Dionysus Retreat, Sex Club Spa

Twenty minutes later, looking through a two-way illuminated panel on their side of Floor 2, the husbands spied their wives. Now costumed, Joan Hockaday exuded sexuality from every pore of her body. Her platforms had been replaced by red high-heeled ankle strap peep-toe pumps with the same 5 inch heels she had pranced around on since her teenage cheerleading days. Joan's legs were encased in shimmering white hosiery as sheer as the best French textilers knew how to make it. They were topped with two inches of red lace that attached to an 8-strap white lace garter belt. The white lingerie and splash of red set off beautifully Joan's blond bush. Joan's naturally blond locks were gathered by a wild red sash bandana tied up to look like a pirate queen.

As required, Joan's pussy was fully exposed, looking slightly different than Brock had remembered from their love-making earlier in the week. No one had bothered to offer Joan any panties, and knowing the rules on non-stop exhibitionism, she had not asked. In bathing during the afternoon in preparation for the Retreat, Joan had decided to shave her pussy for literally the first time ever. Below a neatly-trimmed triangle of naturally blond hair, Joan's pussy was now hairless.

Her pencil-thick womanly outer lips were exaggerated by their new-found baldness. But what was most distinctive was the conspicuous ridge down the mid-line of her crotch just above her pussy. She had always been very sensitive around the hooded area over her clit, but until she shaved off all the hair, she didn't really realize how developed the structure of her clitoral ridge had gotten. There it stood like a pup tent with her clit just barely peeking out under the end of the hood. For years Brock had used two fingers to pull on that part of her anatomy as regular foreplay but now in her early fifties, she realized his hundreds of foreplay ministrations to her pussy had really had a permanent effect.

Taken aback by his wife's transformation to a sultry sex siren, Brock was unable to speak. Stuart, on the other hand, was riveted on another part of Joan's costume and bursting to speak. He pointed saying,

"Wow, look at the nipples on those tits! I have never seen anything like that! They're out of this world!"

At the costume shop, going with the theme of her arrival outfit accentuating her new breasts, Joan had donned an open tit conical bra right out of Madonna's concert wardrobe. The open tit ends revealed the longest, thickest, reddest nipples Stuart had ever laid eyes on. Joan's tight blouses and sweaters had always featured her massive boobs but given their sheer weight, she had never gone braless. In the summer non-nylon material in her skimpiest bikini tops had not revealed the 1¼ inch elongated nipples the surgeons had been stunned by when doing her breast augmentation from a 34B to a 34D cup. Having tugged and twirled and sucked on those miraculous nipples for the four years they dated and the twenty years of marriage since, Brock had kept their existence a secret from even his closest friend. But to Stuart's new found delight, Joan's startlingly udder-like nips were now on full display.

The cone bra made Joan look like a Viking queen right out of a comic book or video game. It encased her augmented heavy breasts in tighter and tighter circles of elasticized red ribbing on a white background until at the seventh ring they encircled and left uncovered the fleshy structure at the base of her elongated nipples. Elastic pinched the nerve endings, and extra blood flow engorged and reddened the long tit shafts. Brock even imagined that those glorious pleasure centers were several shades redder than he'd ever seen them. In fact, Joan's nipples had indeed been heavily rouged by the glamour consultants on Floor 2. They had realized the Retreat members would want to remember Joan as the initiate with nipples that just wouldn't quit.

And that was not all Brock and Stuart noticed.

When Brandi appeared in the next illuminated panel, her face was completely hidden by a Rio Carnival mask, but the flaming red hair, 38Cs, and thigh-high boots were unmistakable. The rest of Brandi's arrival clothes were nowhere to be seen. In their place, female attendants in the costume shop on Floor 2 had persuaded her to wear something Stuart found incredible because it was more revealing than anything Brandi had ever put on even in their own bedroom. Brandi's gorgeous pear-shaped 38Cs, giant headlights, and erect nipples were now on full display for all to see in a cupless heavily-boned corset of Corinthian black leather. The tea cup size auroleas were her most distinctive feature; they were truly extraordinary! Had she been a runway lingerie model rather than a beauty queen contestant, the headlights alone would have assured her success. Looking lower, Stuart saw that surrounding her wide hip bones was more black leather -- a minipant that laced down over her flaming red mound, hardly covering her pussy, and then continued lacing right around and up the crack of her ass.

