Back in my home-town on the Continent, and on the evening of the first full day I find myself without any plans. Meetings with family and friends are scheduled for later during my one week’s visit, so I better take the opportunity for a naughty night out. Actually, I am quite tired, had a busy and exhausting few days before my departure, and I am not sure whether I should go. Also, there was a slight chance to meet up with one of my school-friends (his plans for the evening didn’t quite work out in the end, but he doesn’t let me know until fairly late in the afternoon.) Now I need to come up with a fib for my mum, where and with whom I’ll be spending the evening. (the school-friend gives me a good excuse to go out, though).

So, as early evening approaches, I take a shower, get myself ready. Hair done up, make-up carefully applied (without any expectation for it to last throughout the night – well, there’s a hope), perfume of course, putting on a black and nude lacy slip, a black thong (perhaps not appropriate for a cold winter evening), opaque patterned tights (at least for the duration of my journey to the club), a tight-fitting black and brown knitted dress, black heels. My mum approves of my outfit (at least of what she can see). I add on a bit of sparkly jewellery – and stealthily hide a pair of seamed fishnet hold-ups in my handbag which I intend to wear at the club. After all, I need to look elegant and respectable when I leave the house, don’t want to raise my mum’s suspicions (although – well, I don’t need to point out a mother’s sixth sense when children are up to no good! At least I can keep her in the dark about my true motives for the evening out – nevertheless, I can see she is puzzled that I am going out “to meet my friend” rather late; by now it is almost 8:30 p.m.) and contrary to my usual habit, I am rather vague about where we will meet. A quick kiss and a “don’t worry mum, I will come home very late” (meaning early morning – but that is not something unheard of when meeting with my old friends from school).

Going to the club by public transport I always find quite amusing (although walking about in high heels is less funny if one isn’t used to it). I sit on the bus, watching people around me – if only you knew! Or perhaps better not ….

Fortunately I don’t have to change often, but walking the last bit in the dark, almost empty streets in an area of town where a number of seedy clubs and red-light bars are located (and not to forget my heels!) is not entirely comfortable. It is a safe city, it is my home, and I look respectable – nothing at all gives away my final destination, but still I walk along on high alert about my surroundings. Finally, the entrance of the club, an energetic tap on the door-bell, and off into the foyer – out of sight from the street. It takes a couple of minutes before the door is opened for me. A faint smile of recognition from the manager, who enters my name into his book and assigns me a locker in the changing room.

Since it is a Friday I expect to see at least a few familiar faces of the usual Friday regulars, and straight away I bump into a couple dancing close to the entrance. Hugs and kisses – “Lovely to see you! It’s been a while” (which is true; I haven’t been in the club on a Friday for about a year, I think). A quick glance into the bar-area – hmmmmm, for a Friday it seems rather quiet although a few people sit and stand around the bar, and by club standards it is still early, about 9:30 pm.

In the changing room I quickly slip out of my coat and more importantly, out of my dress. Tights are exchanged for fishnets. Another couple arrived just after me, I ask the girl whether the seams of my stockings were sitting straight. After a brief inspection of my legs and with a short tug she corrects a minor misalignment, followed by her approving comment “What a sweet kitten you are!” and a wink. “Is she one of the bi or bi-curios women?” I wonder. Closing my locker, I take a deep breath, clasp my cigarettes and lighter (all I will need for the evening), and sashay out to the bar.

The manager/bar-keeper takes my key (to be placed on a board, which serves as a means to make sure that everyone has left at the end of the night, but also very convenient because one doesn’t need to look after it), takes my order for a drink. Across the bar a woman waves at me – my namesake is here too! She was the first person to welcome and introduce me to some other regulars at my first ever visit on my own. I have had lovely chats with her since and she can be good fun (if she doesn’t get too drunk). On the one hand it is nice to see familiar faces, on the other, it is so easy to get engaged in conversations, and if so, especially in chatting with the ladies, it can be quite tricky to make contact with the guys, who can be reluctant (or too shy) to approach, not least because they can get the wrong ideas about one’s interest (my namesake is known to swing to both sides; my interests are known to those who have met me before – but not that many are present, at least not yet).

I walk over to her; again hugs and kisses, “Good to see you” again, followed by an exchange about the more important news in our lives. She introduces me to another, male, regular. I don’t catch his name, it is quite noisy– never mind, the three of us chatter away happily. The DJ decided to go for the 70s, songs we all know and we sing along and reminisce about the days of our youth. “He whose name I didn’t catch” looks okay, a bit taller than me, about my own age, bald, faint traces of acne-scars which add interest to his face, lovely eyes, very pleasant in conversation. The walking boots and thick socks he wears, though, are a bit at odds with his t-shirt and shorts, and a rather unusual type of foot-wear at the club.

