I Am On The Menu

Margaret had just left for the party. I admired myself in the mirror. If I do say so, I looked fabulous! The cobalt blue cocktail dress clung to my hips and shoulders. The leg slit showed off plenty, but not as much as the cowl neckline, of course.

The neckline plunged and my bare breasts rested in its folds, supported by the fabric, nipples hard and dabbed with a little deep red rouge. I wanted my breasts seen. I wanted them at their best for the men who would soon enjoy them. Tonight I would be available. Tonight I was nearly certain to be used by at least one man.

The excitement made it hard for me to stand still. I bent forward and watched in the mirror as my breasts hung down, the way they would appear when I bent before the men in a few minutes as I served them a drink. Hmmmmmm! Lovely, I smiled to myself.

Already, I was wet and I understood why we were told to wear panties. During the night ahead, I could be dripping down my legs and onto the stay-up stockings within no time at all! I decided to take along an extra pair of panties, no, two pairs!

I was proud of how I looked. I was sure my husband would be proud of me. I looked part glamorous model and part pure slut. At least, I decided, I was a fit and pretty slut.

I am from Austin. How did I get here, to this room in a motel outside Houston, ready to have a night of pure sensual pleasure? I looked for the thin jacket they had given me when they decided my dark blond hair would look great in the blue dress. I was ready to walk across the parking lot to the private party where I would slip off the jacket and be on display and eventually fucked by one of the men who made up this unusual club. I couldn't wait! I had been told that these men were in their 40s and 50s. They wanted to see good looking married women in their 30s. They wanted to enjoy a little debauchery with someone else's wife. I wanted it too.

Margaret, a girlfriend from work, and I had taken a long lunch one day and gotten a little too tipsy, I guess. We got to discussing how our husbands were not as interested in sex anymore and what we could do to perk thinks up. The usual ideas were mentioned, from revealing lingerie (both of us had tried that) to toys (again, we had both introduced toys into our marital sex) to swapping (neither had tried swapping but my friend reddened and spoke in a low voice as she confessed that she had been with other men.

She confided to me about this men's club in Houston. She said that she had been invited by an old friend from Houston who was a frequent guest at the club's quarterly meetings. Margaret had attended twice.

The concept was pretty simple. Forty men between the ages of 40 and 60 were members. Every three months, they invited a few male guests and about 30 women, mostly from the area, to join them for a night of drinking, flirting, showing off and sex. Some women traveled from long distances to be "on the menu," as the inside term put it.

All the women were checked out in advance by the club's "chaperone," a woman who had often been a guest and took over when the original chaperone moved away. I was intrigued that such a club could exist. I asked lots of questions. The answers all seemed to lead back to one theme: The men wanted half naked women to serve drinks and engage in sexy conversation. Then, many of them wanted to pick a woman they especially liked and spend an hour or two fucking and sucking.

The whole idea was so outrageous that I needed to hear more. Margaret spilled out the details of her personal participation.

When she had been told of the club and provisionally invited to the next meeting, she had told her husband that she was visiting a Houston friend for the night. She told him no more until she got home from her first "guest appearance," as she called it.

Secretly, she took some cell phone nude and topless photos, with her hair covering her face, and emailed them to the chaperone. She sent along one smiling head shot. She included her age, weight, measurements, cup size, and marital status. Soon, she got an email inviting her to be a guest. She needed to bring cosmetics, including rouge for her nipples and her favorite condoms (if she wanted to use a particular brand). She should wear CFM heels and stay-up hose, no garter belts. She must wear her wedding ring and an engagement ring if she had one.

She should be shaved or neatly trimmed, with no extraneous hair around the anus or her pussy lips. She would be expected to give hand jobs, perform orally, including swallowing, but she could say no to anal sex, bondage and pain. She was told to pick a name from a list with about 75 and to be alert to answer to it. She was to arrive at the motel by 3:00 p.m. to select the dress she would wear and get instructions on serving and being "available" at the end of the evening.

She learned that as the party ended, all the women would line up across the side of the room, then drop their dresses, turn around and push their panties to the floor. They were to stand up swinging the panties above their heads as they turned around. They would each be directed to a man who had chosen them or been chosen for them. Incredible!

Margaret agreed to tell me more the next day and I went back to work, fidgeting and horny. I practically jumped my husband that evening when he got home from work!