Stuart realized he should have been more prepared for Brandi's startling transformation by the briefing on the first floor. Tits and pussies of all women in the Dionysus Retreat were fully exposed at all times. He knew that but Stuart just had not yet wrapped his mind around the fact that this condition of admission would include his wife. There was little doubt about it now; there Brandi stood in all her sexed-up glory. If she had been stunning upon arrival, now Brandi's lusty sexpot image in the black leather corset/minipant and thigh-high boots was enough to take a man's breath away. His friend Brock broke the silence.

"Stuart, I've wanted Brandi in the worst way for years. I think you know that. We've talked about it. Even talked that one night when we were all so drunk about trying to get the girls into wife swapping, but I have to tell you. Your wife is the sexiest thing I've every laid eyes on, in magazines, on videos, anywhere! If she weren't on the other side of these two-way illuminated panels, I don't know if I could control the lust I'm feeling right now. Brandi looks like a sexpot fantasy, pure and simple. Any male she meets in that outfit will say anything and do anything to get into those lace-up hot pants. I know I would, and I'm your closest friend. What have we gotten ourselves into?"

Stuart grew momentarily concerned too, but quickly his overriding emotion again took over. This (lucky?) husband found himself feeling an uncontrollable lust not for a stripper or a porn star or an inappropriately dressed sexy woman at work but for his own wife of thirty years. The Cougar Game was already having one of its intended effects on the husbands. But, Brandi was on the other side of the glass and headed for an elevator to Floor 3.

A loudspeaker then projected a strong female voice reminding Stuart and Brock that they must now delay their progress into the upper floors of the Game while their wives got fifteen minutes ahead of them in the initiation proceedings. Just as the husbands realized their wait would be interminable, the woman's voice noted that the delay from Floor 3 to Floor 4 would be even longer -- a full thirty minutes.

Each husband was lost in his own thoughts as the big clock strategically placed beside their stairwell to Floor 3 ticked ever so slowly. Each passing minute was accompanied by a loud tick as the large hand moved one notch closer to their release. Three minutes, five, seven went by. It seemed to Stuart like hours. He could only imagine what Brandi had gotten into, and what or who had gotten into Brandi. Most importantly from the perspective of the designers of the Cougar Game, he desperately wanted to see, to watch her!

At the appointed moment, both husbands were on the bottom step poised bizarrely like tuxedoed track sprinters. When the loudspeaker announced, "You may proceed," Stuart and Brock raced up the twenty treads to Floor 3.

The psychological and eroto-physical effect on both husbands was just what the designers of the Cougar Game had intended. Each lusted after their own spouse, but like never before, each also lusted after the other's wife. Knowing full well the effect his sex partner's transformation was having on a virile male substitute standing right alongside caused each husband substantial angst. Especially since their wives were calling the shots, both husbands just wanted to rush headlong into the next experience and see what the ladies were up to.

Neither yet fully comprehended the breadth and depth of eroticism and infidelity that was about to unfold. Their wives didn't fully yet understand either. With 6-inch boners raging in their tuxedo pants, the husbands raced to the next set of panels that would reveal what was going on upstairs.

Dionysis Retreat Floor 3

At the illuminated two-way panels for Floor 3, the husbands stopped in their tracks. What they saw caused Brock and Stuart to immediately sense that things would never be the same again. For there amidst a spa of foliage, waterfalls, and pools were tight clusters of people whose presence shocked them to their cores. Their scantily-clad wives had been joined by many people -- mostly men -- and practically all of them were black. Every shade of the absence of color was present from light-skinned Caribbeans to jet black Nigerians, and everything in between. Each man was an Adonis—huge chests, deeply muscled thighs and calves, and all were naked. The staff had removed their tuxedo jackets and moved about as members, and perhaps they were. Members indeed, thought Stuart, naked members.

Stuart and Brock's eyes alighted on one singular object located everywhere they looked across the panoramic scene. Hanging with lazy and therefore somewhat more foreboding indifference between each black man's legs was an absolutely enormous prick. Bigger pricks than either husband had ever laid eyes on before in all their years of locker rooms at school, college, and the gym. Some were longer than others, some were uncut, and some were circumcised but all were huge.

