The cock was not my husbands, that much was certain. It was black for a start, and though it was flaccid, it appeared large as it dangled, disconnected, through the circular opening cut into the wall of the discretely lit booth in which I sat. I licked my lips nervously. My husband and I had been married for nearly a decade and in that time I had never been unfaithful, what's more until recently I'd never even considered having sex with another man. Yet here I was my heart racing as my eyes examined the sleeping beast before me, transfixed. It was not that I'd never seen another man's cock before, although it was true that I hadn't seen many; but I had never before been afforded the opportunity to give a stranger's such intimate scrutiny without its owner knowing.
I bent towards it, fascination overcoming my natural inhibitions and as my face neared the smooth flesh, it seemed somehow less inanimate, alive. I pondered reaching out to it, and my fingers twitched, but though sensing my thoughts the organ pulsed and I recoiled, suddenly guilty as my sense of propriety was reasserted; but I did not retreat far. I was curious to see it grow, but I was hesitant because I was afraid of awakening it, so instead I watched and waited, breathlessly willing it to rouse of its own volition.
These were unusual circumstances for me; I was in a club with my husband, which we had visited for the first time just a few weeks previously. It was called the Glory Hole. The club had a sexual agenda with its patrons coming to enjoy a raunchy cabaret which was hosted at weekends. The main hall of the club was cavernous, a dimly lit amphitheatre with tiered rows of high backed leather sofas each with sweeping arms which discretely encircled their occupants like luxury fairground Waltzer cars, each orientated toward the central stage on which the voyeuristic action took place. All across the hall, dozens of serving staff diligently attended their guests, ferrying drinks and snacks to them and flitting gracefully through the spaces between the seating booths, unashamed of their near nakedness.
As well as the staged cabaret shows, the club was also renowned for the phenomenon from which its name was derived -- it's famous glory holes. These were specially designed rows of cubicles which were located at the rear of the hall, parallel to and sandwiched between the ladies bathrooms on one side and the men's on the other. Inside the well-appointed bathrooms, numbered toilet cubicles occupied one side of the rectangular space. Patrons entering the cubicles could be merely attending to their sanitary needs, however they might also choose to lift aside the heavy curtain at the rear of the cubicle and step into the small room beyond, a second cubicle isolated from the toilet by the heavy curtain and backing onto the correspondingly numbered glory hole located in the bathroom of the opposing sex. Dimly lit and fully enclosed, containing only a leather upholstered chaise longue in one corner and with a single hole cut into the rear wall, the glory holes encouraged the attendance of other needs.
It was in one such cubicle that I now sat. It was my second visit, the first being the week before, after my husband's convincing and after an erotic stage show and too much wine had left me feeling too aroused and too uninhibited to refuse. Perhaps at the memory of that event -- my husband's cock presenting through the hole in the wall, entering my mouth as I greedily milked it -- I felt my arousal heighten, even as I studied the stranger's cock before me. I wondered where my husband was now, he had told me to wait for him in this cubicle. I wondered whether he had been held up, or whether perhaps he had entered the wrong cubicle by mistake, in which case, perhaps a stranger was sucking him off at that very moment. Inexplicably that thought made me hornier still. I looked around. I knew already that the tiny room was empty, yet somehow the thought which I was contemplating demanded that I check. Satisfied, I focused again on the strangers cock. I half expected it to withdraw at any moment, perhaps the stranger would get bored of waiting; I half hoped he would. In the meantime however, there was no harm in doing what I needed to. I stood quietly, and hitching my dress up around my waist, I slipped my knickers down and kicked them into a corner. I sat back down onto the chaise longue and reclined with my legs parted - one stretched horizontally along the furniture and the other bent at the knee, foot resting on the ground, my fingers found my clitoris, wet already, nestled beneath my trimmed thatch of pubic hair and gently I began its slow, circuitous masturbation.
My mind was in turmoil. How I had come to be here was clear enough. The catalyst had come on the night of my thirtieth birthday. We'd invited a group of friends over, enjoyed a barbecue in the late summer sun and by late evening had worked our way through several crates of wine. The conversation had been light and good humoured, but towards the evening it had taken a mildly salacious turn when somewhat drunk, the lads had begun discussing the aesthetic attributes of a well known personality. Not to be outdone, one of my more smutty friends had launched into her own appraisal of several male personalities, and unable to make her mind up as to which she would screw, she had turned to me for assistance. With all eyes on me, I had blushed, never comfortable to be the sole centre of attention, particularly on such a topic, but not wanting to appear prudish either; and I'd muttered the first thing that came to mind.
"Why settle on one?" And that was it. The group had laughed, I had smiled shyly and the topic had moved on, but a seed had been sown that would germinate over the weeks to come. At the time, I would never have imagined the impact that such a simple, throwaway attempt at humour might have, but from that day a chain of events had unfolded which had culminated in this moment.
That night, tipsy but in good spirits, my husband Dan had climbed onto me in bed and we had made love, something we had done with diminishing frequency of late. As I had laid there, his cock entering me with long, slow strokes, I had felt a familiar pleasure spread through my body as my orgasm had built. His touch, as ever was soft, tender, caressing. Like ripples on a pond, the sensations of pleasure ebbed gently, yet over time they increased in frequency until finally they merged and a single wave of bliss gripped me; a wave characterised by feelings of warmth, security, familiarity -- the gentle feelings of love. This was all expected. After ten years of marriage, our intercourse was as predictable to me as the sun rising, and no less a pleasure; but then something different had happened, something unexpected.
As my orgasm had subsided, I had opened my eyes to find my husband's gaze fixed on me, a hesitant expression on his face, and his lips parted slightly, as though preparing to give voice to thoughts that he was reluctant to share.
