I’m fidgeting in my seat, thighs sticking to the vinyl bench. I peel one off leg then the other, gingerly – I know I will be repeating the process in five minutes. I curse my choice of skirt this evening; I froze in the line outside the club but once inside my legs melded with the furniture. The slit that looked alluring while I was standing up, showing a generous flash of thigh, became a bit of a problem once I was seated. The stretchy material keeps creeping higher and to the side as we huddle in our booth. I eye you across the table as I shift again, losing yet another layer of skin on the backs of my legs.
You’re nervous, not sure where to look so your eyes keep darting around the room behind your mask. “What if I stare at someone and they think it’s an invitation?!” You had hissed n a near-panic before having the wristband system explained by the front desk clerk in a thick Québécois accent. We giggled as the paper bands were affixed to our wrists, but the unease wasn’t entirely fake. It was our first time at this particular type of club, and we were both excited and nervous. So nervous, in fact, that despite the available local options we had waited until a conference in far-off Montreal provided us with the option to explore without running into anyone we knew. Canada is full of “big little cities” and the idea of recognizing an acquaintance was enough to give us both pause.
Even better, it was a fancy masquerade night (bless the person who pitched that idea) and so further concealing our identities was perfectly acceptable. A dark bob wig, lace bandeau across my eyes and red lips transformed me into someone else entirely. Behind the anonymity of my disguise I felt brave enough to participate tonight. Yours is a simple black band; my very own Dread Pirate Roberts. You rolled your eyes at the comparison but it didn’t keep you from grabbing my ass and growling “as you wish.” I got wetter at that joke than I care to admit, inwardly hoping that there would be some ravishing and pillaging later that night.
The cab ride was only 20 minutes tops but what started as butterflies has had time to grow into something more; I check the clock on my phone and notice that my hands are shaking. Even though we’re far from home and discretion is assured, I realize you’re jiggling a knee under the table – a sure tell you’ve got something on your mind. I scoot closer on the banquette and lean in to speak over the bass. “You good? We don’t have to do this. Say the word and we can go make out in the car on the way back to the hotel instead.” I waggle my eyebrows, giving you an out, but to my surprise you don’t take it.
“No, I’m good. Just – kind of can’t believe we’re here?” You fiddle with the plasticky paper band. Across the packed bar and dance floors, similar bars of colour flash on most of the other patrons’ wrists. Ours are orange, meaning that once 11 pm hits we are welcome to explore the private space upstairs, but none of the other patrons will engage us beyond watching whatever we choose to do with each other, unless we decide to approach first. A nice, gentle introduction to swingers clubs. I squeeze your thigh under the table and elect to leave my hand there so I can stroke you with my thumb. I hope it’s nearly time to go upstairs but I also feel pinned to my seat. Mercifully, the DJ announces one last song before the VIP section and “party dungeon” open up.
My eyes shoot open and my head snaps towards you. “PARTY DUNGEON?!?” I whisper-squeal as a resigned grimace settles across your face. This particular feature was not on the outdated club website, and I, for one, am absolutely delighted at the news of its existence. “We have to. Have. To.” I plead, leaning in so that you can see directly down my top. “If it’s not your thing, you say the word and we bounce.” I reassure, but you’re already rolling your eyes and nodding. I love that about you – you’ll try anything once. More than once if it involves getting naked; you’re thorough like that.
The song wraps up and staff remove the velvet bankers ropes that had been cordoning off the staircases to the private areas. The thrill of the unknown beckons, and I scoot out of the booth at last.
I weave my fingers through yours and gamely march towards the staircase heading down… to a dimly lit, black painted space with a vaulted ceiling. Given Montreal’s love of old buildings, a former wine cellar, maybe? Couches in curtained alcoves line the walls, facing a small stage with an X-shaped apparatus. A something cross, my lust-addled brain struggles to recall. You tug me off to one side, out of the way of the other patrons filing into the low-ceilinged room. I feel my stomach flip as each of them look at me, eyes lighting on my wrist before flicking back up to my face. New, and here to watch – for now. What a weird social interaction, I think to myself as you wrap your arms around my waist and lean back against a wall. I sigh, pressing into you and smile when you kiss the top of my head in reassurance. One of the couples – two women maybe in their mid-40’s – are already up on the stage, kissing each other. The taller one, blonde and lithe, had given me a wink as she walked past confidently, heels clicking on the black concrete floor. Drool-worthy shoes that I’d probably roll an ankle in just attempting to stand upright – but she strode onto the stage to embrace her partner, and the show had begun.
