I will always remember the day my life changed. Was it for the better? I'll let you readers decide for me. That may seem odd but let me explain. I have learned, since meeting Michael, that I am to leave decision making to real men, real men or my wife. I have been taught that I should not be allowed to think for myself.
My life changed when I agreed to escort my wife to the Hanger Club. She had been hearing about the all-nude male review from her girlfriends and pestered me non-stop until I finally caved in.
My wife Cindy is a wonder woman. I'm not fooling myself about why she married me. I took her from her job behind the lunch counter where she used to work and moved her into a life of upper middleclass luxury. Cindy is a 5'11' tall natural blonde. She has an hour glass figure with large firm breasts and a sexy round ass.
I knew at once she was out of my class. I'm John. I am 5' 5" short. Yes, that was no typo. I weigh about 140 soaking wet. I'm a small guy in all departments. My dick is 4 1/2" when stiff and my balls produce a watery substance incapable of impregnating anything other than my own hand. My hips are wider than my shoulders plus my behind is too wide and too round to be considered masculine. Nothing about me suggests I am anything more than some book smart dork.
I have thinning blonde hair, which was getting thinner by the day when I first met her. She said that's what attracted her to me. We're both blondes. She pushed passed a fat co-worker to wait on me. Her smile and friendly ways led me to take my lunches in the dive she worked in.
My job is that of an accountant. I work for a large IT firm that recruited me out of Harvard Business school upon completion of my MBA. They pay generously and the benefits are great.
I used my money to snag Cindy. I overwhelmed her with gifts of jewelry. I showered her with flowers. I took her shopping. I feted her with lavish meals at expensive restaurants. I bought her a brand new Corvette. And I moved her from the one room apartment to my penthouse Condo complete with doorman, pool, gym and sauna.
From that start everyone I knew was impressed with my catch. Impressed but not fooled. They all knew that Cindy saw me as her way up the social ladder and out of skid row housing.
When she moved in with me, almost at once the flirting began. Big men and suggestive comments followed with insinuations questioning my manhood whispered in her ear. Hearing them suggest that I was "that way", she would giggle and sometimes even playfully hit whomever was trying to put the moves on her but always, and I mean always Cindy left with me.
I knew it must have been a great sacrifice for her. Our love making wouldn't exactly register on the Richter Scale. A small dick with premature ejaculation equals frustration for a woman. I knew it could only be a matter of time when Cindy would yield to the promise of an orgasm only a big cock can give. She would I know, one day succumb to some man whose attempts to talk her out of her panties and into his bed she would no longer resist.
Even my own father suggested to me when he and mother first met her that I'd better watch her close. "Someone is going to put a baby in that fine bitch," father warned. "It may as well be me son." I hoped he didn't mean that. I grew up knowing he thought of me more as a daughter than a son.
Father is a big man. He loves watching football and UFC matches. I've always been a source of great disappointment for him. Mother told me that it was when I was five and wanted to dress up as Wonder Woman for Halloween that father was convinced I was gay. Mother accommodated me and Wonder Woman I was.
"That little homo will be cross dressing one day," father warned mother.
I never played sports. I just wasn't interested in them. I spent my time reading and initially decided I was going to be a fashion designer. Mother talked me out of that. "Your father would kill either you or himself John."
Small and weak, I protected myself through the horrors of high school by doing homework for the bullies and donating my lunch money to some hungry thug whose job it was to terrorize me that day.
Those efforts didn't prevent the occasional ass kicking I'd get though. By the time I reached 12th grade the tough guys tired of tormenting me. All I had to do was give up my lunch money and let them borrow the car mother insisted father buy me. Walking home from school was a small price to pay to avoid getting beat up.
I didn't encounter any of that when I left home for Harvard. Yes, there were the gay guys who would hit on me whenever I wandered off campus. Even on the quad I'd get a butt squeeze from some old professor who'd invite me back to his flat.
Being lonely, except for the tough guys who used to hassle me, I liked the attention I was getting. At least it was positive attention.
But I never gave in. I never surrendered to the many indecent propositions I received. I mean I could have I guess. Lots of guys explore their sexuality at that age. I wasn't inclined that way though. It wasn't that it didn't turn me on just a tad, but mother had warned me about what she called, "those types".
