Graduate Seminar in Creative Writing (closed for SueTeri and PB26385)

[SueTeri]

As they ate, Annabelle continued telling the history of the Velvet Veranda.

Following the Civil War, the plantation economy collapsed, and the Veranda fell into disrepair. Humélie lacked the resources to maintain it, and after several auctions, the property passed to a consortium of businesswomen who quietly reimagined the estate.

By the 1880s, The Velvet Veranda had become a discreet high‑end bordello known for privacy, opulence, and progressive attitudes toward adult companionship. The proprietors believed in autonomy and safety for workers, and the mansion’s design evolved to accommodate private parlors, locked corridor wings, and separate staff passages. Word of its refined atmosphere spread across the region, attracting travelers, artists, and the occasional politician seeking anonymity.

During Prohibition, the mansion transformed again—this time into a social club and speakeasy. Hidden bars, false walls, and concealed staircases allowed guests to mingle, dance, and drink in safety. The bordello element remained but took on a more structured, consensual, membership-based model.

In the 1930s and 1940s, the Veranda became known for progressive views on romance, relationships, and adult expression—long before such ideas were socially acceptable. Many historians point to this era as the beginning of its modern ethos.

As the sexual revolution swept across the U.S in the 60’s, The Velvet Veranda matured into a private lifestyles club with an emphasis on communication, consent, and exploration.

A major restoration revitalized the mansion. The upper floors were redesigned for private suites to provide more intimate and sensual settings. Each of the bedrooms was furnished with antique beds and chairs—mahogany frames polished to a soft glow, velvet upholstery in jewel‑tone shades, and carved details that hinted at eras of whispered decadence.

The restoration team worked with an almost reverent touch. They preserved the creak of the original floorboards, the tall windows with their wavy glass, the crown molding that curled like smoke along the ceiling. But they added modern comforts discreetly: hidden climate control, sound‑dampened walls, and lighting that could shift from warm candle‑glow to deep, seductive shadow.

Every suite had its own personality.

The proprietors insisted that each room feel like a world unto itself—private, inviting, and steeped in the Veranda’s long tradition of intentional, adult connection. Nothing was gaudy. Nothing was rushed. Everything was curated to encourage presence, communication, and the kind of sensuality that unfolded in layers.

Guests often remarked that stepping into one of the suites felt less like entering a room and more like crossing a threshold into a mood.

The main floor was redesigned as the non‑sexual floor, a deliberate buffer between the outside world and the deeper, more intimate spaces below. Conversation parlors lined the hallway—rooms dressed in velvet drapes, low sofas, and warm amber lighting. These were places for members to decompress, flirt, negotiate, or simply breathe after the intensity of the suites beneath them.

A polished mahogany bar anchored the largest parlor. Its shelves held rare spirits, herbal infusions, and a rotating menu of crafted drinks designed to soothe or invigorate. The bartenders were trained not only in mixology but in reading the room—knowing when someone needed quiet, when they needed company, and when they needed space.

The old plantation kitchen had been gutted and rebuilt into a full commercial kitchen. Stainless steel counters gleamed under pendant lights, and the staff moved with the precision of a boutique hotel. They prepared everything from light restorative snacks to indulgent late‑night meals, all delivered discreetly to whichever floor requested them.

Directly off the Entry Foyer, a dressing and undressing suite offered private lockers, soft robes, and quiet alcoves where members could transition between the social spaces and the more intimate levels below. The room smelled faintly of cedar and lavender, and the lighting was intentionally flattering—gentle, warm, forgiving. It was a threshold space, designed to ease the body and mind into the Veranda’s unique cadence.

Behind the reception desk, hidden by a sliding pocket door, sat the office of the property manager. Its presence was subtle but essential. From this quiet command center, the manager coordinated staff, monitored schedules, and ensured that every guest’s boundaries, preferences, and privacy were honored without exception. The Veranda’s reputation depended on that vigilance; it was the invisible architecture beneath the opulence.

The main floor became the mansion’s heartbeat—a place of pause, conversation, anticipation, and return. A place where desire could breathe, gather itself, and choose its direction before descending again into the deeper chambers of the Velvet Veranda.

The basement floor was renovated as the mansion’s most immersive and intimate level, designed for members seeking deeper exploration within a framework of consent, privacy, and curated ambiance.

A series of separate playrooms lined the main corridor, each large enough to accommodate a king‑sized bed and additional seating. The front wall of every room was constructed from floor‑to‑ceiling butt‑joint glass, allowing guests in the hallway to observe the atmosphere within.