The murmur of the crowd trickling through the space is nearly drowned out by the bass which has kicked in again upstairs. The rhythmic pounding adds to the sexually charged atmosphere; never have I experienced anything quite like it before. These people have come here to fuck in front of each other, I think with a start. Obviously. That’s why we’re all here. I’m suddenly not sure where to look, and my pulse picks up. Couples and groups are arranging themselves on the couches, flashes of skin appearing already. I realize how excited this makes me, so I inhale and press further back against you. You’re already stiff, nestling in between my buttocks.
“It’s a fear boner” you whisper, and I can’t help but snicker. Trust you to break the tension, lovely man. When I turn back to quip a reply, you shush me and nod towards the stage with your chin. The taller blonde has her companion secured to the St. Andrew’s Cross (aha!) and is beckoning other partygoers to come up and fondle the helpless woman.
As the patrons approach, some appear tentative but a few are already grinning wickedly in anticipation. The short brunette lashed to the cross doesn’t wriggle or shy away but even from halfway across the room I can see her chest heaving and wonder what must be going through her head as a blindfold gets slipped over her eyes. A small crowd has gathered, hands furtively darting out to caress or tweak with a gentle pinch. The brunette’s head lolls back, mouth open as a stranger pulls her top down to reveal pert, dusky breasts with dark nipples which are quickly obscured by groping hands. A moan escapes her lips and I subconsciously mirror her with one of my own. “Wishing it was you up there?” You purr into my ear as one of your hands wraps around my throat, thumb stroking my jawline. I’m still transfixed by the scene on the stage and it barely registers that your other hand is already kneading one of my breasts. I nod dumbly, in disbelief at how wet I am watching the small group on stage. “Pull up your skirt” you order, and I jump slightly but I’m held firmly in place by the hand around my neck.
I swallow, but push through the embarrassment and slowly draw my skirt up to just below my crotch. I pause, and the hand on my throat tips my chin back so that I’m able to look up into your eyes. The fire I see in your gaze sends a flash of heat through my insides. “Good girl. Lift it all the way so everyone can watch me touch your pussy” you murmur, and I’m so turned on by this sudden change in you that I comply, pulling the skirt up to my waist half in disbelief at myself. I’m soon distracted when the hand at my breast reaches down between my legs with a teasing stroke. I glance up at you again with half-lidded eyes, and you raise an eyebrow. “More?” I hesitate. “Do you want me to make you come in front of them? I need to hear a yes.”
I close my eyes. “Yes, please. I – I want this.” Your fingers immediately curl against my clit and I gasp. More. Those wonderful fingers begin to stroke in rhythm to the booming French techno. I sigh deeply, melting into you and turning my attention back to the patrons and their willing victim. It isn’t long before your teasing has me squirming, hips bucking and rolling in reaction to your touch. More – oh, more, please. I’m dripping wet by the time you insert two fingers into me and grind the heel of your palm into my clit. A strangled cry escapes me and I realize how exposed I am to this room of strangers. Several of the other patrons are now paying attention to our little show, but it isn’t until I notice the blonde near the cross eyeing us that my thighs start to shake and I lean further back into you for support.
Your fingers plunge into me, dig gently into my throat and I imagine all the hands groping her brunette lover are caressing me as well. “More” I manage, and you murmur encouragements until I’m shaking and gasping as my pussy clenches around your deeply buried fingers. God, I love how you make me feel.
My knees feel like jelly by the time you move your hand from between my legs and bring it to my mouth. Fingers soaked in my own juices tease my lips apart and you whisper in my ear that I need to be a good girl and taste myself for you. I moan. Let me show you how much I want to please you. How badly I want to come for you here while everyone else watches.
