I had planned a fun evening. Signed up for the Labyrinth Club. I haven’t been to a sex club in, literally, years, and I thought Charlotte and I might well have an adventure. Charlotte’s never been to a sex party or sex club, and, while a sex party might be a better initiation to this particular corner of the universe, there were no such parties available on this particular evening. And the Labyrinth Club was open.
I was a bit put off by some aspects of it. The reviews online were pretty mixed. And, honestly, characterizing them as “mixed” is generous. The web site is good enough, but I read enough to understand that single men are welcome. I’ve only been to one sex club where single men are welcome. It was in London. And it was awful. Dozens of men lurking around, leering, at the few couples who were present.
Ddevious Delights – a sex party – used to have the occasional event at which single men were welcome, including the occasional event billed as a gangbang, at which, it seemed, the women were working. I only was present at one such event. It was most definitely not my speed.
So I was a little anxious about what we might find.
And then, just an hour or two before we were scheduled to meet, I heard a brief radio story about the impact of smoking on the COVID vaccine. Early on in the pandemic, there was some evidence that smokers were at lesser risk of contracting the virus. That evidence, though, was superseded as the months passed, and the much-less-counterintuitive truth emerged: smokers are more likely to contract the virus and, predictably, their (our) outcomes are far worse.
I’ve been an off-and-on smoker, now, for nearly 20 years (after 20 years of being an ex-smoker). In the last year, though, I’ve been more on than off. Smoking scares me. It killed my mother. And I’m a bona fide addict: I can’t smoke just a little, and I’m just a happier person when I’m smoking. Notwithstanding the suicidal aspect of it all. And/but… COVID really scares me. And the story I heard scared me even more: it seems that smoking within 24 hours of receiving the vaccine diminishes the vaccine’s efficacy materially. And fuck me if I haven’t smoked within 24 hours of each of my three shots. (I got the booster recently.)
So reluctantly, I decided to “call an audible,” as I told Charlotte.
I had asked her to meet me at a restaurant. Or, actually, at a bar. Thinking it was a restaurant. As the date approached, it dawned on me that I had conflated these two places – the bar and the restaurant. I revised her instructions, telling her to meet me down the block from our original destination. “Why’d you change your mind?” she asked.
“I didn’t,” I said. And explained my conflationary error.
So Charlotte sat in the restaurant, waiting for me, at a table in the back corner. I texted her, asking her to order me a Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks. And, to keep her legs apart. And, to describe to me the hottest man/men and woman/women in the place.
I didn’t hear back from her. (Turns out, cell service didn’t penetrate the restaurant’s ancient walls.)
A few minutes after pressing “send” on those texts, I entered the restaurant. Proved my vaccination status to the guy out front, entered, and joined Charlotte at her table. She looked, well, good enough to eat. She wore a black blazer over a lacy bit of black lingerie she had bought not too long ago. “I’m wearing it as a top!” she said. “It’s a little slutty.”
“Oh sure,” I said. “You can say that. But when I do….” I had gotten in trouble some time ago for describing Charlotte’s look on a date as “slutty.”
I didn’t, actually, think she looked slutty. I thought she just looked hot. As did everyone else who saw her.
I ordered us dinner – shrimp cocktail, grilled salmon, and filet mignon. With the appropriate sides of green beans, mashed potatoes, cauliflower, and some sort of barley thing that neither of us particularly enjoyed. We made our way through the food, catching up on our days. (It hadn’t been that long since we’d last seen each other.) And I told her about my original plan, and about my decision to revise it.
“So what are we doing?” she asked.
I hadn’t yet decided. But I had confidence that the evening would reveal the answer to me.
After dinner, we walked past the Labyrinth Club. Just to get a sense of the outside. And… ugh. It was a crappy old building, with a deli on the ground floor. It did not look particularly nice.
As we walked, I told Charlotte that I recently had realized that she bore something of a resemblance to the daughter of my childhood best friend. I found a photo of the daughter on the interwebs, and showed Charlotte. She could see it, though she didn’t think the resemblance overwhelming. “Well, it took me several months of knowing you to think of it,” I said.
This daughter of my friend? She’s smoking hot. Not as hot as Charlotte – she’s rail thin, and her curves aren’t nearly as enticing. And her face is just a bit sallow. Where Charlotte’s is resonant, pale, but bright pale – alabaster, or porcelain, or ivory. My friend’s daughter is more… chalky. And Charlotte’s curves are violent. She has a slender waist, big hips, a round ass. Her breasts aren’t small. Her eyes are bright, her lips are red. She’s just. Fucking. Hot.
Anyway: we kept walking, and found a (much-nicer) bar on a side street. It was crowded – packed with white people in their 20s. We both were shocked at how not-hot the crowd was, given the tony atmosphere and the lofty prices. This was just not a hot crowd.
We had a couple of drinks at the bar, doing our best to pick out the hottest people there, and struggling. Charlotte picked a tall, bearded guy. Who looked gay to me, but what do I know. Though Charlotte confessed that she is often drawn to the gay men. His date looked pretty delectable to me – brown, wavy hair, petite, and a bright smile.
But the truth was, the two of us were, far and away, the hottest people there. Or at least, Charlotte was the hottest woman. I’m not, truth be told, that hot. I mean, fuck, I’m in my fifties. And I was in a bar where the median age was 25.
We drank a bit, finished our drinks, and I had Charlotte deliver a cunt-smelling finger to me from the restroom. A taste of things to… come. And a plan gelled in my head. “What do you think?” I asked. “Do you want to come once? Twice? Or fifty times?”
