able to turn and flip her blonde opponent over her hip onto the ground. Once again, Martha landed on top of her. Brigitte tried once more to find some purchase with her legs in hopes of countering, but my wife kept her head tightly in chancery. The right breast of my sweet dearest was dangling in front of the flushed face of her opponent. Brigitte tried with all her might to break the hold, but she was unsuccessful. Once again, it was the referee who rescued her from her predicament.
Both women were back in their corners.
‘So! Now it really is getting exciting. Looks like I underestimated your Martha. Frankly, I'm impressed,’ said Brigitte’s husband.
‘They’ve both put on a great show so far. I'm tempted to say they’re equally strong,’ I replied.
I looked over to my wife’s corner and gave her an approving nod. The fifth and final fall began. You could feel the tension in the room. The spectators seemed evenly split between the two women: half for my wife, for her heroic fightback, and half for opponent, doubtless because she presented such a darned erotic spectacle whether she was winning or losing.
They were both now breathing heavily and their bodies shone gloriously under the spotlights. It was a sight for sore eyes. So much so that even to blink would have seemed to make slight of the feast they were being served. The previous rounds had left Brigitte’s bustier torn wide open at the front, the material evidently no match for the firmness and fullness of her breasts. Now it was only holding together at the top and bottom. The strain ensuing from the next test of strength proved the final straw. To the delight of the spectators, it came apart. Brigitte released her grip and took a few quick steps backwards. Reduced to two rags hanging to the left and right of her bosom, the hapless garment now was a pitiful sight. Angrily, Brigitte ripped it from her body and tossed it into the audience, which expressed its gratitude with a lascivious roar.
My wife, who had not yet had the pleasure of seeing Brigitte's naked bosom, was dumbfounded.
‘Got nothing to match that, have you?’ the blonde sneered.
‘You think? Then what's this then?’ said my wife, reaching behind her to unfasten the clasps of her bra. Slipping it forwards down her arms, she tossed it aside, liberating her own bosom.
All the support she'd lost moments earlier, she reclaimed in an instant.
‘Time to finish this!’ snarled Wolfgang's wife.
‘I’m dying to,’ replied my own.
What followed were the longest and most thrilling five minutes of my life. First, a wild stand-up, with my wife manhandling one moment, manhandled the next, both women bent forward, their beautiful breasts swaying back and forth with every movement – a magnificent spectacle!
Then, a last desperate struggle on the ground, the pair rolling forwards and backwards across the ring – now my wife on top, now Brigitte – and the whole room cheering wildly, and wildest of all, Wolfgang and I, the proud husbands.
Sometimes it was my wife on her back with the referee counting 'One … Two …', sometimes Brigitte.
When it was my wife on her back, her breasts lay flat, spilling outwards; when it was my secret love, her breasts did the same, and each time she lay like that, I thought it was over – I could already see my wife strutting round the ring with her arms raised in triumph – and each time she countered, it was suddenly the vision of Brigitte’s triumph that gladdened my mind’s eye.
Minutes passed.
Then it was all over. My wife was again in the supine position, but still had one elbow wedged beneath her torso, propping her up. Brigitte lay on top of her. The thighs of the two rivals were intertwined. From where we were sitting, we could see our wives’ faces, and scrutinized them, trying to gauge whether this was it or not. Brigitte was applying the full weight of her upper body to that of my wife trying to pin her, but with one arm bent beneath her, my wife was still able to resist. Now the two women’s upper bodies, meaning their breasts and bellies, were pressed tightly together. Maximum pressure was being applied to all four breasts. My wife was in a desperate position, her back only inches from the mat, with only her elbow supporting the weight of her own and her opponent’s upper body.
I was shouting encouragement, willing her to resist, to hang on, to keep those shoulder blades from touching, but Wolfgang leapt from his seat, ran to the ringside and began shouting: ‘That’s it! You’ve got her, Sugar Bee, pin her! She's yours!’
So I, too, then ran to the ringside to cheer my Amazon: ‘Hang in there, baby! She can’t keep up this pressure. Eventually she’ll have to let you up.’
You could see the pained expression on their faces.
Then, to my horror, I noticed my wife’s elbow, which was the only thing propping her up, was beginning to slip out from beneath her on the film of sweat between her skin and the mat.
‘No-o-o-o-o!’ I cried in desperation but it didn't help. My wife’s upper body sank inexorably to the canvas, and her opponent made sure it remained there.
Brigitte had won!.
Exhausted, she remained lying on top of my wife until she'd got her breath back. Then she sat up and struck a victory pose. It was a stunning sight. Finally she stood up and held out her hand to my wife, who accepted it, and Brigitte helped her to her feet.
It was time, as they say, to make it official: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your winner with a narrow 3-2 victory over Martha is ..Brigitteeee!’ (who now acknowledged the applause of the spectators) ‘But in my opinion, the way they fought, it could just as easily have been a draw, so a short round of applause for both fighters.’
The applause was tumultuous. Being a good sport, my wife congratulated her conqueror, who in return gave her a friendly hug. Embarrassed and disappointed, my wife climbed down from the ring and made her way back to the changing room with her tail between her legs, leaving Brigitte to bask a while longer in the applause.
When she too left the ring, we men returned to our table and sat down. I congratulated Wolfgang on his wife’s victory.
‘Your wife's performance was none too shabby either,’ came the consoling reply.
We discussed the fight some more, and half an hour went by without us even noticing. Then our wives returned and joined us at the table. They had showered in the meantime and once again smelt marvellous. We each took our wives in our arms, and I comforted mine who was still dejected, while beside us Brigitte’s cries of joy continued for some time. Then I congratulated the winner.
‘Right! Well, now we’re all going back to our house,’ she announced, and when I enquired ’How so?’ she replied: ‘Just ask your wife!’
I looked askance at Martha, who hung her head, before admitting, shamefaced: ‘Before the fight, we made a bet. We were each so confident of victory that we bet the pair of you on the outcome!’
Wolfgang and I looked at one another puzzled.
‘Yep!’ confirmed Brigitte. ’That was the deal. Tonight both men will service the winner, and that’s me. So, gentlemen, if you please, let's get going!’
We paid and drove to their place. What followed, for Brigitte, was one of the most torrid nights of her life, with two men all over her, catering to her every whim. Not so for her defeated rival, who was forced to watch, because that, too, was part of the deal.
I don’t suppose we’d have seen them ever again if Brigitte hadn’t, after a while, shown a little compassion and invited Martha to join us.
The next day, though, and for weeks thereafter, my wife was despondent and morose; her defeat had left a bitter taste in her mouth; but eventually she got over it and the four of us in fact became good friends. We still do see Wolfgang and Brigitte from time to time.
That said, there’s been no more partner swapping since that evening.
*****
(from the German "Damenringen im Club"
https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=115822.0 by Patrick1204
https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?action=profile;u=82062)
