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The first thing that struck me wasn’t the setting—it was the feeling.
Walking into the club with my husband, I expected nerves, maybe even second thoughts. Instead, there was a strange mix of excitement and curiosity, like stepping into a world that existed just outside the rules we’d always followed. The hostess greeted us warmly, as if this was the most natural place in the world, and guided us through softly lit rooms that felt both intimate and theatrical.
There were spaces designed for watching, others for privacy, and some that blurred the line entirely. Behind glass panels, silhouettes moved slowly, deliberately, like part of a performance. A darker room what she called the dungeon felt heavier somehow, charged with a different kind of energy. And then there were the booths. Gloryholes for both men and women. It was the female glory hole that grabbed my attention the most.
It was simple in design, almost clinical, but the idea behind it was anything but. The hostess explained it casually, as if she were pointing out a piece of gym equipment. Anonymity. Trust. Surrendering control without knowing who stood on the other side. I nodded along, but inside my mind was already racing ahead, imagining what that might feel like.
When we returned to the bar, drinks in hand, everything seemed louder and softer at the same time. Conversations flowed easily. People leaned into each other, laughing, touching, connecting in ways that felt both bold and completely unforced. It didn’t feel seedy like I’d feared, it felt open. Almost disarmingly so. We got chatting to a young single man, wearing tight pants that outlined something impressive.
I tried to focus on the conversation, on the people we were meeting, but my attention kept drifting. It surprised me how quickly curiosity could turn into something stronger, something that pulsed just beneath the surface. We entered the club looking to play as a couple but found myself wanting more. To be used, used in the glory hole.
Eventually, curiosity won.
I slipped away quietly whispering to my husband to follow shortly with the young guy to the female gloryholes, heart beating faster with every step, and found myself back at the booth. Alone this time, it felt different. Quieter. More real. I hesitated only for a moment before stepping inside, I lay on the bed and realised how high I was it would take a large man to fuck me how I wanted to be fucked in here.
When my husband appeared on the other side, I could hear it in his voice before I saw anything hesitation, mixed with something deeper. Trust, maybe. Or curiosity of his own.
What followed wasn’t what we had planned. It wasn’t even something we had really talked through in detail. But it unfolded anyway, guided more by instinct than intention. At first I felt his hand, one finger followed by two, then even more I was almost getting fisted by a stranger who I hoped was the young guy but couldn’t be sure. It was intense and I begged to be fucked. The voice from the other side of the wall commented that the bed was too high for him to be able to fuck me I could feel him trying the head of his cock just entering me was enough to get me begging. This was the moment I turned into the queen I have been ever since.
I instructed my husband to help him. When he asked how I told him to lie on the floor so the guy could stand on him. Im assuming that’s exactly what he done because the next minute ive got what I can only describe as the girthiest cock fucking me hard. Like fucking harder than ive ever done it with my husband. The mental and physical feelings I had at that moment made me squirt… a lot! I forgot that it was my husband was lying on the ground and when I came out he was covered, shining like a well lubed up body builder, only it wasn’t lube it was my squirt.
This was the day everything changed, my husband became my cuckold and still my best memory yet.
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