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.
