Last Fling

by Ben Boswell

  Last Fling

  BEN BOSWELL

  Last Fling Copyright © 2015 by Ben Boswell

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Cover image © Getty/iStockPhoto used under license

  Cover design by Kenny Wright

  First digital edition electronically published by KW Publishing, May 2015

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without explicit written permission of the copyright holder.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, liv­ing or dead, or places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used ficti­tiously.

  FOREWORD

  I have a more extensive discussion about the book in the Afterword, so I’ll keep this short and sweet.

  This is one of my older stories, edited and revised for publication. It is a short. Don’t expect sophisticated characters or rich plotting. It is a fun, dirty, quick read. If you want more, go elsewhere.

  Also, this is one of “cuckolding shorts,” which means, you know, that there is cuckolding that takes place. I don’t usually write “burn the bitch” endings, so if you need that to make your reading experience complete, you probably should go elsewhere as well. I am grateful to all my readers, but if you’re the kind of person to read a cuckolding book and then leave a one-star, “I hate wimpy husbands” review, I’d just as soon you vent your frustrations on a different author.

  Thanks again to Kenny Wright for cover design, and to all of my readers whose positive reinforcement keeps me writing and publishing.

  I

  My wife Leslie and I got married young, in our early-twenties. We met right out of college. Happy hour turned into drunken making out and then into sloppy sex. She fucked like a demon. There, I said it. It probably would have never become more than a random hook-up if it weren’t for that, but I wanted more.

  I pursued. She demurred. I wooed. She finally came around. We dated, got to like each other. The sex was still great. She was tight, slender, and super-responsive. A girl who could come easily and often. But, also, outside the bedroom, a sweetheart. Generous, funny, thoughtful.

  Now, several years later, and with Leslie within spitting distance of thirty, we decided it was time to have kids.

  Okay, she decided. Like a lot of men, I was willing to wait a little. I mean, what’s the rush? Yeah, yeah, I know, biological clock. And yeah, yeah, do you really want to be chasing little kids around in your forties? And yeah, yeah, it’s true we were already pretty settled, with decent jobs and a nice little house in the suburb.

  She cajoled. I deflected. She inveighed. I finally came around. It made sense after all.

  Still, it would be a life change. No more sleeping in late. No more spontaneous hiking trips. No cozy vacations just the two of us. And worst of all, no more daylong sessions in bed, naked, making love and eating take out.

  To bid farewell to our old care-free lives (at least for the next couple of decades) we decided to take a vacation in Vegas and just have fun, a last fling so to speak. We didn’t actually explore what that meant. I don’t know that I actually had a plan in mind other than drinking too much, losing some money at the tables, and, yeah yeah, fucking like bunnies.

  ***

  We took advantage of mid-week, off-season rates to book ourselves into a suite at the Venetian right on the strip. We packed light. Leslie was planning on doing some shopping, while I planned to "spend" my allowance at the tables. Leslie had a guidebook fully marked up with shows and attractions. I figured we'd probably spend most of our time by the hotel pool nursing hangovers from a couple of bottle of wine each night at dinner.

  Neither of us had been to Vegas before, so it was pretty overwhelming. We spent much of our first evening just walking around the strip, until we finally got hungry enough to find a place for dinner. We settled on a nice fish place -- hard to believe since Vegas is in the middle of the desert, but it was wonderful. Between cocktails, a bottle of wine, and after-dinner drinks, we were quite toasted as we stepped back out in the warm night. We'd been getting a little touchy-feely at dinner, so I was looking forward to getting Leslie back to the room for some romance. As we waited for a cab, Leslie kept noticing all the strip club ads on top of the taxis.

  Finally, she said to me, "Honey, have you ever been to one of those places?"

  I started to lie, but she just rolled her eyes at me. I came clean, "Yeah, a couple times. You know, Barry's bachelor party and like once in college." I could see she didn't quite believe me -- she knows me quite well by now -- but she didn't push it.

