The Speed Fucking Club

by

Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Interracial, Black Male, White Male, White Female, Oriental Male, Hispanic Male, Safe Sex, Sex Toys, Size, .

Desc: Fiction Sex Story: Why bother with speed dating when you can cut to the chase? And it might just lead to more...

Another Friday night, another bar, another evening of being the slightly drunk, redundant, third leg, with my BFF Carla and her partner, Vlad. I was always happy to hang out with Carla and I think she felt the same about me, but I sometimes felt sorry for Vlad, being dragged along for my weekly ritual humiliations.

"What about that one over there?" asked Carla, pointing at a young man sitting as part of a group.

"Too young," I dismissed him, although he was rather cute in a pretty-boy sort of way. Then one of the other young men leaned over and kissed him on the lips. "And too like my ex!" I recoiled in horror.

"Sharon, you seriously need to get back on the horse. It's been six months since you dumped the cheating fag. You're young and attractive and you should be having the time of your life."

"You may be right," I conceded, sadly. "I just can't get over the fact that he was cheating on me with another man. I don't think I can cope with another relationship yet."

"Sharon, you really need to get laid!" said Carla.

Vlad was keeping a tactful silence, occasionally making his feelings known by raising a querulous eyebrow.

"Uncomplicated, meaningless, unemotional fucking. I could go for that." My alcohol-fueled assertion came out way too loud, causing Carla and Vlad to laugh.

"Excuse me," came a rich, deep voice from behind me, making me start. "I couldn't help overhearing what you just said. If you're serious, I may be able to help."

I turned round to find a man in his late forties, smartly dressed and distinguished looking with gray flashes in his hair. He looked quite fit for his age, but had something like twenty years on me.

"Um, no disrespect intended, but I think you might be a little old for me."

The man's laugh was easy and unforced. "My name's Brian." He held out his hand.

"Sharon." I reluctantly took the proffered hand and we shook. His grip was firm and confident.

"No offence taken, Sharon, although you shouldn't dismiss the benefit of experience that lightly. No, I help to run a sort of club that caters for people in your situation. You've heard of speed dating, I presume?"

"Been there, done that, wrote the book," I replied with more than a hint of sarcasm. "The men are always losers."

"We do speed fucking. About once a month on a Saturday night we take over a wing of an out-of-town motel. We have eight to ten men and an equal number of women, all screened to make sure they're reasonably attractive. Each man fucks each woman for five minutes then they rate each other. Good matches are given each other's details so they can get in touch privately, anyone who gets consistently low marks isn't invited back."

"Isn't that dangerous?" asked Carla. "What about disease?"

"All the men have to wear condoms. We supply them so we know they're decent quality. We haven't had any accidents yet, but one of the committee is a qualified pharmacist with a supply of medicated douches and morning-after pills."

"What happens if a man cums and then can't get it up again?" asked Vlad. Carla and Vlad had a good relationship, but she had confided to me that Vlad sometimes had a hair-trigger.

"The men wear cock-rings to keep them hard."

Vlad nodded, but the look in his eyes indicated he had learned something new to try out.

"I bet you get a lot more men than women," Vlad commented.

"Actually, no. The prospect of having sex with so many women in quick succession is quite daunting for a lot of men. And we get a lot of regular custom from alpha females, for whom getting meaningless sex this way is far cheaper and much less hassle than hiring an escort and wining and dining him first. Unfortunately sometimes one or two committee members have to participate in order to even out the numbers so we have a double incentive to perform well."

"I guess it's a hard job, but someone has to do it," smirked Vlad.

"How much does it cost?" asked Carla.

It seemed odd to me that I was the prospective client but Vlad and Carla were asking most of the questions.

"There's the motel charge for a room for the night and breakfast, although we get discounted group rates. And we lay on a late supper after the event. There's also the cost of sundries like cock rings, condoms and spermicidal lubricants, and the committee charges a fee to cover out-of-pocket expenses. As I said, it's still far cheaper than hiring an escort."

