Back when there were more adult play venues in the area, there was a nightclub and porn theater we tried once which didn't quite "feel right." A couple of years pass, and in conversation with one of our friends at our then usual haunt, he mentions we should try it again, that the owners made changes on the theater side more suited to how we played in public. "Okay, we'll check it out." This was overdue; our "usual haunt" was located in an especially dangerous neighborhood, and this new place was in or adjacent to an industrial park in another corner of town.
A few weeks later after a difficult day working around the house, I suggested to Cindy, "You feel up to trying that place John suggested we give another chance to?" I tend to be horny after a day of physical labor, so was relieved when she answered "Why not?" We had our usual argument about what she will (or won't) wear, settling on a silver zipper-front sleeveless sheath mini-dress we picked up at an adult store many years before. Sandals, and no underwear, of course. It was late summer, so nude was actually more appropriate, but next to naked was the best we could do to avoid arrest.
Admittedly this dress works well on Cindy. She has the classic Scandinavian look: tall, slender and blonde, with modest, pert breasts in a perfect balance to her light frame. Unlike most of her playwear, it doesn't show anything to speak of. It's short enough and tight enough to be titillating and shows plenty of curve, but too tight to reveal tits, ass cheek or labia "accidentally", even working at it. However, this, after all, is adult store couture, also known as "clubwear" -- the zipper has exactly the right sex appeal, and can be lowered for cleavage, or all the way to unfastened in a single motion. "OK, that'll work," I said, somewhat begrudgingly since I prefer not-so-accidental peeks in public to show her off.
We tended to our normal early evening routines around the house, each of us slightly edgy in that the wardrobe discussion was always the start of several hours of mental foreplay. Around 7:30 or so Cindy started her preparation with a bath and shampoo. Dry, freshened and now spread-eagle on our bed, she summoned me to put the final finish on her shave job. "Polished," we call it, the objective being no hair visible on her mons or pussy, and in best of circumstances no stubble to the touch. We carried on in our usual banter about her being unable to see down there for a close shave. Now nice and smooth, she went to work on her normal light amount of makeup, surprisingly little making for a dynamite look.
With Cindy all cute, her mound and labia nicely polished and eminently touchable, she finishes dressing while I finish my shave -- up and down, trying not to razor burn my testicles. It's always a nice show for her if my important bits aren't hiding in the shrubbery. We gather-up her "play kit" -- lube and tissues, plus her prescription "pammy pills" to address the anxiety issues and inhibitions that have increased over the years and frequently put a damper on the fun.
An hour's drive later, we end up at the club. It's our usual "off night" foray into the seedier side of things, so there are at most ten cars in the lot. As we drove up, we notice a gentleman sauntering towards his car, and as I open the door and Cindy steps out in that silver dress, he does one heckuva pirouette to briskly head back towards the club. We were amused.
Entering the main room, we recognized the layout from the previous visit, although a few things were shifted around to have less of a "you're on stage, so entertain us" vibe that put us off the last time. We greet the bartender, the only other female in the place, pay our modest floor fee and order our drinks. Cindy gets her usual club soda and lime mostly out of courtesy, using it to down her "relaxation" pill.
We chose a high table close to the center of the room. Feigning they were watching a football game on the TV, the small crowd of 8-10 men ever so slowly converged to the tables around us. The other patrons were not what we usually encountered on these outings, all seemed to be casual professional in both demeanor and dress. Polite to a one, none of the leering stooges, aggressive hoodlums or redneck cat-callers that sometimes send us running for the exit. Clearly, this was going to be an appreciative but safe audience.
"Showtime!" I whispered in Cindy's ear. She giggled and went into her coy, "Who, me?" posture. I hinted that she might want to hike up her dress a little for a couple of the guys to view. She complied, and turned around facing them, spreading her legs just enough to get a reaction. I leaned over to kiss her and lower the zipper a smidge.
Two or three of the men worked up the courage to make a little bit of small talk. As they struggled against furtive glances at her shaved pussy and cleavage now fully on display, we chatted for a while, exchanging nondescript and unimportant details about each other, as I stroked her and leaned forward a few more times, continuing to lower "that" zipper. After a few minutes, the dress at this point was open to below her navel and her nipples would play peek-a-boo with the slightest move. I took the opportunity to further tease the crowd by "abandoning" her in a semi-naked state, and retreated to the bar to refill my drink. I quietly asked the bartender, "What are our limits out here in the main area?" This is a respectful inquiry I always make at a new place for us so we don't offend... or get tossed! She responded, "It's a quiet night, so anything goes. Just not on the bar."
"Thanks!"
While away, with the obvious encouragement directed at the gathered men, Cindy was flirting in her chatter and tone, and the group started to get the idea we were up to something. Well, duh. I caught a glimpse of a couple of the men in the background rubbing themselves in anticipation having seen enough breast and labia to be aroused. She and I fawned on each other for a couple of minutes and I whispered, "Ready?" Cindy nods, and I take care of the last three inches of zipper, which is her cue to drop the dress off her shoulders. She is now nude, the dress draped over the back of the stool protecting her adorable ass from the seat. The entourage audibly inhales in astonishment. And then she stands up. Gasps. Wows.
You see, for "a mature woman", Cindy is striking. Maybe she doesn't have as much up top as some men like, but screw 'em, I like it. I really like it! All in all a very pleasing balance. The bonus is she looks 25 to 30 years younger than her real age. She's still major eye candy.
In circumstances like this we like to play a special game with the crowd. Now that everyone has seen the goods -- so to speak -- I "directed" her to put her dress back on, zipped all the way up. Oh, the disappointment on their faces! She and I nod to each other at this point, confirming "this is the night!" for the extra-special version of the game. Normally it's just for fun, to wow the crowd. Tonight it was for keeps, money on the table.
"Don't worry, there's more. Let's play a game: guess her age," I ask.
"You don't do that to a lady!" protested several of them. That's always the first reaction everywhere we play the guessing game.
She and I laughed, "Oh, trust me, you're not going to offend her. Besides, would you play along if I told you there were prizes?"
A few mumbles, then one volunteered, "OK, I'll play. 42." Another, "46. They wouldn't be doing this if it wasn't something surprising." A third, "38!" About the time we got to the last guy, he was reading our bemused smiles and responded, "In her fifties. Alright, I'll say 56. He looks to be in his 50s."
"Thank you everybody!" as I baited them. "Ready?" Nods all around. "She's 68."