The largest playroom is the orgy room, also known simply as the Mirror Room. Its padded flooring and mirrored walls and ceiling created a sense of infinite space, heightening the room’s theatrical quality. Like the private suites, its front wall was made of butt‑joint glass except the inside glass is mirrored, offering a voyeuristic vantage point while maintaining a sense of discretion.

Adjacent to the Mirror Room was the entertainment lounge, anchored by a polished bar and arranged with plush, low‑slung sofas. Several small, padded stages dotted the room, each softly lit and designed for performances, demonstrations, or sensual showcases. The atmosphere here was warm, decadent, and intentionally unhurried.

Further down the corridor, the dance room pulsed with energy. This was the Veranda’s own underground disco—complete with a bar, a polished dance floor, and raised stages fitted with poles reminiscent of a gentlemen’s cabaret. The lighting shifted through jewel‑tone hues, casting the room in a seductive glow that encouraged movement, expression, and playfulness.

A large communal restroom completed the floor, designed with both practicality and comfort in mind. It featured toilets, bidets, urinals, and a spacious gang‑style shower with multiple rainfall heads. The space was tiled in deep green stone, warm underfoot, and softly lit to maintain the Veranda’s signature atmosphere of ease and discretion.

A decade later, the partner university expanded its sexology program, and the Veranda entered yet another phase of transformation. As part of a joint research initiative, a discreet observation platform was constructed within a portion of the basement. The space was carefully modified—never clinical, never cold. Instead, it was modeled after an intelligence‑style strategy room: muted lighting, layered soundproofing, and wall of monitors.

During the renovation, workers uncovered a sealed corridor hidden behind a false wall. The passage descended into a network of natural caverns—spaces once used during Prohibition to manufacture spirits and move them discreetly through the region. Dusty barrels, rusted tools, and remnants of old copper stills hinted at the ingenuity of the era.

The Velvet Vernada leadership saw potential.

The caverns were stabilized, reinforced, and transformed into a dedicated BDSM wing—an environment designed for structured, consensual exploration. The rooms ranged from minimalist restraint spaces to more elaborate chambers equipped for advanced forms of bondage and sensory play. Every element was engineered with safety, communication, and aftercare in mind.

In honor of the infamous Hellfire Society of England—known for its theatricality, secrecy, and ritualized decadence—the new wing was christened The Hellfire Caverns.

Access was restricted.

Only members who completed the Veranda’s advanced consent and safety orientation were issued the black bracelet FOB, a sleek token that unlocked the secured entrance. The bracelet served as both permission and promise: a commitment to responsibility, respect, and the Veranda’s unwavering standards.

The Hellfire Caverns quickly became one of the most whispered‑about features of the estate—not for scandal, but for the precision, artistry, and intentionality with which the space had been crafted.

 

[SueTeri]

Teri and Annabelle finished breakfast on the back veranda.

“You ready to get to work?” Annabelle asked, brushing a stray gardenia petal from the table.

Teri rose, smoothing her blouse. “I am.”

She followed Annabelle down the length of the veranda, the boards warm beneath their feet, and through the French doors into the Lounge.

To the right stood a marble‑topped bar framed in dark wood carved with curling vines and magnolia blossoms—a quiet homage to the mansion’s Southern roots. The room breathed history. Dark walnut paneling rose to meet a coffered ceiling where soft amber lights glowed behind ornate brass latticework. The scent of aged leather lingered in the air, plush sofas arranged in conversational clusters like intimate islands. Their oxblood hides gleamed under the light, softened by decades into luxurious comfort.

The space felt both intimate and grand—a holdover from the mansion’s aristocratic past, now polished into a modern sanctuary where members could decompress from the more charged atmosphere of the floors below. Carpets from a bygone era, patterned in wine reds and hunter greens, softened the walnut herringbone floor. Oil portraits—former madams, benefactors, and a few enigmatic figures whose stories were half‑legend—kept quiet watch.

They exited through an ornate arched opening into the main foyer. At the far end, Annabelle opened a narrow door and flipped a switch. A warm glow spilled down the stairwell.

“This way,” she said.

Their footsteps echoed as they descended, the air cooling with each step. The stairs opened into the lower‑floor Gallery, a long corridor lined with framed photographs and soft recessed lighting. Directly opposite the staircase stood a single reinforced door.

As they approached, Teri’s memory flickered—her visit years earlier with her husband, Tiffany, and Tiffany’s ex. She remembered the layout: the entertainment lounge toward the back with its low padded stages and surrounding couches where patrons could watch performances; the corridor to the right where the elevator, across from it the communal restroom with toilets, and showers were located; and beyond that, the hallway leading to the glass‑fronted rooms.

