I knew she wanted to go to Le Trapeze. I knew it would be very challenging for her. I was at pains to make it feel as safe, as comfortable as possible.
We met at a dark, nearly empty piano bar. She wore the flouncy dress I’d requested. Short, light, sexy. It was the same dress she’d worn to our first date. She looked super sexy as she walked in to the bar. I was the only patron, and had seated myself close to, but directly behind, the lonely piano player, playing standards. There was no tip jar for him, adding insult to injury, but I slipped him a few bucks during his break, as he ate an unappealingly large plate of fancy food.
The service was spare. The waiter apologized. It’s Ramadan. He had been breaking his fast in the kitchen, but now, finally, was ready to bring us our Oban (me) and Jameson (Isabel). We drank a toast, we chatted, I felt her meaty, round ass, I directed her to spread her legs for me. My cock, after a day of relative quiescence, was springing to life in anticipation.
Isabel was without her customary self-consciousness, with no one around to overhear the filthy things I told her I had planned. One more time, I described for her what awaited us – the short walk, the forbidding entry, the dark front room, the crude porn, the paid companions, the democratic nature of the guests. The unisex locker room, the big party room, the smaller private rooms. There was no way I could completely eradicate the anxiety she (anyone) would feel, headed into a sex club for the first time. But I wanted to prepare her as best I could.
As she steeled herself with a second drink, we moved to the pool table. Our waiter brought us the cue ball and the eight ball. She made a joke about his balls.
She was a bit emboldened by the alcohol in her system, and she flirted, increasingly shamelessly, lifting her dress for me, showing me her thighs, her panties, her ass, as we played. A group of men sat twenty feet or so away. The game left us intermittently out of their sight lines, which I took advantage of to grab her ass, to snake my hand up under the soft fabric of her short dress.
“Go to the bathroom and remove your panties,” I instructed her. She barely hesitated, and a few minutes later, returned, her panties in her shoe (!). She deposited them in her purse and returned to me, now seated, in a dark corner. “I’d like you to kneel between my legs,” I announced. She did. “I’d like you to stroke my cock,” I said. She did.
We played a bit longer. She sank the eight ball, prematurely. (I’d won our first two games. She threw the third. She appreciated that I hadn’t let her win. Neither of us, honestly, is any good at pool.)
I settled with our devout Muslim waiter, who contentedly had served us liquor. (Programming note: would it ever occur to him to assert that his religion forbids him to serve us alcohol? Would anyone take that assertion seriously? Should the law?) We entered the heavy revolving door and spun ourselves out onto the quiet street, and began the short walk to the club.
As we approached, Isabel commented on how free she felt as the breeze blew up her dress, between her legs. She’s not accustomed to going commando. As we approached the club, her self-consciousness returned. Would people see us? What would they think? This was exacerbated by a tourist who had paused to snap a photo of the spire off a nearby landmark. “He’s taking a picture of the club!” she exclaimed, turning around to hide her face from his shot.
He wasn’t. The camera was pointed nearly 45 degrees away from the flag hanging in front, directly at the nearby spire. Isabel refused to perceive this, lost in her momentary anxiety.
The man took his shot and continued down the street. Isabel turned around, and we rang the buzzer. The door opened, she said, “I’m scared,” I offered a reassuring word or two, put my arm around her waist, and guided her inside.
In the airlock, we paid the attendant. She gave us our receipt (a piece of paper necessary to obtain a locker from Albert, the longtime attendant – an affable, monogamous married man who spends four nights a week in this dark den of fuckery), and we settled on a black leather couch. There were a few couples around, all dressed, none engaged in sex. The TVs blared raunchy porn, closeups of cunts, assholes, cocks, mouths, the owners of which were synthetic in every way.
“Do you want to dance on the pole for me?” I asked, a sly smile on my face, as I gestured toward the slightly obscured pole nearby. I was kidding. She seemed to think I might be serious. (Maybe next time.)
I sat her on the couch, kneeled in front of her, and dove into her sweet, musky pussy. The world receded for each of us, and her orgasm came shockingly quickly. I hadn’t imagined she’d come easily in this setting, but she did. Quickly, powerfully. Did it turn her on to be eaten out with others around? In this dirty, raunchy setting? I don’t know.
