The Obeast at the Orgy Part IV (NSFW story, Eric the Red vs. Hospital Bed) Disclaimer:  If you are even mildly curious about swinger/BDSM/fetish scenes, please don't let this story deter you.  Take the plunge and check out a party or two.  You're never required to participate and most places are very welcoming to newcomers.  Each shitlord or shitlady that attends makes an Instagramham feel inferior and unloved, which is a justification enough to attend.  We've gone to many swinger parties, and these stories are rare exceptions to the usual thrilling times we've had. Start of story is here. Goddess waddles into the hospital themed playroom and plasters on a sexy grin which loses it's power because she's got small teeth and big gums.  "You guys seem to be having a great time," she says, flashing a dangerous glance to Eric with her piggy eyes.  "What are you guys talking about?"  Eric knows he's been dumping off his host duties onto the sloping shoulders of his troughmate, but the possibility of hooking up with my wife is a strong lure.  My wife is still dressed like a slutty cheerleader, with the effect heightened by tank top which has ridden up to expose her flat abs.  Seeing muscle definition on a woman is a novelty for him and he's not going to let his speed bump of a wife stand in his way.  "Getting to know our new friends better," he says.  "I thought maybe we could get together sometime this week and do something..."  He mean "do my wife" which is not lost on Goddess.  The pantheon of tubby dieties can have only one Prime Pig, and Goddess senses a threat to her crown.  My wife sees this too and helpfully pushes Eric under the butterbus.  "Eric is telling me how good he is at oral." she chimes in.  "He loves the taste and knows how to make women moan all night," she adds. Eric perks up at this.  He has too many jiggling parts already but demonstrates his signature tongue-waggle to display one more.  My wife giggles which shows an unnerving cruel streak, but Eric eats it up like candy.  No surprise there. Goddess waddles over to him with her arms pirouetting around and throws an embrace around his chin-neck.  "That's why I love my man," she emphasizes.  She frenches him and considering the horror I'm going to subject you to shortly, I'll pass over that description.  "He's the best.  Nothing gets me wetter than his tongue working its magic!"  She's wedged herself between Eric and my wife, which gives us a straight shot for the curtain and freedom.   But here's the thing, FPH.  They are the hosts at this party and we've been having a great time up to this point.  We want to be polite to them and get back to other couples we'd met earlier.  Two couples invited us to the "Dark Room" for play, and it was amazing.  The room was pitch black with assorted beds and leather padded platforms that you could only find by feel.  A bouncer made sure no singles or fatties snuck in uninvited.  As long as you were in the room, you could be reasonably but not 100% sure of who you were groping at a given time.  We didn't want any uncomfortable scenes with the hosts, so we stayed in the hospital room.  Let me tell you how that worked out: Goddess reeled in her tongue until it was safely back behind her nubby teeth.  "It's a good thing he gives amazing oral," she snickered to my wife.  "He told you he's got dead-dick downstairs, right?"  Time froze and I learned an important lesson about the costs of being polite.  My wife was speechless.  Eric gave a simpering grin and did a half-hearted tongue waggle.  "It's ok though, he's all I need to cum!" Goddess cackled.  "Just part of getting old" Eric said in an attempt to recover his imagined masculine image.  "I don't let it keep me out of the game, ya'know."  This guy was 40.  Fucking 40!  He couldn't get it up because any blood rushing to his erection was diverted to fupa or lost in his belly along with any dignity he once possessed.  I understand erectile dysfunction sucks and taking pills while tracking down the cause is journey no man wants to undertake.  But if you can't get hard because you're handcuffed to a Slurpee on one hand and a bloated harpy-wife on the other, than your problems are bigger than your two inch prong. "C'mere lover," she said pulling him towards the gurney.  "Show her what you can do."  She said "show her instead of them which meant she was ignoring me completely.  Taking that cue I could have ducked out of the room and left my shitlady to fend for herself.  But although I let my wife ride other men's cocks like cowgirl practicing for a debauched rodeo, our wedding vows are important to me.  I was sure that abandoning her in a room with porking pigs violates a few "be by her side" rules.  So I squared my shoulders and steeled myself for the ghastly spectacle. Goddess backed herself against the gurney.  This wasn't a real piece of hospital equipment, rather it was a sturdy padded platform with chrome stirrups bolted to the side.  The gurney was at waist height, so once a woman (or man, why not?) was on their back, their legs were held spread out in the stirrups.  This gives their partner easy access to all the fun bits while standing.  Awesome.  Goddess wanted to nimbly pop up on the gurney but levering her blubber would require upper body strength that was as unlikely as her husband getting a chubby.  She gave a small hop and slid back to the floor.  She took a deep wheezing breath and tried again, but gravity is a cruel mistress and she slid back down.  "Tee hee, who made this so tall?"  she said, or words to that effect.  She waddled to a corner and brought back a stepstool and climbed onto the gurney. But it is in moments where we feel most victorious that fate finds ways to humble the most proud.  Goddess' task was only half done.  She tried to put her ankles into the stirrups but was denied.  Due either to inflexible tendons or a merciful god, she couldn't get her ankles high enough to enter the stirrup.  She rolled her eyes in pretend vexation and kept trying.  I reviewed my marriage vows for loopholes, but came up empty.  Rocking back and forth she managed to fling one cankle high enough to be caught by the stirrup.  Lying back exhausted, she pulled a handful of fupa out of the way and growled "give me the business" to Eric.  You'd think that this bumbling line would be something that my wife and I would laugh about later.  It isn't. Eric charged in to do what no man should, but the gurney had other ideas.  Assuming that Goddess was equipped like a normal woman, just with shockingly engorged quantities of ladybits, said ladybits were now suspended at waist level.  For Eric to slather her biscuit, he'd have to get on his knees and 40 years on the Ding Dong Diet made that a tall order.  Summoning up the last smothered traces of Nordic ancestry he tried to bend down.  It wasn't going to happen.  The Vikings conquered the Atlantic but even they had limits.  He pulled the stool over, sat on it like a resigned toad, gave my wife a wink and then dove in nose first.   I gave my wife a look that said, "I'm only staying here because I'm your husband."  She gave me a look that said "if you don't get me out of here I'm divorcing you."  Then Goddess started screaming.  Yes, Goddess was a screamer.  We're on the internet so you don't have to admit it, but you know how Asian women in porn make grating squeels to express pleasure but they sound more like a Chevy with a loose fanbelt?  Goddess was doing that to an unholy beat that only she could hear.  Concerned people started to appear around the curtain.  She was reaching a quivering crescendo and the gurney decided it had put up with enough.  Before 'the business' was completed the stirrup gave way and came slashing down like a guillotine at a medieval slaughterhouse.  Eric was the unlucky pig under the chrome bar and caught it right on the neck with a meaty thwack.  Goddess was loud but Eric managed to be heard over her.  "Fucking bitch!" he bellowed.  Maybe he had some viking in him after all. I thought this was an unnecessarily coarse way to refer to his wife, even if she was someone like Goddess.  But I'd jumped to conclusions.  He brain was still clogged with fat and he was still under the delusion that she was a catch.  His wrath was being vented at his body which wasn't prepared for a ham hock in a steel shoe to come crashing down on it.  She'd broken his collar bone.  The party trailed off from there, but that's what happens when the host has to be driven to the emergency room.  He was dressed in a sweaty peasant shirt and jeans, so at least he didn't have to change.  The ER team could have been visited by an impotent greased ham in leather chaps needing care.