  "What are they like? They seem like they'd be pretty rough."

  "Naw," I replied. "Well, I guess some are, but the ones like these," I said point to a couple of ads for 'Gentlemen's Clubs', "are pretty tame and high end."

  "Do women ever go? I mean, as customers."

  "Yeah, I guess. I think some of these places even waive the cover for women or couples. Classes the place up if it isn't just a bunch of leering men."

  "Wanna take me?" she said firmly, with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

  "Huh?"

  "I want you to take me to strip club."

  I hesitated.

  She continued, "Come on, it'll be fun. Let's get a little crazy."

  I sort of shrugged my shoulders, but didn't protest. It was a little out of the ordinary. The fact that Leslie and I had a great sex life didn’t mean we were kinky. Like, at all. In some ways that’s the problem with a woman who is so responsive. With vanilla sex so good, why bother with different flavors?

  Once we got a cab, Leslie directed the driver to take us the club advertised on his roof, the Spearmint Rhino.

  I was a little worried she'd freak out when we got there. After all, even the most open-minded women are in for a bit of a shock when they first confront a strip club scene with naked women gyrating on stage and semi-clad strippers roaming around offering lap dances. And yeah, for a few moments, Leslie just took in the scene. So did I, I have to admit. I’d never seen anything quite like it. There were hundreds, literally hundreds, of strippers. They came in two flavors: hot and hotter. Very different from the handful of small, divey places I’d been to out East.

  Leslie giggled, grabbed me by the hand and led me down to a couple of seats up near the main stage.

  The waitress came around and we ordered a couple of mixed drinks, and then another gal showed up offering neon colored shooters. The middle-aged guys next to us ordered a couple and drank them from between the waitress’ cleavage. Leslie watched, giggling.

  “Your turn!” one of the guys shouted to my wife.

  He paid for her shot. And sure enough, the guys on both sides of us got a kick out of seeing Leslie doing a shot with her face between the waitress' big melons.

  I was pretty surprised by all of this. As I say, we had always been vanilla. And it wasn’t just that it worked. Despite our initial drunken hook-up and her obvious passion in bed, Leslie has always seemed straight-laced to me. College graduate. Worked in an office. Her dad was a deacon in his church, whatever the hell that is.

  Leslie was, in short, a nice girl. So much so, indeed, that it never really occurred to me to even suggest anything at all sexually "weird." In fact, we’d never had the talk about our sexual pasts because I was a little afraid she’d freak out at my half-dozen one-nights stands, not to mention that crazy night in college when Stacy sat between me and my buddy John and jerked us both off at the same time.

  But surprisingly, my wife was taking to the scene like a fish to water, and when the girls starting coming around and chatting us up, Leslie seemed excited to talk to them.

  After a little while, Leslie
asked me about lap dances, and when I explained, she offered to buy me one. I declined. She insisted, and she picked out a big-breasted brunette she noticed I was checking out across the room. I was pretty leery of all of this. As much as Leslie was into it, I just was not completely comfortable being here with her. But she seemed determined to get the full experience. She waved the girl over.

  “Hey baby, I’m Tiffany,” said the stripper as she squeezed into Leslie’s chair.

  Leslie seemed a little taken aback at the invasion of her personal space, but not enough, apparently, to protest.

  “I’m Leslie. This is my husband Dave.”

  “And he wants to see you get a lap dance,” Tiffany suggested hopefully.

  “What? No. I want to buy one for him.”

  Tiffany grinned at Leslie’s obvious discomfort at the thought of having a woman give her a dance. “What’s the matter, sweetheart, don’t you like girls? I mean, you have been with a girl, haven’t you?”

  Leslie hesitated as if she couldn’t believe the question. She shot me a quick look and then shook her head.

  “Oh, I don’t believe that for a minute,” Tiffany insisted. “You’re just afraid hubby would be shocked. But he wouldn’t. He’d love it. Right?”

  I nodded. “Hell yeah.”

  Leslie rolled her eyes.

