Is fantasy meant to cross the reality barrier? Aren't some things better left unsaid and undone? At some stage in the last two years I decided that I wanted to find out all there is to be found out, only I didn't let my wife in on it.
We're like every other normal married couple -- we love sex, and it when we get around to doing it we ask ourselves why we don't do it more. The answer? Life gets in the way. And as for me, I subscribe to the 'normal guy' label in that I love everything about women, and the thought of seeing my wife with another woman. But because we're very open and honest about sex, I knew full-well that she had absolutely no tendencies in this area.
We'd had a few 'soft-swing' episodes with another couple, and one night when I was away the woman from the couple went down on my wife, but it was a drunken fumble, and the word was that it was 'deeply uncomfortable.' Maybe if I'd have seen it with my own two eyes, I wouldn't have pursued the fantasy like I have. Whenever I began questioning my motives, the image of a very attractive woman licking my wife's cunt spurred me on.
We're no strangers to pornography, and many an amazing fuck has been sparked by the sight of two people on screen, or stories that captured our imaginations and passion. So I sat down and thought of her true passion, and knew that dancing was the key to me achieving my goal.
She is an amazing dancer, so good in fact, that the best dancers in the club gravitate towards her. And she knows it. When she dances, she stops being the attractive, open-minded, gregarious woman, and becomes sensual, funky, and undeniably hot. Do I get jealous of the attention she gets? Maybe, but no one with the ability to move like she does will be a wall flower, and the knowledge that I'm the beneficiary of all of that pent up energy keeps things in perspective.
I'm quite possibly the worst dancer in the world, but thanks to Emily, I have learned to appreciate the art and the power of dance. Thanks to this, I've been more comfortable moving into her world, and whilst I'll never be able to abandon myself to music as she does, I can do my own thing and enjoy watching others. Watching. I defy anyone to go to a club and watch sexy people 'virtually fucking' on the dance floor. I'd look from my wife to other women losing themselves in the music, and I would get the sensation of being a voyeur -- when you're not dancing, are you allowed to watch so intently? Is that the province of those taking part?
One night we were looking on the Internet for clubs with a difference, and we found one called Fleshart which promised funky beats and a sensual vibe. When she looked at the gallery she got the look in her eye that tells me she has left the real world behind. We talked about it, she said that it sounded like the best mix of dancing and wickedness, so I made a mental note to take this a little further.
Three weekends later, when life had lived up to its reputation and made us slaves to the every day, I organised with friends to look after our two young children and told Emily we were going out, and that we were going dancing.
"I think you mean I'll be doing the dancing, and you'll be drooling over the half naked women dry humping on the dance floor." She said.
I agreed sheepishly, because she was spot on as usual. She only ever wears trousers when she dances, but the top she wore clung to her and made her look every inch the dancer she was -- lithe, graceful with a very latent energy. Her dark auburn hair framed her face, and just a hint of make up around the eyes drew you right into her soul. I knew that she would be getting a lot of attention tonight, I just hoped that my hunch would pay off.
Having researched the club further I found that the club was a favourite for those who enjoy the more risqué side of life. The Saturday night we chose was geared towards couples 'who love to play.' I banked on the fact that Emily wouldn't have thought twice about the club since the night we found it.
I booked a hotel on the outskirts of London's trendy Shoreditch area, and we checked in before moving on to the club. Emily was showing signs of nerves, she kept wringing her hands and couldn't relax.
Wine to the rescue.
Now, red wine would have meant a night in, because it has a direct link to her clitoris. One glass and she's all over me, so instead I had a chilled Pinot Gricio ready to calm the nerves. And it worked perfectly. By the time we walked the short distance to the club, Emily was in her element and looking forward to the evening.
The club was incredible. Think of deep reds, velvets, golds, moody lighting and music that seemed to come from everywhere, and from the knowing grin of the doorman when he checked us off his list to the dark buxom woman taking our coats, I knew we were in the right place.
It wasn't pumping, that's reserved for hot sweaty commercial clubs, this place was better described as writhing. There was so much sex in the air, people on the floor were entwined -- all dressed, but all lost in obvious lust. Emily and I made our way to the floor and she began to do her thing. This was the way it worked -- I would accompany her, and within half a song, she would be set, and I became surplus to requirements.
As if on cue, a group of incredibly good looking black people materialised and gave an appreciative signal to Emily who returned the secret gesture -- but I knew my place in her world, and it wasn't in the middle of the dance floor. I retreated to a booth at the edge of the action and began to drink beautiful wine and play my part -- watching.
I'd had half a bottle to myself when I noticed a shapely brunette noticing Emily. At one stage Emily checked that I was okay with the most subtle of glances, but not subtle enough for Ms Brunette. I failed to notice her leave the dance floor, engrossed instead in the show being put on by a beautiful blonde woman whose micro skirt kept riding up revealing something that looked a whole lot like nothing underneath. I was cursing the darkness when I felt someone slide into the booth next to me. Thinking it was Emily I looked around smiling only to find Ms Brunette smiling mischievously back at me.
"Hi." She said simply.
"Hi" I replied.
"I'm Carla".
"I'm Nathan".
