!ADULTS ONLY! The Stroker's Club!

Barb saw the light and agreed it was a no-go. However, twice, and on her birthday, I paid the dog lady $25 skins to let Barb have her fun. In time, the novelty wore away and Barb was content to stick with us human males.

Now, the Stroker's Club had many special events from time to time. I'll run by them rather quickly. Ten chosen women would lock arms and form a cirlce, each woman facing outward. They then would unlock arms and get on their knees. All the men, in a line, would come up and get blown for a bit. The bit's length being governed by the sound of someone playing softly on bongo drums piped in. For about a minute, I estimate.

When the drums stopped, each man moved one woman to the right. Then it was drums, move, drums, move, etc. Until each woman had had all the men who were there that evening. I estimated that each woman had had over thirty dicks in her mouth, my Barb among them here and there. Maybe more, as I didn't do an exact count.

Because this event happened first thing in the evening's proceedings, all the men had large loads stored up in them. Partly from the suggestion by the Stroker's to not have an orgasm for three days prior to party time. Most men complied. I know I did.

Well, when it got down to the last ten men, the girls had to fellate them to orgasm and swallow. From time to time, I found myself as one of the lucky ten and it was just delicious dropping a three-day old, built-up load into a hot, willing mouth. You could hear lots of gurglings going on.

But even being a side watcher was great fun. What a scene! Ten gorgeous and naked babes sucking every guy in the house, one after the other, to the sounds of soft bongos. And, should this unreal scene bore you, you could cast your eyes around the room and see people fucking and sucking and doing all sorts of nasty shit. Talk about your eye candy!

One night, when Barb was part of the circle, and as I watched her sucking to beat all, a luscious redhead, a woman I hadn't noticed before, sidled up to me and just stood there, fingering her pussy and playing with her nipples. She ran her tongue over her lips as if advertising sex here, get your sex right here, no waiting.

I felt she was fishing for an asking and wanted me to play asker. I felt very flattered, but I wasn't ready to fuck yet. Watching Barbara, what I really wanted was a blowjob. So I asked her, with that restriction being said. She readily agreed by falling to her knees in front of me and placing her mouth on my nut sack.

What a mouth on the lady! Hot and wet and experienced. And, after drenching Ike and Mike, she showed me why deep-throat was her middle name. And why God had really given women a mouth and a tongue.

You thought it was to talk, I'll bet. Nosirree Bob! Women only talk to keep themselves from their basic mouthic instinct: Using that mouth like a heat-seeking missile to find the nearest cock to devour. Shit, if women didn't chatter incessantly, we men would have to live our lives pantless. And with dicks so bone dry they'd resemble a six-month old cadaver's! Ouch!

Another night they had was similar in nature, but this time the ten women laid on the floor, on futons, on their backs, in a circle, and fucked every man in attendance. Again, the last ten guys being the lucky ones and allowed to go to orgasmic completion. But the other guys never complained, to my knowledge, anyway.

Sometimes, one woman would be picked, by lottery, to do a suckathon. In the dark, so to speak. They would put a plywood board, with a four inch hole in it at cock height, against a door to a bathroom. She would go into the bathroom and fifteen men, again by lottery, would go up, stick their erection through the hole and get fellated by her.

And, because each man had exactly fifteen bongo-timed minutes for his turn, this event lasted almost four hours. A suckathon, for sure. And, because the dear Stroker's kept a record of it all, the overall winner for speed was a tiny little gal with over-sized breasts. She clocked in at three hours and four minutes, flat out. Four other women were mere minutes behind her in the scoring aspect. Hell, with all those talented mouths, I would have figured on there being way more.

There was also a double penetration night. Very similar, except the ten ladies got the bonus of having the last ten doubled to twenty. Real fun.

And they also held what they called "Mask Hour Night" every now and then. Mask Hour Night was one of our favorites. It was an hour or so of sexual mystery, sensuality and, as Barbara usually put it, sexual magical. A term she had gotten from a few get togethers with a group of practicing black arts magicians, who followed the teachings of Alistair Crowley.

Crowley practiced and wrote about what he called sexual magic. Wherein sex was used in the practicing part. Women were told that they could get magical powers from male sperm just by swallowing it. Those fucking magicians! What a con! What a scam! What a delicious concept! It had convinced Barbara! She said she never felt more magical in her life.

Mask Hour Night was an attempt by the Stroker's to make people guess, just like that TV foolishness called Mr. Personality, where Monica Lewinsky plays host. To this extent, they strove to make everyone as much alike as possible.

Everyone, upon arrival, was given a black kimono style unisex robe, a black mask that hid everything but your lower face, and a black shower cap. One of the rules was you had to keep the robe on and belted up. You could, of course, push the front of the robe to the sides, which allowed you to be bodily exposed from the neck down.

You were paired off with someone other than your mate and told to go and have fun any place within the house. You had one hour to do whatever the two of you could dream up. Without talking! That was verboten as it might give clues to you as to who you were shtumping. A downer.

During this hour, they would pipe in sexy songs by the likes of Barry White and others of that ilk. And, cleverly I thought, they had the decibel level at a point to where the song would rhythym pound in your head. If you brought your own portable tape player with headphones, they would give you a tape of the exact same songs.

Now, while Barb and I had fucked many times at home listening to Barry, being at the Stroker's seemed to add a magical dimension to it that being home couldn't reach. Perhaps the added attraction of seeing people in all kinds of sexual fiddlings, all around you, played a part.