The private rooms were spacious, each with a king‑sized bed set against the back wall. The entire front wall was seamless glass from floor to ceiling, allowing visibility from the corridor when occupants chose to leave the curtains open. It was a design rooted in transparency, consent, and the Veranda’s long tradition of curated voyeurism.

Annabelle paused at the single door and held up a gray wristband. The lock clicked open.

She handed the band to Teri. “This is your FOB. It’ll open any door with access control. Return it when you’re done with your observations.”

Teri slipped it onto her wrist, feeling the subtle weight of responsibility settle with it.

“Ready?” Annabelle asked, her hand resting lightly on the door.

Teri nodded, steadying her breath as the next chapter of the Veranda revealed itself.

She walked in and flipped the switch. The fluorescent lights flickered, humming for a moment before the room brightened fully.

Teri stopped just inside the doorway, stunned. An entire wall was covered in monitors — one massive central screen surrounded by a constellation of smaller ones, each angled with precision. It looked less like a basement room and more like the command center of a covert intelligence agency.

Annabelle stepped up to the main control console, positioned slightly above the two observation stations. Teri heard the rapid clicks of a keyboard, and one by one the monitors blinked awake, filling the room with shifting color and motion.

“Come sit,” Annabelle said, gesturing to one of the dual‑monitor stations.

Teri lowered herself into the chair, still taking in the scale of the setup.

Annabelle leaned over her shoulder, explaining the system with practiced ease. “The facial recognition, the tracking algorithms, the anonymization protocols — all of it was developed by the university’s computer and IT department. Same architecture used by the CIA, DOD, NSA… just adapted for our purposes.”

She tapped a few more keys. “When I’m doing archiving, I usually throw up a party feed as background noise.”

Her fingers danced across the keyboard. Instantly, the monitors filled with footage from a recent event — bodies moving, laughing, interacting, the energy unmistakably charged but not explicit on the screens from this distance.

“This was last Saturday’s Nuts and Bolts party,” Annabelle said with a wry smile. “Quite a turnout.”

Teri watched the shifting scenes — the color, the movement, the choreography of people navigating desire and curiosity within the Veranda’s carefully structured rules.

Annabelle straightened. “All righty. I’ll leave you to it. Lunch is at 12:30, so just come up when you’re ready.”

She slipped out, the door clicking softly behind her, leaving Teri alone with the hum of machines and the glowing wall of screens.

Returning from lunch, Teri settled back into her task. The archiving software hummed softly, the room dim except for the glow of the monitor wall. Every so often she let her eyes drift upward, catching glimpses of Tiffany or herself in the rotating feeds — bodies entwined, mouths lowering toward stranger’s hard manhood or wet vaginas, hips meeting pubic areas or buttocks, hands gripping their breasts. The suggestion alone was enough to warm her skin.

She forced herself back to work.

Near the end of her shift, she glanced up again — and froze.

One of the lounge feeds showed her at the bar, deep in conversation with a woman she remembered vividly. The sight of her sent a slow, unexpected pulse through Teri’s chest.

The woman was striking. Slim, petite, her posture regal yet unguarded, as if she carried her own quiet gravity. A bourbon glass sat untouched before her, catching the chandelier’s glow.

Light traced her shoulders and collarbone, gilding the olive warmth of her skin. Across that sun‑kissed tone, bold white tan lines cut sharp and luminous — brushstrokes of absence against presence. They framed the curves of her breasts and the soft V of vagina, a contrast so vivid it felt almost indecent.

Her dark hair fell in loose waves, caramel undertones catching the light. Almond‑shaped eyes, deep and unreadable, lingered on the glass in her hand. Her arched brows gave her expression a sculpted precision, while her full lips softened it — poised between a smile and a secret.

Teri remembered that conversation clearly.

The woman had been curious — fascinated, even — by how casually people at the Veranda navigated desire, touch, and connection. Teri had done her best to explain the swinger lifestyle: the rules, the consent, the communication, the freedom. The woman had listened intently, head tilted, lips parted slightly as if tasting every word.

On the screen, Teri noticed something she hadn’t registered that night: the woman wore only a white wristband — a first‑time visitor, a voyeur, someone observing but not participating.

Then the bartendress handed Teri a pink wristband. Teri watched her past self slip it onto the woman’s wrist, right beside the white one.

A clear invitation.

On the feed, Teri offered her hand. The woman hesitated — just for a breath — then took it. She slid off the barstool with a grace that made Teri’s stomach tighten.