“Ok,” I said. “We can add ‘three times’ to the possibilities.”
Charlotte wasn’t immediately thrilled with the choices. One, two, and three didn’t sound like much. Fifty? That sounded simply unimaginable. Overwhelming. Impossible. I didn’t give her a choice – rather, I asked her her thoughts.
We left the bar, walked a few short blocks to the hotel I had booked, and checked in. The man behind the counter confirmed my last name, and my phone number. “That’s my other phone number,” I said to Charlotte. Or maybe, “That’s my real phone number.”
Charlotte knows me. She knows my (real) name. She surely could know, if she doesn’t, my “real” phone number. So the guy hadn’t betrayed any secrets. But he thought my aside to Charlotte funny, and rewarded us: “I’m going to upgrade your room,” he said.
“Thanks!” I said. I imagined that we were going from the queen-sized bed I’d booked to a king, and that sounded good to me.
We rode up to the room, sharing our elevator with another guest, so not yet able to find each other’s bodies with our hungry hands. We got off on the seventh floor, walked to the end of the hallway, and opened the door to find – a suite the likes of which I have never seen. And I’ve seen some nice suites. This suite was larger than most apartments. I would guess it was about 2000 square feet. There was a dining area, with a table with four chairs. A living room area, with a couch, two chairs, and a coffee table. A desk with a chair. There was a bedroom, with two chairs and a king-sized bed. Two bathrooms – one with a giant bathtub, and another, with a giant shower. The ceilings were high. The walls, far apart. It felt like we were in Texas, or somewhere where real estate is priced by the acre, not by the square foot.
“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” I asked.
“No,” said Charlotte.
I tossed her on the bed, spread her legs, unsnapped – with her help – the teddy she wore, and dove in. Her cunt smelled, tasted, delicious, as usual. Strong, musky, sweet. [I know she’ll read this and be self-conscious; my last post made her fear that I think her pussy smells too strong. I. Do. Not. Her pussy smells, and tastes, just fucking perfect.]
The next few hours are, honestly, a bit of a blur. I know that, after her first orgasm, I grabbed a notepad, and made a hash-mark on it. “That’s one,” I said. And told her I’d be keeping score using hash-marks.
“You mean tallies,” she said.
A Google search ensued. I confirmed that “tally marks” is a term used by some to refer to hash marks. This seemed dispositive to me. But now, as I look to find what it is I found, all I can find is the opposite. So maybe I was wrong.
“I want you to thank me after each orgasm,” I said. And she thanked me for her first one.
After three or four, I decided that the suite had a lot of furniture on it, and that we might as well put it to use. “You’re going to come on every piece of furniture in here,” I said.
In the end, we didn’t quite make that goal. Mostly because I forgot about it along the way. We missed two chairs, and a credenza. But we did hit all seven free-standing chairs in the living and dining areas.
The coffee table. The desk. Charlotte came four times on the dining table – once with her head facing in each direction. She came twice on the sideboard, both times standing. She came twice on the desk – once, her ass to me, on her hands and knees, and once, standing. She came literally dozens of times on the bed. And, she came in the bathtub. But not the shower. And against at least one, and maybe two, mirrors.
She came to my fingers, to my tongue, to the vibrating pink dildo she’d brought, that she had bought on a previous date. Throughout, she said “thank you” fifty times. I scratched fifty hash marks on the hotel pad. And, we established that, for whatever reason, my cock wasn’t especially available. She gave it the old college try, sucking it until she fatigued. That first round, I was hard enough. But I wasn’t ready to come. And by the second time, it just wasn’t coming to life.
Charlotte really wants me to fuck her. And a thought I had at the end of the evening, as I was headed home, was that the evening had been a very strange mix of “impotence” and power. What is more powerful than making a woman come fifty fucking times?!?! And, at the same time, I couldn’t even summon a consistent erection for her mouth? Jesus.
Well. The evening drew to a close after her fiftieth orgasm. We cuddled a bit. Kissed. Talked. She started to drift. I told her I would be leaving soon, and kissed her good-bye. I stood up from the bed, dressed, gathered my things, and made my way to the door. Something like 100 feet from the bed. And I headed home.
Charlotte spent the night in the room, and was devastated to realize, when she got home, that she’d left her new favorite vibrator in the hotel. She called to retrieve it, but no luck.
“How does your pussy feel?” I asked the next morning.
“Sore!” she said.
“In a good way?” I asked.
“Yes!” she said.
I was pleased. And this gets at the second bit of power, of potency, for which I realized I had been reaching: I knew Charlotte had a date planned that night – the one following this date – with D, the guy who can’t get her off, her incipient boyfriend. I think that, unconsciously, I had wanted to demonstrate my superiority to him in two ways: first, just with the number “fifty,” in comparison to his likely “zero.” Or “one.”
And second, and maybe a bit more aggressively, I think that perhaps I wanted also to put Charlotte’s pussy out of commission, to render her, essentially, un-fuckable, for her date.
I’m not proud of this impulse. I wasn’t aware of it, for sure. But as I processed the date, I wonder if that wasn’t in the mix. I think it was.
I haven’t heard from Charlotte about her date with D as I write this, though I do know that she spent the night with him. And I suspect that she rallied, that she made her cunt available to him, to be fucked properly in the way I simply couldn’t. And maybe can’t. And you know what? That’s ok with me.
Because fuck! That was a fun night!