<div class="bbm_float fleft" style="float:left;margin:0 10px 5px 0">
<div class="bbImageWrapper lazyload js-lbImage" data-lb-caption-extra-html="" data-lb-sidebar-href="" data-single-image="1" data-src="/proxy.php?image=http%3A%2F%2Fi1259.photobucket.com%2Falbums%2Fii542%2Fqusterling%2FMake%2520Me%2520Realize%2520SIDEBAR-150px_zpskoeanpt2.jpg&amp;hash=c7c6d492555d561af24b16fc9b449b50" title="Make%20Me%20Realize%20SIDEBAR-150px_zpskoeanpt2.jpg">
<img alt="Make%20Me%20Realize%20SIDEBAR-150px_zpskoeanpt2.jpg" class="bbImage lazyload" data-src="/proxy.php?image=http%3A%2F%2Fi1259.photobucket.com%2Falbums%2Fii542%2Fqusterling%2FMake%2520Me%2520Realize%2520SIDEBAR-150px_zpskoeanpt2.jpg&amp;hash=c7c6d492555d561af24b16fc9b449b50" data-url="http://i1259.photobucket.com/albums/ii542/qusterling/Make%20Me%20Realize%20SIDEBAR-150px_zpskoeanpt2.jpg" data-zoom-target="1" height="" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" style="" title="" width=""/>
<noscript><img alt="Make%20Me%20Realize%20SIDEBAR-150px_zpskoeanpt2.jpg" class="bbImage" data-url="http://i1259.photobucket.com/albums/ii542/qusterling/Make%20Me%20Realize%20SIDEBAR-150px_zpskoeanpt2.jpg" data-zoom-target="1" height="" src="/proxy.php?image=http%3A%2F%2Fi1259.photobucket.com%2Falbums%2Fii542%2Fqusterling%2FMake%2520Me%2520Realize%2520SIDEBAR-150px_zpskoeanpt2.jpg&amp;hash=c7c6d492555d561af24b16fc9b449b50" style="" title="" width=""/></noscript>
</div>
</div><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4d4dff"><span style="font-size: 18px"><b>MICHAEL BRUNO REMINGTON</b></span></span><br/><hr class="bbc-hr"/><span style="font-size: 12px">"Who knew you could Uber a Cadillac?" The blonde chortled a faint laugh as she peered out the backseat window. The urban landscape passed by with that measured rhythm typical of Modernity, Industry, and Monotony, the flash and ebb of streetlights imparting their hypnotic effect. Cynthia simultaneously fixed and toyed with her neck-length hair, curled to bob in extravagant swirls. She was stunning and would command most of the attention at the swingers party that evening, as she usually did. Her companion sat on the other side of the backseat, hand clenched into a loose fist under his chin. He watched the same pedestrian cinema pass by, not speaking his thoughts. "Michael?" Cynthia asked, "are you excited?"<br/>
<br/>
The man blinked languorous, as if waking from a dream of distant lands. He turned his face, regarding the alluring bombshell with an even, independent disposition. "I suppose so," he replied. "These affairs are always hit or miss. Though, I'm sure <b>you'll</b> have no problem finding suitors for the evening." Michael's statement was delivered without bite or bitterness; it was a simple admission of fact, one that did not affect him in the least. He and Cynthia had met years ago at a work retreat and engaged in a heated affair. What neither expected was that even though they lusted after one another, their trysts were devoid of emotion. Rather than making a marital ordeal of the matter, they simply accepted their situation and kept in regular contact. Often, they met for dinner or lunch; more often, they slept together when either found themselves in a romantic lull. Swinging had been a revelation for Cynthia, and she recruited Michael as her partner in crime. <br/>
<br/>
The sophistication of the swinging world – the (under)cultural aspect, the terminology, the rules both unspoken and explicit – surprised Michael, and, at the time, he found himself enjoying the arousing benefits of anonymous sex with beautiful women. There was an erotic dimension to the many kinks played out under the guise of 'permissive sharing': husbands watched multiple men plug their wive's every orifice, men enjoying multiple women enjoying one another, anal parties with women offering their anuses around the perimeter of a large bed, to orgies of Roman repute and rampant, virile plundering. Michael had experienced it all, and Cynthia was the literal and figurative "ticket" into the world of consensual debauchery. Women could attend such functions alone, but men needed to arrive as a couple; Michael and Cynthia typically masqueraded as a couple to allow Michael entrance, and that night was no different. Although, it was Cynthia who leaned more heavily on