As they walked toward the elevator, the camera angle shifted, revealing more of the woman’s body. She was five inches shorter than Teri, her frame an elegant hourglass. Her hips swayed with a natural, unselfconscious rhythm. Her breasts — B‑cup, high and full — moved with the slightest bounce, dark nipples visible through the thin fabric of her top.

Teri felt a slow heat rise in her chest as she watched the two of them disappear into the elevator.

She remembered exactly what happened next—and exactly how it had felt.

 

[SueTeri]

Reaching the elevator, Teri took the woman’s face gently in her hands and kissed her — soft at first, then with a slow, deliberate confidence. She remembered the woman whispering that she had never been with another woman before, her voice trembling with equal parts fear and curiosity. Teri had murmured back, reassuring her, telling her not to worry, that she would guide her.

The elevator doors slid open with a muted chime. Teri stepped inside, the woman following close behind, her breath unsteady. As they ascended, the faint hum of the machinery mixed with the distant echoes of pleasure drifting from the gallery below—muffled moans, low groans, the unmistakable soundtrack of the Veranda’s private world.

On the monitor, Teri watched her past-self lead the woman down the open gallery, the railing overlooking the foyer below. The woman stayed close, almost brushing against Teri’s arm, her nervousness palpable.

Teri saw the moment they reached the private suite. She watched herself close the door, leaning back against it as she pressed the small button that illuminated a red light above the frame—the quiet signal that the room was now occupied, and staff would not disturb them.

Inside the room, the woman stood still, hands clasped lightly in front of her, trying to steady her breathing. Teri remembered how delicate she had looked in that moment—not fragile, but open, unguarded, as if she were stepping into a version of herself she had never allowed before.

Teri approached her slowly, giving her time to retreat if she wished. She didn’t. Their lips met again, deeper this time, bodies aligning with a natural, hungry gravity. Teri guided her backward until the woman felt the edge of the wrought‑iron king‑size bed against the backs of her legs. She turned, climbing onto it with a hesitant grace, and Teri followed.

They lay on their sides, facing each other, breath mingling. Their kisses deepened, unhurried but charged. Teri’s fingers traced the woman’s curves—the round, pert swell of her breasts, the soft rise of her abdomen, the warm, inviting path downward toward swollen protruding inner labia. The woman’s breathing grew huskier, her body responding instinctively.

Her hands explored Teri in return, tentative at first, then bolder, fingertips gliding over erect nipples, learning the shape of Teri’s desire.

Soon they found each other’s dripping wet vaginas, the moment electric, intimate, and overwhelming.

Teri rolled gently on top of her, their mouths meeting again, tongues moving in a slow, sensual rhythm. The woman tilted her head, exposing her neck, and Teri kissed along the warm line of her throat, across her collarbone, down between her breasts. The woman arched slightly, her breath catching.

Teri continued downward, kissing around her belly button, then pausing at the small postage stamp size patch of dark brown hair above clitoris. She remembered inhaling deeply, savoring the woman’s intoxicating scent—a mix of warmth, arousal, and something uniquely hers.

Then Teri lowered her mouth to her swollen inner labia, tasting her, exploring her, drawing out waves of pleasure until the woman trembled beneath her, breath breaking into soft, helpless sounds.

The woman climaxed more than once— Teri remembered the way her body tightened, then softened, the way her hands clutched at the sheets, the way her voice cracked with release.

Afterward, as the woman tried to steady her breathing, she had asked—shyly, almost embarrassed—if she could watch Teri with her husband. The question had surprised Teri, but not in a bad way. It had felt honest, vulnerable, curious.

Ten minutes later, they left the room. Teri flipped the occupied switch off, the red light fading. It signaled the chambermaids to refresh the suite with new sheets and towels, erasing the physical traces of what had happened—but not the memory.

Teri watched the monitor as her past self and the woman moved through the Velvet Veranda’s maze of play areas, searching for the woman’s husband. The feeds flickered between rooms — soft lighting, velvet drapes, silhouettes shifting behind frosted glass — until finally the camera caught him.

He sat alone on a plush leather sofa in the live entertainment lounge. Every other couch was occupied by couples, their bodies angled toward the stage. The air shimmered with heat and attention.

Onstage, a woman moved with fierce, unrestrained abandon — and Teri felt her stomach drop.

Tiffany.

Even behind the black mask, Teri recognized her best friend instantly. The way she held herself, the way she arched, the way she commanded the room without trying. Tiffany’s partner onstage was a tall, broad‑shouldered black man whose presence filled the space, but it was Tiffany who held the audience captive.