"Here, have this," said Brian to me, holding out a laminated piece of card with his details on it. "If you have any questions I'll be pleased to answer them, and I can e-mail you a detailed set of instructions. There's just one thing - please may I take your photo? I'm sure there will be no problem, but attendees have to be approved by two committee members before they're invited to an event."

The card contained only his name, a cellphone number and an e-mail address. Nice and discreet, no mention of the speed fucking club. I slipped the card into my purse, earning a look of surprise from Carla.

"Okay, I guess," I agreed, but with no degree of certainty.

Brian took out his cellphone and pointed it at me. There was a click and a flash. Brian turned the cellphone round so I could see the result on the lcd screen. It was late and I'd been drinking and my make-up needed repairing, so I looked far from my best.

"I look terrible. Please don't show that to anyone," I begged.

"Relax, you're a very attractive woman. You'll have no problems getting a second approval."

Vlad snorted but Carla smiled; she was forever telling me how I didn't know how attractive I really was.

Brian asked me how I spelled my name, which I thought was very considerate since some of us have two 'r's in the middle, and he entered my name against the photo on his cellphone. He said goodbye to all of us, shaking my hand again and reminding me of the firm confidence of his handshake, then he left.

"Creep," muttered Vlad.

"I don't know, he seemed rather nice, in an old-fashioned sort of way," I countered.

"I can't believe you're really considering it," exclaimed Carla.

"I'm not," I protested. "It just seemed rude to decline the card."

Next Friday was like Groundhog Day, another bar with Carla and Vlad, again slightly too much to drink and again striking out.

The following Friday things looked up for a while. I got chatting to a smart-looking guy at the bar. Things went reasonably okay until he went over his limit, when his conversation became restricted to his alleged nine inches and all the things he had done with it. I quickly declined his attempt to add me to his conquests.

Saturday, while in a despondent mood, I came across Brian's card. It took most of the day before I could pluck up the courage, but I rationalized that just sending an e-mail wouldn't commit me to anything and it would be interesting to find out what sort of perversions were involved with his speed fucking club.

The reply came the next morning. Brian wrote that he had shown my photo to another committee member and I would be approved, if I were interested. The next meeting was to be in two weeks time.

Brian had attached a document explaining how the club worked; I read it through twice. Everything seemed well thought-out and safety- conscious. Either partner could refuse to participate in a particular coupling, but the ultimate choice of positions etc lay with the woman. All the women were equipped with a wrist-borne emergency alarm, and if anything happened they were uncomfortable with, they could press the activation button and a male committee member would be there within a couple of minutes.

Although I was unexpectedly impressed by what I had read, I had already decided not to go through with it. However I didn't delete Brian's e-mail or the document.

Friday evening found me at another bar with Carla and Vlad. I tried chatting nicely to a guy who seemed okay at first, but then I was surrounded by his mates all trying to cop a drunken feel. After my perpetual wingmen, Carla and Vlad, had rescued me, at first all I felt was relief that I hadn't been raped. Later I felt really down. With alcohol still flowing freely through my veins, I sent a reply to Brian asking him to book me a place for the following weekend, supplied the requested details and paid the fee by transfer from my on-line bank account.

When I woke up the next morning and remembered what I had done, my first instinct was to cancel. Then I remembered the document had stipulated 'no refunds'. Instead I decided to just not turn up on the night. As Brian had said, the cost was surprisingly modest so it wasn't that big a loss. For the rest of the week I forgot all about it, except when I received an e-mail confirming my booking and giving detailed instructions.

Friday night, another bar. Actually there weren't that many bars in the city so we had to make repeat visits, but we had a convention not to frequent the same bar more than once a month. I thought I'd struck lucky when I met a nice-looking, seemingly intelligent guy. Then when he went to the head the bartender, who remembered me from a previous visit, tipped me off to look for the guy's wedding band. When the guy returned from the head I scrutinized his hand. No wedding band, but there was a white circle where one had obviously been worn recently.

"Does your wife know you're here?" I challenged him.

"Bitch!" he snarled at me, then stalked out.

I bought the bartender a drink for tipping me off.

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