At some point the woman behind whom I was standing, swivels around on her bar stool. “Hey, cool to see you again! It’s been ages!” Indeed, it had been – about a year. I hadn’t recognised her because she has put on at least 20 kg, which especially for her small frame, is enormous. Another set of hugs and kisses and I try to hide my shock. Later I learn from my namesake about an illness which had caused that weight gain.

In between bits of conversation I let my eyes wander. Is it my imagination or have the ladies’ outfits become more daring and skimpy? Has the fashion changed? Lots of fishnet and lace, more provocative than before, some baring virtually all, very little of leather or latex, etc. Some outfits look cheap – in every sense – rather than erotic. In my lacy slip I look rather demure in comparison (well, after all I could not have any daring outfits of that kind lying around at my mum’s or at home).

Also, there are hardly any men around who catch my eyes. There’s one a short distance further along the bar, but he is quite attached to a woman whom he strokes rather stealthily – no point to flirt, which can be a bit tricky if they are a couple (as a single woman one has to be a bit careful with attached men, jealousies are not unknown, even at the club). Time passes, midnight approaches. I start thinking that Fridays really are not the best days, with such a fairly close-knit community of regulars. Never mind, at least it’s a fun, even if not naughty, night out.

At some point the “girl who gained weight” offers me her seat – she is off to play. Further chatting with “he whose name I didn’t catch”, and suddenly some eye-contact with “the one further down the bar”. He approaches my namesake playfully, (she knows virtually everyone around), tickling her back – which she says she doesn’t enjoy because right at that moment she suffers from a hot-flush and feels sticky. He comes over to me, runs his hands down my back – I, in contrast, like that a lot, make it known to him. Some more playful tickling (his approach to my namesake was just an excuse to get closer to me, I am sure!). Some more playful tickling – then he sits next to his partner again, stroking and caressing her ever so slightly, but she seems more interested in chatting and dancing. Yep, perhaps I do have a chance after all! Some more exchange of glances …

Then, suddenly, “he whose name I didn’t catch” bends towards me and plants a firm kiss on my lips. Nice! I lean back against him, his hands wandering over my shoulders, gripping the nape of my neck, grasping a handful of my hair. Oh, I like that a lot! Shivers of pleasure are now running down my spine. I open my mouth, our tongues entwine in a kiss lasting for what seems ages (talk about clichés!) His other hand finds its way to my breasts, sliding under my slip, tweaking my nipples. I gasp with pleasure against his mouth, my head tilted back, eyes closed. Now I feel his hand wandering up my legs, pushing my slip up a bit, teasing my through my thong. I tense up – we are at the bar, in public view! He pushes my thong aside, rubs my clit, inserts a finger – finally I give in to waves of pleasure, relax and I climax within minutes, very much to the approval of the people in our immediate surroundings (nobody else notices – they are too busy themselves). When I open my eyes again, another one of my acquaintances had arrived. Frank, an older man around 70, who regularly spends his Fridays at the club, cheekily telling his wife that he is out playing cards with his mates. He comes out with the naughtiest verses one can imagine, makes people laugh, likes to watch people play and plays if the situation arises. On a previous occasion he has taken good care of me in a group situation, making sure that everybody behaved properly (i.e. used condoms). Anyway, another round of hugs and kisses and “I haven’t seen you in ages”.

“He whose name I didn’t catch” and I decide to find some more private space in the play area. All the lockable rooms are occupied except for the one with the gynaecological chair (the club caters for all kinds of tastes). He isn’t keen on public play (not to speak of further participants) so – well, the gyn. chair it is. He locks the door, we stand faced to face, more kisses. He is keen to take his shorts off and releases a nicely sized hard cock for me to play with. I wrap my hand around it, my other hand on his balls, rubbing and teasing him. He nudges me to position myself on the chair, legs firmly planted on the restraints. Ah, my thong needs to come off too! I lift my buttocks, he pulls it down my legs, throws into the corner where I left my shoes. His commands come in English rather than our native language. “I want to fuck you, baby!” My legs up and spread widely, I move my buttocks further down the chair, ready for him to enter (not before he has put on a condom, of course!) First he teases my clit with his hard cock – delicious waves of pleasure make me want more and more … and more until I orgasm. My loud moans must be audible outside and someone rattles the door-handle, clearly in the hope to participate in the fun. Not this time, whoever you are!