The woman’s husband was transfixed. His breathing was visible in the rise and fall of his chest. His hand moved slowly over his erection; his gaze locked on Tiffany as if the rest of the room had vanished.

Teri watched her past-self slip onto the sofa beside him, the woman settling on his other side. The wife’s hand reached out, delicate and sure, wrapping around hard manhood to take over the rhythm he’d begun. It was a gesture mirrored across the lounge—women tending to their partners as they watched the stage.

Teri noticed the white silicone bracelet on his wrist—first‑time visitor, voyeur only.

She remembered leaning toward the waitress, whispering a request. A minute later, the waitress returned with a pink bracelet. Teri slipped it onto his wrist, and his expression shifted from confusion to shock.

Teri leaned in, whispering something into his ear.

On the monitor, she saw the exact moment he froze, eyes widening.

His wife nodded, confirming the request.

Teri felt a small, wicked smile tug at her lips as she watched her past-self giggle at his reaction. It had been a mixture of disbelief, excitement, and something deeper—the realization that his wife wanted to see him with someone else.

They stood together, heading toward the private rooms upstairs—the suite Teri had secured through the waitress.

Just as they reached the edge of the lounge, the camera caught movement onstage. Another man climbed up, knee‑walking toward Tiffany with a boldness that made the crowd shift forward in their seats.

Tiffany turned her head, mask glinting under the lights, her expression unreadable but electric.

The man offered his cock.

Teri watched the moment Tiffany leaned in.

They entered the playroom, and as before, Teri flipped the switch beside the door. The small red light above the frame glowed to life, signaling the room was now occupied.

 

[SueTeri]

The suite was warm and softly lit, anchored by an ornate Queen Anne bed against the far wall. A high‑back wing chair sat in the corner, upholstered in deep burgundy velvet, its silhouette inviting and theatrical.

Teri guided the wife toward the chair.

The woman settled into it, her breath already unsteady, her legs draping over the arms in a posture that revealed open and wet vagina without shame. She was trembling with anticipation—not of touching Teri’s husband, but of watching.

Teri turned to the husband, positioning him where his wife could see everything clearly. His breathing was shallow, his eyes flicking between the two women, his body already responding to the charged air in the room.

Teri sank gracefully to her knees before him.

She placed one hand around his hard manhood, her touch slow and deliberate, her movements meant as much for the wife’s eyes as for the man standing before her. She leaned in, her lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath the elongated helmet shaped head, her breath warm, her posture confident.

The wife’s chest rose sharply. Her fingers drifted toward splayed open inner labia, her body reacting instinctively to the sight of her husband being touched by another woman.

Teri glanced over her shoulder and gave the wife a wicked, knowing smile—a silent acknowledgment of the power exchange unfolding between them.

She lowered her head again, her mouth moving in a way the camera showed every detail, but the husband’s reaction made unmistakable. His hand tightened at his sides, his breath catching, his body tensing as Teri worked him with a slow, practiced rhythm.

The wife watched, mesmerized, her hand moving over her hard button in a steady, hungry pattern.

After several long, breathless moments, Teri rose smoothly to her feet.

“On the bed,” she murmured to the husband—a soft command, but one he obeyed instantly.

As he moved to the Queen Anne bed, Teri crossed the room to the wife. The woman’s hand was still between her thighs, her body flushed, her eyes dark with desire.

Teri leaned down and kissed her—slow, deep, tasting the woman’s breath, her need, her trembling anticipation. The wife’s fingers tightened around Teri’s arm, pulling her closer, her body arching into the kiss.

The room pulsed with heat, with permission, with the electric promise of what would happen next.

Teri climbed onto the bed, her breath already unsteady, her skin warm with anticipation. She straddled him slowly, deliberately, her thighs brushing the outside of his as she settled into place. She could feel the heat of his body rising toward her, the firm pressure of his swollen manhood poised beneath her, waiting.

She reached down, guiding him with a steady hand, aligning their bodies with a precision born of confidence and desire. Her own vagina throbbed with a deep, insistent ache, her inner folds swollen and sensitive, the warmth of her arousal unmistakable.

For a moment she hovered there, suspended in the charged space between wanting and taking — her breath caught, her pulse loud in her ears.

Then she lowered herself just enough for their bodies to meet.

The contact was electric.

A soft, involuntary sound escaped her—half‑sigh, half‑moan—her head tilting back as her eyes fluttered shut. The sensation washed through her in a slow, rolling wave, her body tightening around the first spark of release. It was sudden, overwhelming, the kind of orgasm that came not from movement but from sheer anticipation finally breaking open.