The black male organs looked like flashlights they were so thick, some two and even three inches wide. And many were ten or twelve inches long, twice the phalluses that Stuart and Brock had used to initiate their wives into the pleasures of raw sex. These studs were clearly sex machines capable of driving compliant women who gave themselves over to be pleasured by them up onto higher and higher waves of orgasmic delight than they had ever previously experienced. Scattered throughout the spa there were several husbands accompanying women dressed like Joan and Brandi. Drinking from long-stemmed glasses, each "cougar" was surrounded by several attentive black studs and a white male or two.

The central alcove of the spa had a giant belching hookah and ten pipes trailing into the foliage. Occasionally, a white woman and her black admirers would approach the hookah and take several tokes before moving back into the steam rooms or hut tubs. Although no touching was visible across the entire spa, Stuart and Brock could only imagine what was happening beneath the water of the hub tubs and in the steam rooms. Though disengaged by virtue of the separation afforded Brandi and Joan due to the mirrored glass panels (and the time delay), Stuart and Brock were deeply intrigued; they wanted to watch.

It had come time for the wives to meet Sonia Drapier, creator of the Cougar Game. Sonia Crown Drapier (Lady Sonia to her friends and lovers) was a 56 year old knockout. From high cheekbones to slim ankles, every inch of her 5'11" frame was perfection. She had married and divorced five powerful handsome men in the professions and executive management. Not a one of the five could keep up with her wit, her drive, her self-confidence, her raw intellect, or her voracious sexual appetite. Most people in town assumed Lady Sonia had taken as many lovers when she was married as in her more freewheeling days before or since. Sonia may have been a cougar; indeed she was the cougar in chief, but Sonia Drapier was no slut. She had broken up lots of marriages, and triggered more multi-orgasmic hours of intercourse than any other woman in the city, but men chased her (always had and still did), not the other way around.

When Sonia simultaneously tapped Joan and Brandi on their shoulders, both women practically jumped out of their skins. Slowly they turned with lowered eyes, drawn ever slowly higher to what they thought would be some guy's monstrously large cock. Instead, their furtive glances revealed sheer black stockings encasing impossibility long legs atop peep toe red satin high-heeled mules. Raising their eyes still higher, they saw fully-exposed bulbous 36Ds on a shelf bra atop a corset laced up the back. Sonia Drapier looked gorgeous in gold bracelets and large gold hoop earrings. Her make-up was perfect, her demeanor was calming, and her words allowed the wives to take a deep breath for the first time in 90 seconds.

"So glad you two decided to join us for the evening's adventure. I'm Sonia Drapier, creator of the Cougar Game. Although I don't own or operate the Dionysis Retreat, I did create the concept of the five floors of initiation events you two will experience tonight. Remember you have shown a great sense of adventure just coming here, and you can decide to stop the evening on any floor level at any time."

"Your husbands and (if you so choose) your new lovers will always follow your lead. That's the way we play the Cougar Game; you are in charge. I'll always be close by if you ever have any doubt about that. Throughout your first evening here, just look to me for guidance if you're uncertain about what to do. For now, you could go check out that closest hot tub over there. But you look like you're dying to ask me some questions, right?"

"First," said Brandi quietly, "Why are practically all the men around us black?"

"That's actually easy to explain," responded Sonia. "It drives your husbands absolutely crazy with lust (lust that you can channel) to watch you around these enormous black cocks. Husbands have dicks or pricks." Pointing in several directions, Sonia continued, "These are not; they're 'cocks.' You're already beginning to appreciate the difference I suspect. That's one reason why we celebrate so blatantly the long thick black phallus?"

"In the Caribbean last summer, Joan and I encountered a black cock like that one there," Brandi said pointing to a black staffer walking by with a flaccid but already thick eleven incher bouncing off his thighs as he walked.

"But last summer we thought that man (who was our masseuse's husband) was just a physical oddity, a freak. In fact, now I realize that when his member was hanging down below the massage table eighteen inches from our faces as he worked out the knots in our back and calf muscles, that there was an explicable completely natural reason our pussies got so wet. These big black cocks are all around us as potential sex partners all the time, aren't they?"

"Yes they are, my dear. And I try to bring you the best of the lot here at the club."

"And second," Sonia continued. "As I think you've already noticed, these black studs make excellent eye candy for building our own female lust. Like men, we Cougars don't associate sexuality just with relationships; we like our visual stimuli too. There you've heard it; I've called us proudly 'Cougars' for that indeed is just what we are, and you may wish to be one too."

