After months of careful suggestion and subtle prodding, my wife finally agreed to meet a BBC Bull I had found on an online dating site. Until then, all our cuckolding experiences had involved friends or acquaintances, so venturing into the unknown with a stranger felt like a big leap. Yet, she consented to “just meet and talk,” cautioning me, “Don’t get your hopes up on anything sexual happening!” That disclaimer lasted barely half an hour after we met Martin.
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Martin was a distinguished, fit gentleman in his fifties, arriving with effortless charm that quickly enticed my wife. Before I knew it, he had quite literally undressed her emotionally—and physically. I pulled out my phone, capturing every moment: from the instant he revealed his massive, ten-inch cock to her, to the scene later on my living room couch where his pulsing balls released deep inside her womb.
Six months flashed by, and life resumed its ordinary rhythm. We were, outwardly, an average suburban couple. Yet privately, I lost count of the times I jerked off to that video of the black stud ravaging my sweet wife’s pussy. The snapshot of her smile at the first viewing remained my computer’s background at work—a subtle, tender expression, innocent to anyone else.
I attempted to bring up meeting Martin again, but my wife insisted he was “too big,” and she could handle that intensity only occasionally.
Then, one ordinary Wednesday, an unexpected notification made my pulse leap: Martin had sent me a friend request on Facebook. I accepted and waited, debating whether to message him first, but chose to play it cool. Weeks went by, and the only contact was a series of nightclub invitations from Martin—generic, spam-like.
One evening, while sharing wine at home, another invite popped up on my phone. I joked about being tired of such messages, hoping to spark my wife’s interest. She nonchalantly replied, “Yeah, I get a lot of those from Martin.” Surprised by her tone, I asked if she ever spoke with him. She admitted accepting his invitation and that he’d messaged her about the great time they’d had, encouraging her to visit “his club.”
I floated the idea of going, and whether it was the wine or spontaneous desire, she eagerly jumped at the chance. She finished her glass and hurried to the bedroom, as if she’d already prepared the perfect outfit—ready to leave before I even was.
We pulled up to a low-key club on the southeast side of town, just a half-hour from home. Inside, the venue was divided into three areas: an entrance room, the main dance floor with a bar and booths, and a dimly lit backroom likely reserved for private parties.
Immediately, our presence turned heads—my wife’s plunging blouse attracting most attention, and perhaps our skin color marking us as rare visitors. From the shadows beyond the bar came a warm greeting: “Long time no see!” Out walked Martin, dressed in a fitted button-up shirt that flaunted his muscular physique. He placed a hand on the small of my wife’s back, planting a kiss on her cheek before turning to me with a firm handshake and a brotherly hug.
“About time you two made it to my club!” he teased, shaking me playfully like an encouraging mentor. I muttered that we weren’t usually club people, to which my wife grinned, “Speak for yourself—I’ve been dying to check this place out!” The simple pleasure of her enthusiasm made all my previous hesitation seem irrelevant.
Martin suggested we grab drinks at the bar while he tended to friends engaged in their weekly poker night. I ordered whiskey on the rocks; my wife stuck with red wine. We soaked in the vibrant atmosphere, chatting and watching the ebb and flow of club life. After thirty minutes, ready to go after one more round, Martin reappeared with an apology for his earlier absence and a generous offer: a grand tour of the club’s heritage, passed down two generations.
As he guided us through the original 1940s and ’50s features alongside modern updates, his hand lingered at the small of my wife’s back, leading her through the space as I followed behind, feeling like a stray puppy. Approaching the smoky, dim backroom, we found Martin’s friends clustered around a poker table. He introduced my wife first, then me. One friend, flashing a knowing smile, greeted me as “the director” Martin had mentioned, causing soft chuckles among them. I shrugged it off, joking I was actually a car salesman ready to make deals.
My wife, curious, asked Martin to teach her poker. Sweeping her up into his lap, he explained the game while she eagerly followed his instructions, placing bets and selecting cards. His hands remained hidden beneath the table, but her flushed expression betrayed the pleasure she was receiving. I scanned the room; their knowing looks contrasted with mine, one man smirking proudly when our eyes met.
After a while, my wife excused herself, asking Martin to show her the restroom. He complied but teased me, joking, “Your hubby’s gonna have to play this hand for me.” I accepted, recalling my college poker nights. The hand went back and forth, but nerves kept me glancing toward the hallway where they had disappeared just minutes earlier.
Suddenly, she returned, cheeks flushed, while Martin appeared relaxed and confident. I asked, half mockingly, “What took you so long?” Without replying, she seized my whiskey glass, spit a generous load into it, stirred with the cocktail stick, and taunted, “Drink up, Mr. Director.” The table erupted in laughter.
Before I could react, another of Martin’s friends unveiled a cock as massive as Martin’s, darker and visibly veined. Grinning at me, my wife teased, “Well, I can’t leave anyone out, can I?” She knelt before him, bobbing eagerly. I instinctively reached for my phone, recording her expert, unabashed oral pleasure: expertly mixing mouth and hands, lubricating the shaft with spit, locking eyes with him amid his deep groans and thrown-back head.
She lifted her head, cheeks puffed, a slick trail down her chin, then returned to my glass, depositing another load. Suddenly, belts and buttons came undone in a rapid symphony; the other two friends displayed fully erect cocks, ready for her attentions. Giggling, she declared, “Decisions, decisions. Who goes next?” The men argued, and she resolved, “To be fair, bring them both to me.” Positioned between them, she alternated her mouth between each cock, teasing deeper with every pass, swirling, spitting, stroking in turn.
The sheer explicitness sent a thrill through me. One man took his own shaft, stroking as he aimed his climax across her face and the floor. The other slipped the tip into her mouth and unloaded fully, not a drop wasted.
Rising with a satisfied smile, she sauntered back to me, looped her arm around my neck, and settled onto my lap. Raising the now overflowing glass, she tipped back the last contents, then handed it to me.
Without hesitation, I raised it in a toast and swallowed the potent mixture. “To good company,” I declared.
Needless to say, that club has become our regular haunt.