Her fingers curled against his chest for balance as she rode out the tremor, her breath shuddering, her thighs trembling around him. She stayed there for a moment, letting the pleasure settle into her bones, letting the connection between them deepen and steady.

When she finally opened her eyes, she looked down at him—and the hunger in his gaze told her they were only at the beginning.

The wife watched with parted lips, her breath catching as she saw the sheen of Teri’s arousal glistening along her husband’s cock, a visible testament to the heat building between them. Her fingers paused for a moment at hard button, as if the sight alone had stolen her composure.

On the bed, Teri moved with slow, deliberate control, her body lowering inch by inch as she aligned herself with him. The anticipation alone made her tremble. When their bodies finally met, a deep, guttural sound escaped her—raw, involuntary, pulled from somewhere deep in her chest. Her head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut as the sensation washed through her.

She settled onto his lap, her breath unsteady, her body pressed fully against his. The connection between them was unmistakable—intimate, consuming, electric. She turned her head toward the wife, her voice low and breathless.

“He feels… incredible.”

The wife’s hand resumed its movement, her body responding to the sight of her husband and Teri intertwined, the intimacy unfolding inches away from her. Her cheeks flushed, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

Teri shifted, her muscles tightening around rigid pole with practiced control, her body moving in a slow, rhythmic ascent. The husband let out a deep, helpless sound— half‑moan, half‑surrender his hands gripping the sheets as he tried to steady himself.

The room pulsed with heat, with permission, with the charged awareness of three people sharing a moment none of them would forget.

Teri watched the monitor, transfixed by the sight of her-past self moving with slow, deliberate rhythm. Even without sound, she could feel the memory — the heat of her own breath, the way her body had responded instinctively, the pulse of pleasure that had rolled through her in waves.

She remembered the sounds vividly: the wet, rhythmic press of bodies, her own breath breaking into soft moans, the husband’s low, helpless groans, and the wife’s rising, breathless excitement as she watched from the chair. The room had been thick with it — desire layered on desire, each of them feeding the others.

On the screen, the husband’s hands slid up her sides, cupping her breasts with a hunger that made her past-self arch into his touch. Teri remembered the jolt of sensation when he squeezed, the sharp pull of his fingers on her nipples, the way it had sent a deeper, more urgent pleasure spiraling through her.

Even now, watching it from a distance, she felt a ghost of that intensity — the way her body had tightened, the way her breath had caught, the way the wife’s eyes had widened as she watched the two of them lose themselves in each other.

The memory wasn’t just physical. It was emotional. Charged. Alive.

And seeing it again on the monitor made her pulse quicken all over again.

Teri remembered the multiple orgasm he gave her before announcing he was about to ejaculate

She sat down forcing the husband’s cock head pressed in the concave indentation of her cervix. Soon she felt his cock pulsate and his warm semen flowing into her uterus.

Teri climbed off him slowly, her breath still unsteady, her skin flushed with the aftershocks of everything they had shared. The room felt warm, thick with the scent of sweat and perfume and something deeper — the kind of intimacy that lingered long after bodies separated.

She leaned in first to the husband, brushing a soft kiss against his lips, a gesture of gratitude rather than possession. Then she turned to the wife, cupping her cheek gently before kissing her too—slower, lingering, a silent acknowledgment of the trust she’d been given.

“Thank you,” Teri murmured, her voice low and warm. “I hope it was everything you wanted.”

The wife nodded, still catching her breath, her eyes bright with a mix of awe and satisfaction. She reached for her husband’s hand, squeezing it, grounding him—grounding herself — in the moment they had just navigated together.

“It was,” she whispered. “More than I expected.”

Teri smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from the woman’s forehead. There was a softness in the wife’s expression now, a kind of quiet pride, as if she had stepped into a version of herself she’d only imagined before tonight.

The husband exhaled, a long, shaky breath, still processing the intensity of it all. His gaze flicked between the two women—gratitude, disbelief, and something tender settling behind his eyes.

 

[SueTeri]

Teri rose from the bed, smoothing her hair, her body still humming with the memory of their touch. She moved toward the door, pausing only long enough to flip the occupied light off— the small red glow fading as the room returned to its neutral state.

Behind her, the couple remained on the bed, holding hands, their bodies close, their breathing slowly syncing.

Teri stepped into the hallway, the cool air brushing her warm skin, and allowed herself a small, private smile.

Whatever the wife had hoped to witness…whatever the husband had feared or desired… whatever Teri herself had needed in that moment…It had all landed exactly where it was meant to.