Looking around, I realize we are a drop in the bucket compared to some of the other things happening in the room; people are screwing in earnest on couches and benches. One enterprising couple with mismatched wristbands is arranged on a bondage horse. She’s been stripped, hooded and strapped face down; her male counterpart flogs her intermittently while thrusting his cock into her mouth. Others wander up to grope and finger her exposed genitals or thrust their own into her grasping hands. I suck in a breath, and you chuckle deeply when you realize what I’m gawking at. “Maybe you’d rather be in *her* place instead?” your voice is thick with lust and I know you’re not the only one struck by the view. I don’t want to go too fast, too soon, but I find myself nodding in agreement. “Come with me, then” your hand presses into my back, steering me towards the couple on the bondage horse.
I stutter in protest, but you frog march me towards your goal, reassuring me that everything will be ok. In a few quick steps you’ve brought us right up to where the small crowd has gathered around the horse. The man, tall and dark, pauses for a moment at our approach and raises an arched brow. You gesture to his partner. “May we?”
He gives her a resounding smack on the ass and gestures at one of the wrists cuffed behind her back, adorned with a red band. Almost aything goes as long as you ask first. “Mais oui” he smirks and I can’t help but snort a laugh at the rhyme.
You know enough French to understand the affirmative and roughly shove me forward, mind clearly not on wordplay. Your hand on my neck guides me to bend over, and I end up with my upper torso laid across the woman’s lower back. I mirror her pose, arms going behind me with legs set apart. My pulse races as you hike my skirt up over my ass and push the bunched up fabric into my hands. A heartbeat later and I feel the head of your cock between my legs. I’m still dripping wet so there’s no resistance and you slide in to the hilt in one thrust. I let out a moan loud enough to turn heads despite the music. I’m offered no respite after that first entry – you slam into me again and again, eliciting a joyous bark of approval from the male half of the couple we’ve imposed ourselves on.
Your hand reaches around to rub my clit, urging me towards release. I realize that my eyes have been clenched shut – when I open them I’m only a few inches away from that same tall blond from before, whose face is now buried between the cheeks of the hooded woman I’m laid across. That same cheeky wink from before is what sends me over the edge. That, and the heady smell of sex, you finally sliding into me after all that teasing, the crowd gathered around us, the moaning hooded living furniture beneath me – all of it coalesces into a massively intense orgasm that has me arching my back and yelling incoherently. Again, no relief. Your pace just quickens as you realize how hard I’m cumming, your own orgasm not far behind.
You withdraw, panting “on your knees, on your knees” urgently, and I totter to the ground in a compliant haze. You barely manage to push your prick past my lips before the first ropes of cum burst forth. Your hands tangle in my wig as you thrust as far as my throat will allow, holding me there to swallow each successive wave of your orgasm. I stay kneeling upright, arms folded neatly behind my back and eyes locked on yours. Let me show you how good I can be.
“Bonne femme” the Frenchman grunts approvingly as I stay put until you withdraw from my mouth. His attention turns back to his masked partner, flogging her again now that we’re not in the way of his blows. The hooded woman mewls and squirms, and as you help me to my feet I’m not sure if it’s from the whipping or the face between her legs. I nearly stumble, and your arm is around me again, holding me up as you lead me away from our new friends.
I aim towards the stairs, pausing to let you tuck your shirt in and re-buckle your belt. Somehow I make it up the steps on legs of jello, stopping again at the main bar for a glass of water while you retrieve our coats. My wig is rumpled, my lipstick is smeared and I’m still soaking wet between my legs. A mess. A happy mess, I decide, catching your eye as you make your way through the crowd towards me.
The cold air outside is a shock but it’s mercifully short as you bundle me into one of the cabs trawling the strip. I opt to sit in the middle seat so I can snuggle into you during the ride back to the hotel. Arm still around me, you kiss the top of my head again. “Well?” You murmur.
I turn even further towards you, lips brushing against your neck. Suddenly much shyer than I had been back in that club basement, I run a hand across your thigh and whisper that it was amazing. I add that I’d tell you my favourite bits but that will have to wait until I’m sitting on your face back at the hotel room. That’s all the reassurance you need – the rest of the ride is spent in silence but from the blush creeping below the edges of your mask I know that you’re as eager as I am to continue on tonight, just the two of us.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/pgbn2t/night_out_mf_bdsm_publicgroup_sex
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