  “See? Come on, come clean. You’ve never experimented? A cute little number like you?”

  My wife looked over at me again. I was smiling like an idiot. Leslie laughed now. “We can talk about your imagination of my sexual past later. But give him a dance first.”

  “And then you?”

  “Well, I’m not paying for my own dance.”

  “I will!” I exclaimed.

  Leslie shook her head and laughed. “Okay. After.”

  The next song began and Tiffany rose. She removed her lace bra, freeing her massive, surgically-enhanced, but still lovely breasts. She handed it to my wife who playfully tried it on, though it was laughably oversized even over her clothes. Tiffany climbed into my lap as Leslie watched eagerly. I was being a good boy, keeping my hands to myself, but Tiffany was a real pro. She ground against me, pressed her big tits into my face, her hands running through my hair. Despite my best intentions, she soon had me hard and was rubbing her knee against my erection. I hoped that Leslie wouldn't notice, but she apparently did because when Tiffany rose, my wife reached out and stroked my hard cock through my pants.

  "Naughty, naughty," she teased with a smile.

  Tiffany spun around and settled back down into my lap, thrusting her hard ass against my cock.

  “Should I make him come?” the stripper asked my wife.

  “Do it,” Leslie hissed excitedly.

  Whoa. Where had that come from?

  Tiffany leaned back against me, her head besides mine. She licked my ear lobe and moaned. Looking over her shoulder, I had an amazing view of her luscious body undulated against me, her big tits, her stomach so flat that her panties bridged across her hips giving me a peek at her shaved snatch.

  “That’s right, baby, this is what it would look like if you were fucking me. Imagine how good it would feel. Your fat cock in my hot, wet pussy.”

  She ground against me harder. I could have come in a heartbeat if I’d wanted to. But, needless to say, even with my wife’s apparent blessing, dropping a load in my pants in a strip club was not that appealing. Problem was, Tiffany was so hot that I actually had to work at staying in control. I tried to distract myself. I thought about taxes. All the yard work I’d let build up. Anything, but the wild slut in my lap.

  Tiffany didn’t give up. She moaned in my ear again, hot, wet breath.

  “Or would you rather put it in my tight ass? I’d let you.”

  She squealed softly. Then louder.

  “Oh yeah, baby, fuck my ass. Fuck my ass hard.”

  Thankfully the song ended. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold out.

  “Another dance?” Tiffany asked.

  I eased her off me. “Dance for her this time.”

  Tiffany grinned. “Oh yeah.”

  She descended on my wife like a lion falling upon a gazelle.

  Tiffany hadn’t asked me for permission for anything, and she wasn’t asking Leslie either. Leslie got a similar tits in face, then ass in lap treatment I’d received, but then Tiffany spun around and settled into my wife’s lap. She snaked her hands into Leslie’s top, obviously playing with her pert, little titties. She wasn’t just moaning and breathing in her ear either, but rather kissing and biting Leslie’s neck. Is it crazy that I was sort of hoping she’d give my wife a hickey? But even more surprising was Leslie. She started getting into it and rubbing her hands over Tiffany's bare breasts and her upper thighs. My wife started playing with the strippers fat, swollen nipples.

  Had the song gone on a little longer, I think Leslie might have officially lost her lesbo cherry. As it was, I was sort of in shock. Leslie saw my face and burst out laughing.

  “I guess you enjoyed that,” she teased.

  “Not as much as you,” I replied.

  Tiffany was still in Leslie’s lap. “See, I knew you were a little dyke.”

  Leslie laughed. “Nope, just putting on a show for hubby.”

  Tiffany rolled her eyes. “How about we take it in the back and give him a real show?”

  Leslie seemed to consider it, but then shook her head. “Not now. But can we buy you a drink?”

  We talked for a while. Leslie was full of questions, asking Tiffany how long she'd been dancing and how she liked it. Tiffany gave the usual stripper answers, she was just starting out, working her way through school, and she loved it.