I wouldn't say Cindy abused my generosity. She did like to shop. It made her happy and I liked it when she was happy. I'd even moved my clothes out of the master bedroom into the closet in the guest bedroom so she could have more space. More space for skirts, dresses, blouses, shoes, and lingerie.
So, the day I told her I'd take her to the Hanger Club, she had plenty of outfits from which to choose.
I was wearing my dark brown corduroy pants and a white shirt.
Cindy was wearing a severely low-cut blouse which showed lots of cleavage. The skirt wasn't any more discrete either. Ending 5" above the knee, I knew that had we been going anywhere but to a nude male review my wife would have had to fend off many a flirtatious advance. But at this club, I assumed men would be scarce or not interested in women anyway.
Cindy, insisting we get there before the 8 PM show began, made sure we arrived at 7:45 PM. The line was long filled with excited women. I realized I was right. The only other guys there were like me. "Oh don't fret honey. Real men would never be caught dead at a show like this," my wife informed me.
The robust black man who was on the door smiled at Cindy as we passed him. He handed her something and told her to give it to the man inside. I later learned that he'd given us a front row table for two. Right up close to the stage.
Excited chatter filled the dimly lit room as people were seated and drink orders were filled by sexy female servers.
At 8 sharp the lights flickered. The room grew quiet. From somewhere behind us an announcer loudly asked, "Ladies. Are you ready to rumble?"
The screaming and cheering were deafening. Even my wife cheered.
Loud thumping music filled the room and my head. The bass so pronounced I could feel it in my chest.
Then the lights went completely dark. The music got louder. The anticipation was building to a crescendo when the lights suddenly came on again and three large, well-built men marched up to the edge of the stage.
Tux shirts, shiny trousers, white, black and brown men moved and gyrated to the music. The ladies were going crazy; my wife included.
First the shirts went. Big barrel chested, cleanly shaved pecs, women going ape shit nuts.
Trousers were torn off and tossed to the rear of the stage. Panties were tossed from the audience to the front of the stage.
Well filled satin G-strings bulged with promises. I could only stare and envy what must be behind the tight material. Black satin on the white man. Red satin on the black man. Green satin on the Latin man.
They danced and gyrated so close I could almost reach out and touch them... not that I would. I'm not that way.
My wife had a death grip on my arm. My lips were dry, my mouth parched. I watched those men, those well-built handsome men turn and show us their tight, sexy asses.
My little dick grew in my corduroys. For some reason I found all this terribly exciting. I was transfixed on those pouches wondering, waiting, breathing hard.
All at once the men tore their G-strings off and tossed them to the crowd. My wife caught the red one and twirled it triumphantly over her head. I was dimly aware of the scrum for the other pieces of satin being fought over.
Cocks. Manly cocks, large, so much larger than my own pathetic excuse. Hanging, swinging back and forth in hypnotic rhythm. Balls, hairless, large, beautiful swayed, filled with, I was sure, potent baby making sperm. Thick, white, nectar of the Gods filled those orbs.
The black man made eye contact with Cindy, then me. He winked. I smiled. Cindy groaned and reached for his staff. He pulled back, teasing her, teasing me. I wanted to reach for him myself. Wanted to touch his magnificent tool. I wanted to own it, make it mine. I was lost in that big black swinging, swaying cock.
From the corner of my eye I saw Cindy writing something on something. When she finished and tossed her panties onto the stage at the black dancer, I realized what she had been doing. I was shocked at her behavior. I was almost jealous that I had no panties of my own to toss.
Ladies rushed the stage, my wife stood with them. Reaching hands grabbed cocks. Hands with wedding rings cradled beautiful hairless balls. Lips made contact, quick kisses on big cocks. I licked my lips and reached for my little erection. My hand was in my pocket stroking softly as I saw women's bobbing heads and large, handsome, naked, and smiling men.
Our eyes met. The black man was looking right at me. Right through me as if he could read my thoughts, my wants, my needs. I blushed and looked away only to look back a few seconds later. He smiled. White teeth behind wonderfully full lips.
