The S Club - Chapter 1 - The Invitation

For eighteen months my wife’s cunt had been a museum piece: look but don’t touch unless it’s a national holiday. Claire would sigh, spread, stare at the ceiling, and wait for me to finish so she could go fold laundry. I told myself the move to Sunrise Palms would fix it. Six thousand square feet of beige stucco, two golf carts, and a clubhouse full of tanned geriatrics in pastel would somehow make her wet again.
It didn’t.
What made her wet was the black envelope that slid under our door on a Tuesday morning while I was jerking off in the shower to the memory of her nipples stabbing through that white sundress at the welcome party.
Claire knocked once, opened the door, steam swirling around her silk robe. The robe was open just enough for me to see the dark line of her bush and the way her tits had settled heavier since menopause. She held the envelope like it might bite her.
“David. You need to see this.”
Thick stock, my name embossed in silver. Inside, one card:
You have been observed.
Thursday, 9 p.m.
11 Banyan Court
Come alone or bring her.
There is no third choice.
Her nipples turned into bullets before she finished reading. I felt my cock twitch against my thigh, already half-hard from the shower jerk.
That night she crawled into bed naked for the first time since 2019. Reached between my legs without asking and wrapped her fingers around me like she was claiming property. She stroked slow, twisting at the head, smearing the precum with her thumb.
“Are we really going?” she whispered, voice shaking with something that wasn’t fear.
I answered by shoving three fingers straight into her cunt. She was drenched, slicker than she’d been on our honeymoon. I curled them, found the spot that used to make her scream, and pumped until her hips bucked off the mattress. When I pulled out I made her lick every finger clean while I told her exactly what I thought was waiting on Banyan Court.
Thursday she spent an hour choosing a dress, finally settled on black wrap, no bra, no panties, heels sharp enough to draw blood. I was hard the entire golf-cart ride, cock straining against linen slacks while the humid night air smelled of jasmine and her perfume.
Victor Lang opened the door himself. Seventy, silver hair slicked back, linen suit the color of bone. Eyes that had already measured Claire’s tits and found them adequate.
Twenty couples sat in a perfect circle around a low lacquered table. The air smelled like money and cunt. Victor didn’t offer drinks.
“This is the S Club,” he said, voice smooth as thirty-year scotch. “Four ranks. Pig. Skank. Slut. Whore. A husband offers his wife. She surrenders everything or she leaves forever. Once it begins, the husband watches every task, every cock, every load.”
He clicked a remote. A screen descended. Silent 4K footage: a woman on her knees in this exact room, platinum choker flashing WHORE #9 while an old man painted her tongue and another erupted deep in her shaved cunt, the overflow running down her thighs in thick white ropes.
Claire made a sound beside me, half-moan, half-sob. I glanced down. Her thighs were pressed so tight together I could see the tremor.
Victor shut the video off.
“Questions?”
Silence.
He looked at me. “David Marsh, retired surgeon, do you offer your wife for consideration?”
My mouth was sand. My cock was steel. “Yes.”
He turned to Claire. “Claire Marsh, former art teacher, do you accept the collar of Pig, knowing what comes after?”
She swallowed so hard I saw her throat work under the soft skin. “Yes.”
Victor smiled like a priest who’d just been handed a virgin. From a black box he produced the pink vinyl collar, rhinestones spelling PIG in childish sparkle. He walked behind her, gathered her hair in one fist, and fastened it around her throat. The click of the clasp was the loudest sound I’d ever heard.
He leaned close to her ear, loud enough for the front row to hear:
“Welcome, Pig. Tomorrow you drink from a bowl and come on command while your husband watches you learn exactly what that pretty mouth was made for.”
In the golf cart home Claire didn’t speak. Just reached over, unzipped me, pulled my cock into the humid night, and jerked me slow and deliberate while the streetlights strobed across her face. I came before we hit our street, shooting thick ropes across the steering wheel and her wrist.
She brought her fingers to her lips, licked them clean one by one, and smiled for the first time in years.
Tomorrow my wife would be on her knees with PIG around her throat.
And I was going to watch every filthy second.

Very well written. I look forward to the next installment.

keep posting!!!!!!

Very nice!

Mmmmmmmmm, more please

Extremely well written with a very sexy picture of the wife. Can't wait to hear how she performs in the next installment. Almost sounds like a party we've attended

Interesting story. Reminds me of eyes wide shut.

Stunning lady

thanks for sharing

Got me hard! Your wife is hot AF!

I know you have some pictures that show those tits. Please post. We can wait to see them.

Man that is HOT ! Can't wait to hear more ! Would Love bringing my Hot Pussy Redhead to one of those Parties and Watch Her perform with her Lovers !

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