Teri watched the feed as her past-self descended the staircase, the glow from the gallery lights brushing her skin in warm gold. She slipped into the parlor, where Tiffany sat perched at the bar, sipping a soda and cooling off from her earlier adventures. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair slightly mussed, her smile loose and satisfied.

Teri remembered sliding onto the stool beside her, the two of them laughing softly as they compared partners, experiences, surprises—the kind of candid, unfiltered conversation only the Veranda made possible. Tiffany teased her about her stamina; Teri teased her about her exhibitionism. It was easy, familiar, the kind of friendship built on trust and shared secrets.

Then an elegant Asian woman approached them, her posture confident, her eyes bright with invitation.

“Would you two join us in the Hellfire Cavern?” she asked — the Veranda’s BDSM wing, where velvet shadows and soft restraints created a different kind of intimacy.

Tiffany grinned immediately.

Teri remembered feeling a spark of curiosity.

As they walked toward the elevator, Teri glanced toward the foyer—and saw the husband and wife from earlier stepping out the front door. The wife leaned into him, her hand wrapped around his arm, her expression soft and glowing. The husband looked dazed, almost floating, as if he were still processing everything that had happened.

Teri had wondered, even then, whether the experience had changed something between them.

An hour later, back in the observation room, Teri finished archiving the last of the videos. The system chimed softly as each file locked into place. She stretched, ready to shut everything down for the night — when a thought struck her.

The husband.

She hadn’t checked his profile.

Curiosity tugged at her. She typed in the number she’d seen written across his right pectoral — the VV ID assigned to guests.

The system processed for a moment. Then a profile appeared on the center monitor.

Teri froze.

Her breath caught. Her eyes widened. Her mouth fell open.

She slumped back in her chair, staring at the screen as if it might change if she blinked hard enough.

Richard Duro!

 

[PB26385]

After his classes and his encounter with Ryleigh that Monday, Richard needed a good workout. As was his custom on Monday afternoons, he went to the university recreation center pool for a swim. The cool, clear water and the physical effort had a way of cleansing his mind.

Richard found a lane, put in his ear plugs, pulled his swim goggles over his head, fit them tightly around his eyes, and dropped into the water. There was a splendid isolation about swimming, he thought. With ear plugs in, the water all around, gazing at the dark blue line on the bottom of the pool marking the lane, and the rhythmic movement – right arm, left arm, right arm, breathe; left arm, right arm, left arm, breathe - you could be alone with your thoughts in your own world.

Exercise was his comfort, his means of meditation, the central organizing force in his life, much like faith had become Helen’s. Ah, Helen – he needed to call her tonight. She’d been on his mind quite a bit the last few days. Being out on the road on Saturday morning near the old mansions made him remember a time he and Helen had gone there together to visit that old swinger club. What did they call it? The Velvet Veranda.

The laps clicked by in steady fashion. Richard thought about how he was going to handle the situation with Ryleigh. Of course she was very sexually attractive, and she’d made it very obvious she loved to use her attractiveness to push boundaries. However, attractive as she was, he wasn’t going to risk losing his job or his self-respect over an 18-year-old with a high libido. He’d been a college professor for years, first in San Antonio and later at Magnolia State, and had had lots of lovely and flirtatious Texas girls in his classes over the years without getting into trouble, and he wasn’t going to start now. Furthermore, she was, well, too obvious. There wasn’t much intrigue or subtlety behind grabbing someone’s crotch. He much preferred the intelligence, experience, depth, mystery, and feline sensuality of Teri. She was a fascinating and multilayered woman – not an obvious girl. He had an inward chuckle about how he’d turned the tables on her in class today, and was already thinking about what to do for Wednesday’s class.

Soon, his swim was over. He toweled off and changed in the locker room, then drove home.

At eight that evening he managed to get Helen on a Zoom call. She had her hair up and looked as though she was getting ready for bed. It was 10 pm in Puerto Rico, after all. Still lovely after all these years, he thought.

“Rich, it’s so wonderful to see you. How are you doing?” she asked. She sounded tired, but eager to talk with him all the same.

“Hi, Helen,” he said warmly. “I am sorry we missed each other last week. Tell me how your work is going.”

“I won’t lie, Rich, it’s been an exhausting couple of weeks. The corruption here is ridiculous. You have to pull favors or pay a bribe to accomplish almost every task. Getting the officials to do anything requires almost an act of God – and that’s saying something, given my work,” she said, with a mix of humor and exasperation. She continued to speak for several minutes about her ministry work. If it weren’t for her passion for service, she would have left by now, Richard thought.

