I’m Isaac and Isla’s my wife, and we just got back from our first visit to a sex club!
We went with rules. All the online advice says you should do just that.
Not knowing exactly what to expect and going in with caution, our rules were stricter than we might have ideally liked. I’m certainly not complaining. Our rules were sensible.
We agreed that our first visit would be a “scouting mission,” and we wouldn’t engage in any sex acts while there. We’d simply watch, absorb, and discuss later to determine if the scene was something we could get down with at another day and time without the pressure of the scene bearing down on us in the moment.
This was better than nothing, and, ultimately, we went to a sex club!
Walking in, we were both a bundle of nerves and almost turned back at multiple points. But the anxiety faded soon after we stepped into the place. Not five minutes in, I seriously regretted our vows. I know Isla did as well, but we’re not ones to walk back on promises.
The place was clean, well-tended, and superbly run. So many hot, sexy things swirled around us! Some weren’t to our tastes, like bondage with humiliation, but so much was up our alley, and everyone appeared respectful and followed the club’s rules to the letter. I told her what I saw and liked, and she did likewise. It was nice to see our tastes in kink still mesh.
Every time I think I’m a hypersexual man-slut, she checks me, Hard. My girl’s got a serious appetite for kink and experimentation.
We watched flirting, touching, sucking, and even some fucking. But watch was all we did. I can only assume her panties were a swamp, because my dick was hard as a rock the whole time.
At one point, her eyes seemed glazed and unfocused, yet I knew she was taking in the sight of a woman tending to four cocks. I whispered in her ear, “I can’t take any more of our vow; wanna get outta here?”
She turned to face me, saying heavily, “Fucking yes!”
I was gonna take her to my truck and fuck her silly on the rear bench. We’d come back another time to do it here, in one of the rooms, for others to watch and engage with us. Of that I was determined. But not this time. Honesty and promises are serious business in our marriage, so our rules needed to be abided.
We made a beeline for the door, but one of the damn employees purposefully stepped in our way, blocking our exit. Fuck!
He wasn’t aggressive or creepy. He just wanted to hand us a flyer.
We were so turned on and eager to put our sex parts to use that I wanted to face-palm him and bowl him over. Isla nearly did. But I knew that this joint catered in hot shit, and I didn’t want to miss out on anything, so I just thanked him, took the flyer, folded it hastily, and shoved it in my back pocket.
We sprinted to the truck, and I fucked her. We didn’t even touch the toys on the floor of the back seating area. She came twice before I donated my cock’s finale to her pussy. Atypical, as she usually needs more work on my part, but fabulous and understandable given what we just saw.
It wasn’t until the next morning, sipping our lattes, that we checked out the flyer, thinking it more a joke and souvenir of the evening.
It was for an event, six weeks away, called “Pussy of the Year.”
The flyer’s graphics were a screaming mess. It could have been the cover of a nasty porn magazine: ladies with too much makeup taking hard dicks into their mouths, big-breasted women riding fat cocks, and a single close-up shot of a penis about to enter a vagina.
But it had a QR code, and next to the code, the text stated, “For registration and more information.”
Okay, what the fuck. Why not look?
Isla, chuckling with me next to her as she took a bite of her omelette, scanned the code and got into the site.
It held a link to register for “Pussy of the Year,” and it explained the terms of the event, which turned out to be more of a contest. The winner was awarded a two-thousand-dollar purse. It seemed like a moderate sum, but we got the distinct impression that the bragging rights and all that it entailed were the true prize.
In order for a woman to register, they had to agree to the terms, give contact and demographic information, though true names needed not be disclosed. A nominal fee of one hundred dollars as a down payment was required for administrative costs. For women who actually showed up to the event, the fee would be refunded.
A sex contest? Given the level of smut, you bet your best horse that we were going to read it through and through, which I thought was quite the lark.
The terms:
Any woman could register to be in the running to be crowned “Pussy of the Year.”
The text amicably read, “Applicants will be judged solely on their performance, perceived enjoyment of the contest, and on their ability to engage and transport the crowd. Ladies…you’ll fuck for the crown! You’ll fuck many, and not in private. You’ll fuck under the watchful eyes of our judges and the audience. Victory will NOT depend on physical attributes, but your kink, joy in participating, and your ability to let everyone know that you’re the best literal fucking pussy in the house!”