Michael – she had a penchant for well-hung men of African descent, and two were purported to be attending the party at the Carmen Heights Hotel. The party had been extensively planned, and Cynthia had spied a glimpse at the attendance list. Thus, her great effort to pretty herself prim and seductive went toward a sought-after kink, and Michael attended more for moral support. He imagined that it was possible to find an opportunity to sate himself with someone, though he wanted more. Michael had grown weary of affairs of the flesh and yearned for an affair of the heart: to love and be loved, to find someone worthy of the great dedication he brought into the world by his unbreakable devotion. All candidates, up until that point, had proved unqualified.<br/>
<br/>
However, sex was sex. Cynthia had her aim on a bigger prize that evening and they each gazed out their respective windows – hands and limbs squarely to themselves. The car interior flooding with white light meant that they had arrived under the porte-cochère of the hotel. Their driver opened Cynthia's door and Michael tipped him for service. They entered the front lobby and discretely made their way toward the elevator. Cynthia spend her time fussing with herself as Michael stood as reserved and stolid as a granite sentinel of old. They needed to convince the host at the entrance that they were a "couple" ready to "open swing," and Michael did his part. He smiled and slipped his hand against Cynthia's lower back as a deceptive sign of light possession. The routine they exhibited did not need rehearsal, having been perfected over years of infiltrating sex parties, invited and otherwise. <br/>
<br/>
Fully expecting several stiff drinks to be the highlight of his evening, Michael hooked Cynthia's arm and headed toward the bar. Having a drink in hand conveyed ease and social grace when meeting with strangers, even when nothing needed to be said as lurid eyes spoke every invitation. "<span style="font-size: 12px">There they are!</span>" Cynthia whispered, adamantly. Off in one corner stood two, towering men with dark skin. They dressed in tailored suits, and the white of their starched shirts matched the pearl-like array of their teeth. "Wish me luck," Cynthia said. She kissed Michael on the cheek and made her way to the tall men. Perhaps the other (primarily white) party guests thought that the two men were gay, preferring to speak with one another in private. Michael wished Cynthia the best in her endeavors, though he privately also wished that she could have waited until an attractive wife or "unicorn" had scoped him out. Her high-pitched tone and piercing laughter already conveyed that she had established a promising beachhead on the erotic shores she endeavored to conquer. Michael felt suddenly alone and semi-nauseous, wandering toward the other end of the vast, finely decorated luxury room. He slowly passed the upholstered couches and love-seats, most already filled with the ingredients of the fucking to come. Men slipped arms behind giggling women, and hands touched while legs rubbed to a light jazz soundtrack. Michael spotted a seat on a nearby couch next to a woman in a poodle dress, but she slid her hand over the spot – apparently not impressed with Michael's appearance or holding out for someone better.<br/>
<br/>
The large floor-to-ceiling window defined the curiously unoccupied corner of the room. The noise and bustle of conversation diminished as he approached, and he took notice of a lone, beautiful woman gazing out onto the city lights. Michael immediately recognized the privilege of what life appeared to offer him – a "unicorn" all by herself. Her pretty face reflected in the window, and he appreciated her visage, which only accentuated her aloof and withdrawn demeanor. Sliding his free hand into his pant pocket, Michael approached and gently cleared his throat. Although he desired a love that would shake his foundations, he would be content riding this woman for the evening as consolation. <br/>
<br/>
"Beautiful view, isn't it?" Michael asked, quietly. He approached with an easy air, engendering a distinct, unpredatory atmosphere of trust. <br/>
<br/>
"I'm Michael," he said with a faint smile. "What's your name?"<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</span>