I recently wrote a story called "The Surprise" - a non-consensual story with a twist. I deliberately picked a vague title, and so I will try and write a different tale under each of Literotica's twenty-five writing categories with the same inspiration over the next year.
* * * * *
My wife repeated what many people have said: sexual libido decreases with age.
That may be true for my wife, but it wasn't for me. I fell in love with a vivacious twenty-year-old and for several years, we screwed like rabbits. We produced three fantastic children, all of whom went to university, and all returned to live in our leafy suburban town.
But once Alicia, Margaret, and Robert moved away to their own homes, we had the privacy we missed as younger adults. There was no longer the threat of an unwanted guest mid-shag, but unfortunately, the peace did not provide any action to satisfy my rampant sex drive. My parents enjoyed night after night in front of the television in their late forties; I do not. I want the intimacy and sexual satisfaction I had in my twenties.
But time had delivered me to a dead bedroom; a wife, who I still adored but who was no longer the cheeky, playful, sexual being that I married.
I was not the first husband to complain about their wife's lack of libido, and my drinking buddy made a suggestion in the pub one evening, a couple of pints of beer in. Martin was five years older than me, but we met when we played for our local pub's pool team and remained friends. He was a little crude, and was not the sort of mate I would bring home to my family, but we sunk a few beers together every Friday. He oft-moaned that "wife's cunt is like Santa Claus; I only see it once a year." He chuckled and then continued. "You know that sex club and dungeon in Stockport on the ring road? They do a party with prossies once a week. It'll cost ya seventy quid, but you can get a massage, and fuck a delightful piece of ass, and then have a drink."
I hummed. "That's cheatin' ..."
"I go every week. I need sex and if my missus won't give it to me, then I'll find it a slut who will. Monday afternoons."
"I work on Mondays and ..."
"So do I. I go to work early, take my lunch around two, come back at half-four and finish late." He downed the rest of his pint and tapped his glass. "Another?"
"Yeah," I muttered. "Last week, I had this wonderful slut. Fanny was tighter than a duck's arsehole, and she was nineteen. You can be anonymous, but I like to fuck 'em on the bed and give 'em a tip. Three weeks ago, I got head from a fat trollop, who could suck a golf ball through a straw. The last time I got a blowjob from the fat cow I'm married to, flares were still fashionable. It's your birthday at the end of the month. Let me take ya! This one is on me."
The overweight, gruff Northerner reiterated his offer the following week; as two lunar months had passed between my last sexual experience with my wife, I gave in. My horniness was too high.
I arranged a half-day holiday with work and met Martin in the packed car park of the sex club. Nervousness radiated through me as he escorted me into the former gymnasium. Now with classy black decor and neon pink lights. "We'll take twenty gold tokens," Martin announced to the receptionist, putting a stack of banknotes on the desk. "It's twenty for one hundred and thirty, or ten for seventy. But what you don't spend this week, you can spend next week or the week after, so it's worth buying in bulk." The man wordlessly counted out the gold discs, like casino chips, to my friend, who then gave him a couple back. "That's entry for two."
Martin knew where he was going; he took a pair of locker keys from the receptionist and we walked into the changing room. Two other middle-aged men were there, getting changed, and my friend effortlessly spoke to them as I undressed. The reason for our visit embarrassed me, but Martin embraced it, striking conversation with the near-naked strangers.
"Busy?"
"It was earlier. The girls got proper railed!" One replied. "I got some amazing head and then fucked a slut up the tailpipe."
"The gloryholes open?"
"Yeah. About ten to twelve tarts in. Including Fat Pat."
"Fat Pat is the bird who gives the best head," Martin explained to me.
"T'at's true," the dressing punter replied. "She says she's on the cum-only diet, which explains why she's the size of a fuckin' whale."
They chuckled. "What about the massages, the fantasy room and the sex slings? All open?"
"Yeah, all open, mate. They have four of the rooms open if you want a normal fuck, too."
"Nice." Martin passed me a blue towel to wrap around my waist, and a pair of disposable closed-toe slippers, that I slipped over my feet.
I followed him along the corridor and he swapped two tokens for a couple of twenty-minute massages with no happy ending. The women, young enough to be our daughters, rubbed a scentless oil over our naked bodies as we lay face-down on the massage tables, and it soothed away my tension. My anxiety and fear of doing the deed had left me tense, and the nameless masseur's smooth hands rubbed away the guilt I felt. I drifted to a relaxed, peaceful state.
However, I couldn't cheat on my wife; we had been together for 25 years, and as we walked along the corridor towards a lounge-cum-cafe area, I admitted the truth to Martin. "I don't think I could fuck another girl." My hands shook as I thought about seeing another woman as I screwed her. "I'd be too nervous and ..."
"A cunt is a cunt is a cunt. I was going to go for a two-girl two-bloke thirty-minute double, but we'll just do the anonymous room instead. Do you ever knock one out to Czech Fantasy?" He asked, staring at me as we entered the lounge area. Pornography blared away on the wall, as my friend grinned at me.
"Yeah," I admitted. "It's ..."
"They have a room. They call it the fantasy room. You just need to get hard, stick your dick in the pussy and fuck it. You don't even need to meet the girl." He gulped. "She could be a fat munter, but it's servicing the horn. C'mon, when was the last time you got laid?"
"Two months, a week, and six days ago."