Later, in bed, he asked me what had gotten into me. I started to tell him about this strange but fascinating club in Houston. Then, I decided to wait to learn more from Margaret. I felt a little guilty but decided that I might tell my husband about it later, assuring him that I had no desire to attend such immoral goings-on. Or if I remained intrigued by the idea of the club, maybe I would tell him in a way that would bend the truth enough to get him to let me go.

I had gone topless on beaches and had skinny dipped at a place near Austin. I knew from those occasions that my 36d breasts got a lot of admiring looks. I loved the attention! My husband says that as pretty as my breasts are, from the waist down, I am as good looking as any woman. At the swimming hole, he told me that he was proud to show me off. I made certain that I was easy to see! I pretended to be reading but I opened my legs a bit and watched the men as they watched me. We had great sex that night. I was, it seemed, a bit of an exhibitionist.

The next day, I took some cell phone photos: Topless, full-frontal, showing my behind in the mirror as I bent forward. A few more of my breasts completed the job: An arm over my head, breasts hanging down, from the side.

I thought they looked pretty good! I sent them off to the chaperone with my vital statistics and got scared that I would be rejected. I got a reply two days later, just as I was about to give up. It asked for a photo of my hand wearing my rings and information about my married life. Did I cheat? Did my husband to my knowledge? Had we swapped or shared? Was he cuckolded? If so, did he watch? I realized that I had a pretty tame sex life! I answered and added the nude beaches and skinny dipping. Then came the final question? Why should I be chosen? I just answered right away:

"Because I need to break out and be a slut for a night, at least just once."

A few days later, I was invited! When I told Margaret, she was excited and said we could go together. I told my husband that we would be staying with a friend of my friend and just doing "girl" things. I felt embarrassed, ashamed but very naughty and turned on as I packed that Saturday morning for the drive to Houston. Yes, I had lied. Then, I couldn't stand it and I marched into the kitchen where my husband was sitting reading the paper as the kids ate breakfast.

"Honey, could we talk a second?"

"Sure," he said, "what's up?"

I spilled out the whole story, except I made the sex at the end of the evening optional. His face went from questioning to confused to horror as I told him.

"So you and Margaret want to go shake your tits at some old men? Have them admire you as you feed them snacks and drinks?"

"Yeah, stupid, I know. Kind of like people do for Mardi Gras," I whispered.

"Why do you really want to do this?"

"I guess just to do it, to feel desirable, to have the attention, that's really all."

"Will it lead to anything else? You said there are chaperones?"

"At least one chaperone," I said. "And I suppose it could lead to something but it doesn't have to. Do you trust me?"

"Yes, do you trust yourself?"

"Yeah, I do. Tell you what, if I promise to tell you everything that happens, no matter what it is, then what would you say?"

He looked at me. He understood that I was telling him without saying so that I might do more than just flash my breasts and serve drinks.

"Okay," he said in a low, steady voice. "I guess you're entitled to a little fun, a little attention, to feel desired. You'll sure give them something special to look at. I guess you need to go and have this fling, or whatever. Get it out of your system."

He drew me close and we huged.

"Have fun and give them a good show. Just promise to come clean with me and answer all my questions truthfully when you get home. And promise to call me just before you go to the party and when you return. Okay?"

I was surprised. It was so easy! He seemed to know what might happen, what could happen. He even seemed a little excited by it.

I just said "Okay, honey, I'll be careful."

He told me I'd better hurry to finish packing or I wouldn't be ready when Margaret arrived to pick me up in an hour. That got me moving because I did not want her to come in and start talking with my husband! She might tell him that the fucking was, well, mandatory. I rushed and was watching out the front window when she pulled into the drive. I gave my husband a long, wet kiss, full of tongue and a few tears.

"What's wrong?"

I'm just so lucky to have you. Thank you for trusting me," I said as I looked into his blue-gray eyes. His eyes were so clear and deep, introspective.

"I'm proud of you," he smiled. "I love you. Just come home to me."

Then he patted my fanny and turned me around toward the door. He picked up my suitcase and rolled it to the trunk of the car, slipping it inside and closing the lid. He waved to Margaret and smiled but did not speak.

"I love you," I said.

Off we went. Over and over, I kept thinking about what he had said.

As he sent me off to what he must have understood was a very good likelihood that I would end up being naughty, he had said that he was proud of me.

Oh yes, I would make him proud!