The men liked Mask Hour Night, but the women loved it. Way much more than the men. When I asked Barbara why this was so, she said women were more into fantasy fulfillment than men and loved the thrill of being sexed by a somewhat stranger in a mask. I said, "Shit, woman, from now you're married to the Lone Fucking Ranger!" Damned if I didn't go and buy me one of the Stroker's black masks. $2, no tax.

Yeah, no doubt about it, the women got off on it more than the men. Especially afterward. They would chatter away at who did they think they had had that hour? I'd hear stuff like, "It was Charlie, I'm sure of it. No, wait, couldn't be Charlie. Yeah, it was Charlie. No . . ." And so on.

The men, on the other hand, sounded like this, "Who'd you have tonight, Jack?" "Fuck if I know!" "Yeah, me too!" Verbum sap and finito, Jack.

I remember one Mask Night Hour in particular. Oh, I forgot and should have mentioned this earlier. The lighting throughout the place was kept to a bare minimum, almost cave-like if you will.

Well, anyway, this one night I'm doing doggy-style with a luscious-assed blond, just pumping my enjoyment into her, when I see, less than fifteen feet away, a woman who looks very much like my Barbara, on her knees sucking off a guy with an incredibly large pecker. Ten inches wouldn't be a bad guess.

I didn't know for sure if it was her, wouldn't bet my life it was, but she had her hands on his ass cheeks and was squeezing and pulling him into her face. He had one hand, the hand on the other side of her head that was away from my view, on the back of her neck. He was pulling her head toward his crotch area. Even in the dim light, I could see they had a very nice sexual cadence taking place. Ooh, was it hot to see!

Picture all those opened black kimonos, the dim lighting, the music, the sex going on all around you and, if you're a male, your hard dick in the hottest, wettest pussy your perverted mind can dream up. Got that picture? Well, fucker, triple it, 'cause real life is beyond pictures of any kind, no matter how vivid you think your imagination is.

As I pumped that sweet womanly ass in front of me, her black robe thrown loosely and carelessly over her back, with her moaning out continually, and me watching what could be my Barbara, I thought I had died and gone to fuck heaven.

And, what added to my enjoyment was just as I was cumming, the could-be-Barbara's guy was yelling. At least I think it was him. Yeah, I'm kinda sure. He yelled out, "Now, baby, now, hold still and swallow me, swallow all of me. There. You feeling it?" Or words to that effect.

Then I saw him remove his hand from her neck, place it with his other behind his back, and just stand there, ramrod stiff, as he unloaded in her mouth. Her hands were still kneading his ass cheeks.

Perhaps it was a trick of the lighting, but I thought I actually saw his dick twitching. But I know for sure I saw the woman's neck swallow. Twice. Then the two of them went their separate ways and disappeared into the night.

I asked Barb later on if she had been that woman, even describing the lurid scene in what I thought was quite a vivid recollection. Seeing that I wasn't absolutely certain who the woman was, my bitch wife got playful with me.

She said something like, "Did his cock have a tattoo on it? Of a penguin?" A penguin? A fucking penguin? What man has his most cherished possession tattooed with a snow bird in a tuxedo? I told her how the fuck would I know? She continued her playfulness, seeming to enjoy her sweet ass self.

"Well, let's see, did he have light pubic hair or dark?" I answered light, foolishly thinking I was on to something here. "Was his pubic hair kinda ash blond or was it more like strawberry blond?" What? I thought. How many men had she had in that small hour segment? I wouldn't know my ash from my strawberry if push came to shove, and I told her so. I was starting to get the drift that she was funning with me.

"Did his legs shake and tremble when he came?" I got playful right back.

"Don't remember, as my brain was buried in wet pussy at the moment and it couldn't see anything but solid black. Although I could tell you what it felt like while using that braille it possesses!" Hee hee, I can give as well as get.

Well, anyway, I never got the truth out of her, if she even knew what the truth was. She had been, she acknowledged, in the same room I had been in at one time during the hour, but was cagey about what she did and with whom she did it with.

The playful bitcharoony said she couldn't remember, exactly, if she had swallowed a guy in that room or not. Could be. Maybe not. The only concession she gave me, if you can term it that, was, yes, she had swallowed a few guys that night. Three? Four? She couldn't say.

When she said to me, 'How could I really tell when they all looked alike to me!' I took a tad of male umbrage and told her, "Honey, all men's dicks are different, you know that . . . don'tcha? Some are straight, some curve upward, some . . . "

She stared at me and said, "Oh, yeah, you dummy, I know they are! I meant the fuckin' rooms." Ha ha, she was right, many of so-called the rooms did have a sameness to them. Little furniture save beds and mattresses. Oh, and a few folding chairs here and there.

And there you have it, folks, as much as my memory as I can recall at this late hour about our shenanigans at the Stroker's Club. If you'd like to hear more, feedback me, and I'll do my damndest to dredge my memory lane for your reading entertainment.

Oooh, I just thought of something! One night, they held a voting contest. The women were asked to vote for the two cocks they liked the best. There was no 3rd place position. I guess they felt it would embarrass a guy to be third best. Shit, I'm not going to tell you were I placed, but let's just say it wasn't among the top ten! The ballots were cast secretly, with no one knowing how any particular woman voted.

Later, I jokingly asked Barb if she had voted for me and, of course, she said she had. Ha ha! Yeah, and Santa's Jewish!

None of us guys ever learned by what criterion the women picked the two guys, but here they are for you to decide.