“There you go Robert, your big fantasy for me… Why don’t you exit and we check it out?” says my wife, as she taps me on the shoulder and points to a giant lit-up sign on the other side of the highway:
RANDY’s SEXXX SHOP
PRIVATE BOOTHS WITH LIVE GIRLS!
It wasn’t like Nicolette to outright tease me like this. Maybe it’s because we’d just dropped our older son off at a new college in the south and a certain kind of empty nest syndrome had already settled upon us, that my otherwise conservative wife felt like taking this kind of risk.
“I thought you said they didn’t even have those booths anymore?” she asked. “Remember when you begged me to act like I was in one of those booths? You’re such a perv. Well, it’s too much of a coincidence that they actually have them. We should check it out.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked, already getting a raging hard on as I stared down at her perfectly toned legs in her knee length cream skirt and her manicured toes exposed in her cork heeled shoes. Full of desire, like an idiot I actually considered passing the exit where I could turn around.
“I’m offering…now or never, and you’re missing your chance,” she said.
Of course she knew how turned on the very idea of her exposing herself to me in a booth like that meant to me. Married for over twenty years, I repeatedly told her about one of my earliest and most formative sexual experiences, when in the older, raunchier days of New York City my very hip uncle showing me a night on the town paid for me to go into one of those places. I was only 14 or 15, but when the guy working the place asked my age and Uncle Jack said, “He’s 20″—handing him a crisp twenty dollar bill—the guy grabbed the money and waved me in. The experienced woman in the booth, a brunette like my wife, could tell I was nervous, so she took her time with me, letting me tell her what turned me on and then encouraging me to stroke it for her.
Such sexual memories stick deeply inside a man. While I loved having regular sex with my incredibly upscale wife—now in her late forties but looking much younger with a svelte body and designer clothes—I always want to watch her as she helps get me off. Not much of a drinker and a lot more reserved now as a mother of two, she unfortunately rarely lets me just see her in her underwear. I can barely have a soft hallway light on during the increasingly rare times we do get it on. Only twice through all of years together she’s let me sit in a chair and ask her to undress for me as I start to jerk off.
Those rare moments remain in my top 5 best sex experiences I’ve had with her. (When you’re married and faithful as long as I’ve been to the same woman, you do indeed keep such a list). I know there are a ton of websites where you can interact with women, “controlling” their vibrators by adding money. That gets so overtly pornographic for me that it’s not even real. It’s the idea of my demure wife who can’t, or won’t, set herself up as an object of desire that most drives this fantasy.
Both fortunately and unfortunately, my wife knows how much her denying me keeps me wanting her, even as she knows how to tempt me with the slightest flirtations. Like she’ll say she doesn’t want me objectifying her body as she modestly covers up when I’m checking her out, yet she’ll subtly lift her leg to adjust her shoe, letting me catch glimpses of her panties under her skirt. It’s like she keeps me in this state of painful pleasure.
Last year, on a family trip to Europe, I saw this older, well-dressed gentleman checking out her ass the whole time we were at the Van Gough museum in Amsterdam. At one point I could tell she noticed him, but she pretended that she didn’t, even as she bent over right in front of him to read information about a particular painting. Seeing him look at her the way I do drove me crazy the whole time we were there. Grateful I’d paid the extra money to get our teenaged sons their own room, once we were back in the hotel I practically tore off her clothes, almost against her will, to have her. Even then she tried to play like she wasn’t that into it, but the way she surrendered to all my advances, and how wet she was when I first touched her, proved otherwise.
Despite my obsession with me and other guys watching her, now in the car as she aggressively welcomed a chance to at least investigate my fantasy I got really nervous. She actually seemed willing to at least walk into a place like this filled with horny guys and maybe even sit in one of those booths. Close to missing my great chance, I kept looking at her legs in that skirt, thinking about the glimpse I got of her in matching sheer tan bra and panties when she got dressed in the hotel this morning after her shower. With a raging hard on at the thought of her lifting up that skirt in such a dirty place, at the last second I took the exit and turned around toward the sign we’d seen.
“Are you sure you’re up for going in there?” I asked, as we sat in the parking lot, watching a few men walk in and out. “It’s full of guys looking for sex. You know, the only women in there will be the ones behind the booths.” Though obviously very excited, part of me still hoped she’d now change her mind. It just seemed like too much for either of us. We weren’t the kind of couple that watches porn or even reads literotica together.
“Come on,” she said, rather dismissively as she opened her passenger door. “We can just check it out, and if it’s too gross we can leave. Besides, I have to pee.”
Seeing her walk in ahead of me with such confidence, not caring at all that the guys inside instantly started staring her up and down like wolves, got me wanting to carry her back to the car and take her in the backseat. Even so I followed her in, figuring she’d soon get intimidated by all the smutty toys and images, and especially the leering guys. More than that, I was sure she’d get repulsed by a dirty bathroom or the smell of cum in the place.
But on a late afternoon that continued to defy my expectations, the store was surprisingly clean. It could have been just another shop in a strip mall, except for all the sex toys for sale and the sign up front advertising the “THE LAST LIVE SEX BOOTHS IN AMERICA” as the main attraction. The overweight guy at the counter, either the owner or manager—maybe Randy himself—was dressed more like a southern lawyer, with suspenders on and a crisp white shirt.
“Excuse me, where is your restroom?” asked Nicolette.
“Right back there little lady,” he said, “after the booths. You’ll have to walk by a few fella’s in line, but they won’t bother ya’, unless you want them too,” he added, winking at her.
“Are they waiting to see the naked women…in the booths?” she asked.
“You got that right,” he said, smiling a little. “You and your husband are welcome to take a turn…We do get couples in here now and then.”
“We didn’t know there was such a thing anymore,” she said, looking back there. “It’s my husband’s big fantasy.” I could tell her embarrassing me like this helped her get over her own fear. One of her classic moves.
As he was telling us how he developed a system to make even more money than the stiff competition on the Internet, I saw two college guys, jocks with some kind of matching team jackets on, checking out my wife. “Dude I want to see her in a booth,” said one, loud enough that showed he clearly didn’t even care if I heard. As she walked to the back for the bathroom, I watched them stare at her ass. That in itself was really tough, and exciting for me, but when she glanced back and smiled at them for a second, it almost killed me.
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