“But what about you, Rich – how are your classes?” she inquired.

“My classes are going well, and it looks like I’ll be presenting on my new translation of Casanova at the International Conference on Literature, Sexuality, and Erotic Aesthetics in Los Angeles in May. I just received word my proposal was accepted,” Richard said.

“Oh, Rich, that’s fantastic news! I am so happy for you. I know that project has been a labor of love for many years…”

“No pun intended,” Richard interjected, laughing.

“Haha, very true,” Helen giggled.

“Hey, do you remember that night – it’s been years now – where we went out to that old mansion off of Plantation Drive. You know, the swinger club?” he asked.

“Oh, gosh, Rich, I will never forget that night. I mean, we both had a few glasses of wine to summon up our courage, but then…what we did together, and then what we both did with that woman we met….” Helen’s voice trailed off. “That was the most erotic experience I think we ever had together.” Then, after a pause, she added, “But what made you think of that?”

“I was running out that direction on Saturday and ran by a bunch of those old places. That triggered my memory. Just wanted to see if you remembered it like I did,” Richard said.

“Well, yes, I do. Some aspects are a little blurry because of the wine and the amount of time it’s been, but I do remember how amazing that evening was. Those were good times, Rich. We certainly were good together,” Helen added, softly.

There was a pause as they looked at each other, and smiled warmly.

“Yes. Well, I just wanted a few minutes to reconnect with you and check in. It’s so wonderful to see you, Helen. Much love to you always. I will talk to you soon.”

“Good night, Rich – and thanks for the trip down Memory Lane. You may have made it hard for me to sleep now.”



The next morning, after a relaxing early run along the river path, Richard showered, pulled on a sweater, jeans, and loafers, and made his way to campus. He stopped by Brew & Brain for a quick cup of coffee on his way to his office in Main Hall, and, he had to admit, a chance to see Teri Tytarse. She frequented the coffee bistro on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the mornings, and they’d had many stimulating conversations during the last few weeks.

As he went through the doors, he saw her in her usual chair, with notebooks out and laptop open. “A creature of habit,” he thought to himself. She had on workout clothes, a baseball cap, and her blonde hair was in a pony tail which she had threaded through the back of her cap. She gazed at the computer screen, peering at it through reading glasses perched on her nose.

She looked up as the bell on the door tinkled, saw him, smiled, and watched him as he stepped into the room.

“Good morning,” he said, stopping by her table. “Hard at work as usual, I see. How’s the next section of your harem girl story coming? I’ve enjoyed reading it a great deal.”

“Good morning to you,” Teri said, pushing a chair out and inviting him to sit. “Yes, I was just doing a bit of research on clothing of the period for that story. Fascinating stuff. Have time to talk?”

“Yes, sure. Let me get a cup of Joe, and I’ll be right back,” Richard replied.

He got in line, wondering if she was working or looking his way. He glanced toward the windows to see if he could see her reflection and where her gaze was. Hmm, he thought, noticing she was looking his direction and chewing on the end of her pen. “Well, I wonder what Freud would say about that,” he thought with a smirk.

Soon, he was back at her table and sitting down. Looking over at him, Teri asked:

“Richard, I told you a bit about my late husband and my life prior to returning to school, but you’ve not told me much about your background. I’m just curious…have you been married in the past? You’re not married now, I gather?”

Richard thought for a moment. That was an interesting question out of the blue. Hmm.

“Well, yes, I was married for a number of years, but we split very amicably five years back. My ex-wife Helen and I still have a wonderful relationship – in fact, I spoke with her last night. Why do you ask?” Richard responded, more interested in understanding Teri’s line of questioning than anything. He wanted to stay one step ahead of where she might be heading if he could.

“Nothing really, just feeling like you knew more about me than I knew about you. Does she live near here?” Teri asked.

“No, she’s a lay missionary with the Catholic Church. She is working in relief efforts in some more rural areas in Puerto Rico. I admire her call to service tremendously,” Richard replied.

“She sounds like a wonderful person, Richard. I can see why you still think so highly of her,” Teri added. “No kids?”

“No, we never had any children of our own, but between my teaching and her mission work, we sort of feel like we do a good bit of ‘parenting’ all the same,” Richard said. He thought about bringing up Ryleigh, but just at that moment, his phone buzzed.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I need to take this call. It’s my guitarist from my jazz trio. We’re trying to work out a rehearsal time. Be back with you in a second.” He stood up from the table and moved away so she could resume her work. As he stepped away, he looked in the window to see the reflection of Teri. Yep, still carefully watching him. “Hmm,” he thought, “interesting.”