  "Have you ever danced?" Tiffany asked my wife.

  Leslie giggled. "Me? I'm flat as a pancake, no one would want to see me!"

  She was being modest. Though not built like a typical stripper, Leslie is a shapely 33b-22-34 on a 5'2", 105lbs frame. Her chin-length, strawberry-blond hair and greenish eyes usually make her look more like a pixie than a vixen, but I've seen her turn plenty of heads over the years.

  "Sure they would," Tiffany answered. "Guys would go crazy for a tight little package like you. Most guys are tired of the Barbie doll look."

  We gabbed some more, but when it became clear we weren’t going to go back in the VIP room with her, she gave Leslie another groping hug and excused herself. She was working after all.

  Leslie leaned over to me. "So what do you think about when you're at a strip club?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, are you thinking that you want to fuck these girls?"

  I was a little shocked at her language, but we were, after all, sitting in a strip club, three sheets to the wind. Still, I knew better than to blurt out my initial thoughts. But I also knew better than to pretend I was completely uninterested in the naked women all around us.

  "There are obviously a lot of pretty girls here. But no, I don't really think about having sex with them. I mean, I like looking. And it was damn hot watching Tiffany dancing with you. I mean, if you were there, I might rethink it."

  "So you'd want a threesome? With me and another girl?"

  "Of course. Isn't that every man's fantasy?" I replied, pretty confident that would be neither shocking nor open up a can of worms. "Doesn't mean I think about it all the time, but sure, it's crossed my mind." A million times.

  She regarded me thoughtfully. “Well, it is our last fling, right?”

  I put up my hands. “Well, that doesn’t mean we need to do anything crazy.”

  She laughed. “I thought that was the whole point.”

  “Yeah, but nothing you’re going to throw back in my face.”

  She flashed me that same wicked smile I'd seen when she first suggested we come to the club. "Deal. Let me see if I can set it up!" And with that she shot up and disappeared across the room.

  I didn't know whether to be excited or scared. I guess anxious about describes my state of mind. Pretty soon, though,
I saw Leslie walking back alone. She handed me a card for the a "the Scarlet Lounge, a private club." I looked at her puzzled.

  "Our girl isn't up for it. She’s willing to mess around with me and have you watch, but for anything more, she recommended we try out this place. Just a bit off the strip. She said if we mention her name they'd treat us well."

  “Watching her with you would be more than enough.”

  “Oh come on, Dave, live a little.”

  "Are you serious?" I asked, incredulously. Was my wife really trying to talk me into a threesome with another woman? And was I really resisting?

  She giggled. "Sure. We're drunk and horny. At least I am. And what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."

  Well, there was, of course, no way I was going to say no, even if in the back of my mind I was pretty sure going ahead was a mistake. But in that quick moment of decision, I realized I would always have regrets if I didn't go along.

  We got into a cab and gave the address. Leslie was toasted and very touchy-feely. We made out in the back seat of the cab like a couple of teenagers. She was rubbing my cock so hard that I almost came in my pants, and when I slid my hand under her skirt, I was shocked by how wet her panties were.

  By the time we got to the place, I was horny as hell. We showed our card and mentioned Tiffany and they let us right in. The manager -- I guess madam is the proper word here -- was really welcoming and friendly and put us right at ease. She sized up quickly that we were looking for a "couples special" and after tactfully ascertaining our price range, she brought out three girls for us to look over. The first was a muscular, black girl, the second a tall, slightly mannish-looking brunette, and the third a petite Latina type. Leslie whispered that she found the first two intimidating, so we went with Elena.

  There is no two ways about it. It was a memorable experience. We started off with a round of drinks in the bar, and then Elena led us back to her room. I sat in an armchair while the girls jumped up on the bed. Elena started massaging Leslie's shoulders, and when she relaxed a bit, Elena started nuzzling her neck while slipped her hands under my wife's shirt. Pretty soon, they were kissing passionately, and stripped each other naked.