But I had her stand and led her to the locker room. On the way, we passed the Venezuelan guy, here with a new date – as hot as all his previous ones. He and I smiled greetings of appreciation – we always have the hottest dates there.
Once in the locker room, we deposited all of my clothes, and most of Isabel’s. She put her panties back on, left her bra on, we donned towels, and ventured forth.
First, to a private room, where she could feast on my cock without distraction for a bit. There was only one room open, and one of the two mattresses had a prominent wet spot from the room’s prior inhabitants. We plowed forward. I lay down a big towel, as far from the wet spot as the tiny, dark room permitted, and closed and locked the door. Moments later, her mouth was wrapped around my cock, stiffening, but not fully hard. (As often happens to me in public or semi-public settings, a full, reading hard-on was elusive the entire evening. As I said to Isabel, it’s not so much that I find sex clubs hot as that I find them interesting, but that’s not always consistent with tumescence.) I relished the hot and cold, contrasting sensations of Isabel’s blowjob. I had her stand for me, displaying her pretty, curvy body as she touched herself for my entertainment, stroking my cock, enjoying my good fortune, when there was a knock at the door. “Ignore it,” I said.
But the knocks persisted, grew louder, more insistent. “Please,” a woman’s voice said, “I left an earring in there.”
Reluctantly, I let them in, and helped for a few minutes as we all searched. Well, not all of us. Isabel hid her head in the towel on the mattress until the (definitely unsexy) interruption had passed. After they were gone, having not found the $200 earring they’d misplaced (was the earring $200? the pair?), she resumed her position sucking my cock. But I was ready to move on.
We gathered our things (towels – her bra and panties hadn’t come off in here), and I led her on a tour. First, to the “party room,” where three or four women were languorously fellating their chunky, 50-something men. Then, upstairs, which was quiet – just one couple in a dark room. “What’s this?” Isabel asked, pointing to the somewhat ominous red steel chair. “Maybe we’ll try that later,” she said, a twinkle in her eye. “Or maybe now….” I suggested.
She took her panties off and climbed onto the chair, lying back. I dove between her thighs and began to lick and finger her. All seemed good till she became aware of an audience. A tall, shaven-headed man and his date stood just a little too close, and Isabel turned her head, shy, not wanting eye contact with a stranger while I lapped her cunt. “Don’t be shy, it’s beautiful!” he said, violating rule number 1 in a sex club – continuing interaction after it has been declined. We got up and walked away, at my lead, inadvertently leaving Isabel’s soaking black panties on the floor. I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, as the tall guy picked something up and moved it somewhere less obvious. For later retrieval? I didn’t really register this, but when Isabel realized, just a moment later, what she’d left behind, it began to come into focus. We hunted for her panties by the chair but, of course, they were nowhere to be found. The guy was still loitering, still leering.
“Did you see her panties?” I asked.
“No,” he lied.
I followed my memory trace and found them, secreted nearby. I grabbed them, handed them to Isabel, turned to the guy (the douchebag, I should say), and rebuked him gently: “Not cool,” I said. This seemed to me self-evident. He’d tried to steal her panties and had lied when confronted.
“I’ll show you not cool,” he said, threateningly.
I ignored him and took Isabel’s hand, leading her back down to the party room. We lay there for a bit, just watching, as the other couples went at one another. The crowd was growing, and the douchebag and his date came in as well.
I’m conflict-avoidant. Perhaps to a fault. (I might should have gotten the guy thrown out, but I didn’t.) I just took Isabel back to the front room, where I set to making her come on a second couch. There are four or five in there. “Want to come on each?”
She dutifully came on couch number two, and I moved her around to my cock. I still wasn’t that hard, but that didn’t stop me from coming hard in her mouth, on her face, in her hair. Shortly after I’d waved away a hot couple that gently approached. “Sorry – not tonight,” I said. Isabel seemed oblivious.
“Next couch,” I said.
She seemed surprised that I might still have life in me left after coming.
Moments later, she came on my face yet again. But now, finally, we were done, with at least one couch un-come-on.
Oh well. Next time.
We went back to the locker room, and had some small talk with Albert. I learned that busy nights aren’t great for him. “Last Saturday, there were about 200 people here and I made $150,” he told me. “But Wednesday, there were about thirty people, and I made $450!”
I always leave Albert ten bucks. Tonight, I left twenty. And wondered if I should leave more.
Isabel and I slowly made our way out of the club.