"Well, I know what you mean there too," Joan intoned. "At St. Lucia when the masseuse flipped us over on our backs, her husband sat down on the sofa not at the heads end but at our exposed end, looking up between our legs. As his wife worked down the front side of our bodies from our shoulders and our chests to our stomach, hips and then our thighs, we sat up on our elbows. We looked at her husband while he looked up at our pussies. An absolutely gargantuan cock erected. The more she kneaded our flesh between our thighs, the bigger his cock grew, and the hotter we got! Both Brandi and I began to gush wet spots onto the leather massage tables as we watched his organ grow. So 'eye candy'; we know what you mean!"

Sonia concluded the enlightenment of the wife-initiates,

"Finally and most importantly, long thick cocks feel really good; they make for wild uncontrollable multiple orgasms unlike anything most women have ever experienced. Our club is about big cock sex, not black cock sex. It just so happens a lot of the sexual characteristics we Cougars want -- big cocks, stamina, and lust -- are all found in the loins of young black men. Tonight is your chance to find out about all that! On the upper floors things get more touch-oriented. But here on Level 3 you can look all you want. Indeed the rule on this 3rd Floor is 'no-touch, only look.' "

"As first-timers, I suggest you go dangle your toes in that closest hot tub, have some more champagne, and then later maybe try the hookah. I'll come and check on you again in a few minutes. Remember your husbands are always a level below you in the Game. They're enjoying watching, but not what you do here, not until you decide to move on to Floor 4. Have fun?"

Brandi and Joan stepped as inconspicuously as high heels on marble and a natural self consciousness about their fully exposed tits and pussies could allow towards the steaming swirling water. Sitting on the edge of the hot tub, they reached down to take off their expensive new shoes and boots from the Costume Shop on Level I. Before they could do so, however, their glasses were refilled. In the relaxed and chemically-induced state of sexual arousal they had already reached, both wives took another moment to look around. The first thing they saw was a sign beside the hot tub which read

Ladies, Wear Your Heels At All Times Whilst In the Retreat.

You Never Know When You Might Get A Chance To Leave Heel

Marks on the Ceiling.

So, Ladies If You Take Them Off Here

at the Hot Tubs, Put Them Back On When You Leave.

And Certainly Wear Them in Bed!

The two wife-initiates giggled like schoolgirls. Leaving your heels on all night even when you go to bed made both women think of deep penetration sex each had experienced with thighs spread wide as their husbands had lifted their butts and placed their ankles onto their shoulders. It was just missionary position sex on steroids but Stuart and Brock had gotten every millimeter as deep as their six-inch organs would allow. Once, Joan remembered, on their Trans-Canadian train trip, she and Brock had actually left heel marks on the ceiling in a sleeping car berth. The sex had been great that night. Something about spreading wide and being totally opened up by a pile-driving lover made the difference. She told Brandi about her memory, and they both laughed.

Brandi could have reciprocated by telling Joan that the night before, she had gotten just such a heels-in-the-air pounding from Stuart. Brandi figured her husband had been unusually amorous because he was concerned about measuring up, given their impending visit to a group sex club. But Brandi said nothing; she wanted Joan to feel like she as the Viking Queen was taking the lead each step they went further into the initiation events. That seemed to make Joan more comfortable. It was natural and totally instinctive for her to be the most forward about sex. Always had been like that, right from her cheerleader days. But the concept of 'heels on the ceiling' had caused a little squirt of wetness to seep around Joan's pussy lips too and out onto the cold marble on which she and Joan were seated. "Heels on the ceiling" had struck a resonant chord with both initiate/wives, just as the Cougar Game designers had intended.

A few more sips from their champagne and self-conscious quick glances at their surroundings brought Brandi's attention to a new sight. She nudged Joan and pointed in the direction of a woman about their age in a French Maid's costume who was whispering in her seatmate's ear. Something she was saying had gotten his rapt attention because her black male partner began growing an obvious erection. Initially, his penis uncoiled and ran down the length of his thigh. Because the two apparent amours were only ten feet away on a marble bench and because their crotches were at the wives' eye level, the reality of what was happening could not be denied. Although neither the French maid nor the black stud were touching one another, his living, pulsing sex organ thickened, straightened, engorged its veins and then rose off the marble bench. At first imperceptibly, but then it lifted one, two, three inches above the stud's thighs. Eventually his thick black twelve-incher stood out at a 45 degree angle.