The rest of the rules and guidelines continued, but in smaller print.
“This is a bareback sex contest. Accordingly, all registered participants, men and women, must report to a designated location 24 hours prior to the event for a health screening. After, the women contestants will be ushered to a sequestered location until the event. The same for the participating men, but in a different location. No sexual contact will occur during the sequestration. Only individuals passing the health screening will be permitted to participate, and we reserve the right to refuse anyone’s participation due to inappropriate behavior, without refund.”
“The event will commence in a nearby location suitable for the volume of attendees. Each female participant will be provided comfortable bedding and unlimited personal lubrication. Sex toys and other devices are permitted, but will not be provided.”
“On the gong’s chime at 9 pm, the contest will begin.”
This meaning was clear: fucking will begin.
“Participants will randomly and simultaneously engage in intercourse until the natural conclusion, or the female participant requests a new suitor. While initial partner assignments will be random, the order of the men in the queue will be based on order of registration. When any man is spent or asked to terminate, the next in the queue will take his place. No selecting of partners is allowed by participants.”
“This is a cum-drenched fuck-fest, folks. At the end of thirty minutes, the gong will chime, and the contest will end.”
“Victory will be assigned by a panel of five scoring judges according to (1) visible lust, (2) sexual creativity, (3) stamina, and (4) overall positive performance. Ten points are possible in every given category, for a total of forty points. Again, we stress that we will avoid awarding points to physical characteristics or how many men are serviced, as this is beyond the control of the participants. This is about drive, ability, and doing the good work, not random luck or gifts given by nature.”
Finally, there was one last clause: “Each participant may bring one male companion for security and enjoyment. He may not participate, but is encouraged to pleasure himself throughout the contest and rile the crowd. Two extra bonus points may be assigned to his performance in this role with respect to helping engage the crowd.”
At the very bottom was a single link: “List of male suitors.”
Of course, we clicked the link, and the top of the page that appeared contained text reading, “Link to register as a suitor at the bottom of this page. Suitor registration fee is 250 dollars, refundable if the suitor has not engaged any of the women participants during the event. Any female participant may anonymously veto any suitor, no questions asked. If vetoed, the suitor’s profile will be removed, and the registration fee will be automatically refunded.”
Okay, this seemed fair. Any man with a problematic history with any of the women would be automatically out, and it also served to exclude any man that any of the women deemed revolting.
Scrolling down, headshots of the registered suitors started to fill the screen. They were of varied ages and seemed like any random slice of the population. Nobody seemed revolting. Next to every headshot was a first name only, which was also a link.
Isla randomly clicked on one: a mid-thirties run-of-the-mill blonde guy named Jeff.
That took us to the good stuff. Sure, there was a brief bio with age and interests, and there were more pictures of his face, and a few of him hiking and working out at the gym. But there were also a few full-frontal nude shots. And there was a close-up shot of his erect penis. Average size, but nice enough to make Isla nod in approval.
We checked out multiple profiles of suitors, and all had the same general format. Isla lingered on the profile of Anton, who was black, handsome, in his early forties, and had a hard cock that she obviously thought was appealing.
Damn, this “Pussy of the Year” thing sounded fucking kinky and hot, but I didn’t let Isla know my thoughts. Instead, I shrugged it off as goofy, making some witty and flippant comments as I drew our second draft of lattes.
But she didn’t laugh. I was paying attention, even over the buzzing of the latte machine. She didn’t laugh. She didn’t even jokingly comment. I slowly turned around to look at her.
She was glassy-eyed, staring at the computer. Others might have interpreted her expression as “blank.” But I knew that look. Oh my, did I ever know that look!
My insides lurched on a dime, and I held my breath, staring intently at her, not daring to think what was pulsing in the depths of my lust and vast bed of kink.
When I felt I was just about to pass out from asphyxiation, she slowly looked up at me and calmly said, “I wanna do it.”
*****
Stay tuned for part 2! Follow me, and maybe read some of my other publications if you get impatient!