I am very wet now and “he whose name I didn’t catch” enters me with a rock-hard cock. A few slow and hard thrusts until I take him in entirely and deeply. I slide down the chair even further, almost (but not quite) worried that I might tumble off. I firmly grasp the foothold, which gives me leverage to meet his thrusts. Hard and fast now. “Turn around, baby! I want to fuck you from behind!” Slightly out of breath I climb down, plant my feet on the ground, bend forward, bunching the paper covers of the seat in my hands. A few more thrusts and I come again – or am I still on the same wave as before? By now I am on a high of pleasure, no longer able to distinguish between high waves and climax. (In the meantime more rattling on the door. Poor sods – but this time I am having plenty of fun with one partner). Slowly I get exhausted, and so is “he whose name I didn’t catch”, but he just can’t climax. He is confused now. “Is it me? Anything I should do differently?” “Just wank me”. I do my best, hard grip, gentle grip, fast, slow. Finally I get down on my knees, sucking his hard cock, licking his balls, teasing his anus with a finger. All to no avail. After a while I suggest to take a break – perhaps he is over-stimulated, just in need of a rest. He admits that he had had a very long day and felt somewhat tired, but was a bit confused, too. So, shower-time it is, and time for another drink.

We decide to sit in a quiet corner, away from the crowd, and able to have a private conversation. I learn a bit about his background, his job, his private life with his Far Eastern wife, his frustration with his job (from which his club-visits are an escape), and his keen interest in mathematics and physics, two subjects he had studied at university but dropped out before finishing, and his regrets about this. Now, while these latter subjects aren’t exactly my field of expertise, I can hold this conversation once we arrive at the philosophy of mathematics and quantum physics, the universe, matter and energy and how such thoughts make my head spin (and his, too). Another hour passes quickly with chatter until we look at each other, giggling “How crazy is that? Sitting in a swingers’ club at 3 am, discussing quantum physics! Surely we could do better things with the remaining hour before the club closes. We definitely need to remedy this situation.” Ready for round two!

Although by now quite a few people have left, all the lockable rooms are occupied (still or again?) I suggest one reasonably private area, high up under the ceiling, called the “bird’s nest” (of which I have fond memories of my first ever “group-worship” – not to use the cruder term gang-bang). Before climbing up I carefully stretch the rope a across the entrance – a clear signal for the wish for privacy.

This time, lots of kisses and manual stimulation quickly bring us to full arousal. In our naughty talk we stick to our native language, and in contrast to round one, this one is of less urgency, far gentler (despite a few slaps on my backside) and more intimate. At some point, someone quite naughtily approaches upstairs, ignoring the closing rope, but “he whose name I didn’t catch” waves him away. However, now the rope isn’t in its place any longer, and my loud moans and gasps and our dirty talk attract attention. Fortunately, however, the next visitor is Frank, who although watching us at the same time blocks access for everyone else. He clearly understands the rules and being watched doesn’t bother us. And anyway, we are lost in our senses. Kneeling between my widely spread legs, my partner takes a little while to put on a condom. I am on edge, don’t want to interrupt, so I take initiative and start to rub my clit. “Show me, baby. Show me how you do it yourself.” I come noisily, ready for his hard cock to drive me to even greater pleasure. After some gentle missionary, we try from behind (I am careful not to put too much strain on my elbows to avoid carpet-burns), and sideways. Tiredness gets hold of my partner again at some point, but in the end I succeed in bringing him release with hands and mouth – all the while being silently watched by Frank. We collapse breathlessly, recovering with gentle strokes and cuddles.

It would be nice to rest for a little longer, but by now only 20 minutes are left to closing time at 4 a.m., so another quick shower, afterwards I don’t bother to put on my fishnets again. I really am in need of a glass of water at the bar. A few last stragglers are still left, quite drunk, including the manager who clearly has no intention of closing – something I have never observed before and quite in contrast to his usual correct manner. I have a last cigarette for the evening, coming down from the high of a little while earlier. When “he whose name I didn’t catch” finally sees me fully dressed in the changing room, his reaction is “Wow! Understated elegance! That’s what I like a lady to be like”. With a wink I reply “nothing giving away the slut I can be.” A final tight hug, a good bye kiss and off I walk to my taxi (and glad to take off my heels soon).

24 hours later:
Note to self: think twice about using the gyn. chair! While I escaped carpet burns on my elbows, a couple of bruises on each of my buttocks from the metal bits on the chair are a slightly painful, even if not entirely unpleasant, reminder of some rather vigorous exercise.