Never had I ever been to a club before. Like a nightclub. I wasn’t really sure what to expect either. I am a woman in my 30’s who’s had a couple of kids. My super sexy single days are far behind me. But I try. And I want to keep that flame alive.
When you live in Salt Lake City, Utah, your club options are limited. I didn’t want to be the sad woman who thinks she’s a milf out there on the floor embarrassing herself in front of all the 20-somethings.
My husband insists that I look good for my age. I do. I’m not going to lie. Much better with clothes on. I work hard and take care of my body. But still, I’m not hot 21-year-old. I’ve talked before how I get stared at for my large breasts. The trick no matter how old you are is to dress to your strengths and reality rather than what you wish were your strengths and reality.
This means to not wear a dress that requires a flat tummy if you don’t have a flat tummy. Don’t wear a dress that requires impressive cleavage if you are as flat as a board. That’s not body shaming. Quite the opposite. It’s actually knowing what type of body you have and working what you’ve got.
I found this dress online that works to my advantage. It’s black, which is slimming (covers up weakness). It’s short which shows off my long toned legs and curvy butt (strengths) and it’s sheer across the top part of the dress which shows off my cleavage (strength). It also has sleeves which makes it suitable for a more mature woman. I don’t look like a mom trying to dress like her teenaged daughter. Not that I have one of those. Yet. Also, I wear nylons because any leg looks better in nylons. The darker the better.
I commanded my husband to find a club and take me to it. He went off eagerly to his task and before we knew it, we had tickets to see some DJ we’d never heard of in a club in Salt Lake City, we never knew existed. The night of our date, as we stood in line to get in, we were clearly several years older than the usual clientele of this establishment. But not by as much as I thought. Maybe we don’t look as old as I think we do? We certainly looked good. My husband was wearing all black too. He cleans up nicely.
I was wearing my outfit. Of course, the outfit is too snug to wear proper underwear underneath. So under my dark nylons . . . I had nothing. I was also letting the dress do the work of the bra, one that it was doing well. I was catching the glances of several people. That was always a good sign. We entered the club.
It was everything I thought a club should be. Now, I’d been to strip clubs before. You can read about that here. But this was different. It was music and rhythm, lights and vibes. My husband and I don’t drink. I’ve actually never had a drink before, nor do I wish too. I’m a good Mormon girl after all. 😉 This saved us money, but also kept our senses alive. The music was good. I could feel my hearing becoming damaged as we took to the floor. That’s how you know you’re having a good time. We began to dance.
I lost myself on that dance floor. I felt like a woman again and not just a mom or a wife. I may not have been in my 20’s but I felt unrestrained by all the trappings of my life. I didn’t see my husband as my husband either. He was sexy and gorgeous and in my mind’s eye for that time, I wanted to seduce this man. I wanted to enjoy him as a woman should enjoy any man she wants. He wasn’t my husband for over a decade he was a stallion that I intended to break to my own desires.
I pressed my bottom right up against his crotch. I pressed it hard. I gyrated with the motion of the songs. I danced before him like I’ve never done in public before. I turned around and locked eyes with his. I straddled his leg and ground myself against it. It was just supposed to be a simple move. But the actual friction it caused took me off guard. I could feel my clit responding and I gasped despite myself. I moved my hand over his crotch and could feel that my husband was hard.
At this point, I had a choice to make. I could keep going and possibly get kicked out of a club for lewd behavior, or I could tone it down. I did the math in my head and realized that the chances of me ever coming back to a club were low. I wanted to live it to the fullest. So maybe a compromise?
I pushed my husband off the floor to a darker, more discreet corner. It was back over where the stage entrance was and where nobody else was at the moment. We began to kiss passionately. I ran my hands over my husband’s chest and occasionally down to where his rock hard cock was straining against the fabric of his pants. His hand found its way up my skirt. I had soaked myself through the nylons and his fingertips were slick with my thick juices. I put his moist fingertips in my mouth and licked them clean.
This seemed to drive him wild. He turned me around and pressed his hardness right between my butt cheeks. I bent over slightly and the already short dress rode up even higher to expose me in a way that would be scandalous if I wasn’t standing in a nearly blacked out corner of a nightclub with everybody focused on the bright lights and deafening music on the floor. He lifted my dress higher and grabbed the waistband of my nylons. He pulled them down. The air felt cool on my exposed crack. I couldn’t believe I was letting him do this. I reached behind and could feel him fumbling with his zipper. Then the warm, soft skin of his hard penis was in my hand. I guided him between my legs and felt him plunge inwards.
This is not how I anticipated the night going. I didn’t think I’d be having sex in the dark corner of the club. In my mind, I wondered how many times other women had had sex in this corner of the club? I didn’t even care if we got caught. My brain was in sex mode. There’s plenty of things that make sense in sex-mode that only later do you realize are completely insane. But at that moment all I could feel was the smooth motion of my husband pumping himself inside of me and the throb of my clitoris and the vague awareness that I was making a wet mess of the front of his pants.
I’m not sure when I noticed the first onlooker, it was in that sex-fueled haze. But I’m pretty sure my husband had noticed them first. There was a couple looking right at us. I tensed and immediately sought to hide and run away. But I didn’t. The expression on their faces was bland interested and a naughty smirk. My husband seemed fueled by it and soon our secret corner became a private performance. It was thrilling. I’m already a bit of an exhibitionist and I felt my memory going back to what I’d witnessed as a missionary on the train. I felt freed. These people didn’t know who I was, but we were people sharing an experience that was uniquely human.
My husband finished in grand form, spasming and jerking. The young lady of the couple who watched came forward with a napkin and handed it to me. “Thank you,” I said as if she’d handed me a mint in polite conversation. I tucked the napkin between my legs and caught my husband’s ejaculation as it quickly oozed out. I wiped myself and threw it away.
“Thanks for the show,” she said. And that was it. That was my first club experience.