The next night, the high from Toledo still thrummed under our skin like a live wire. Candace and I rolled up to The Meeting Place just after dark, gravel crunching under the tires, the rural Michigan quiet broken only by the low bass already leaking from inside. We’d texted Ryan, the clerk from the adult bookstore arcade, the fit late forties guy who had joined us in the buddy booth the night before, around noon, half joking: “You weren’t kidding about the party?” His reply came fast: “Wouldn’t miss it. Bringing company. See you inside.” No details, just that crooked emoji that said everything. We knew “company” meant Emily, his petite blonde stepdaughter, the twenty year old relief worker who had crossed every line with him and us for the first time in that locked office after hours.

The place was already alive when we walked in, thirty, maybe forty couples scattered across the lounge, the dance floor, the bar area thick with laughter and whiskey fumes. This was Candace’s first real swinger party; she’d talked a big game on our calls, but stepping inside, her hand tightened in mine, eyes wide at the sea of bare skin and flirty glances. “Holy shit,” she whispered, a mix of nerves and excitement making her voice breathy. “This is intense.” I squeezed back, grinning. “Just like our stories, but real. You ready?” She nodded fast, that filthy spark igniting, eager, always eager.

Before we could hit the lockers, an older couple spotted us from across the lounge, like they had a radar for newbies. He was mid sixties, retired veteran all the way: broad shoulders, salt and pepper crew cut, faded Marine tattoo on his forearm, wearing cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to show a hairy chest. She matched him, early sixties, soft curves in a sheer sarong, silver hair in a bob, warm smile lines around her eyes that said she’d seen it all and loved every minute. They introduced themselves as Hank and Gloria, married forty years, swinging for thirty, regulars here since the club opened. “You two look like fresh meat,” Hank chuckled, voice gravelly. “First time?” Candace admitted it with a shy laugh; they took us under their wing instantly, no questions, just easy swinger hospitality.

They gave us the full tour, Hank’s arm around my shoulder like an old buddy, Gloria linking with Candace, pointing out the hot tub (“Great for warming up, bubbles hide the naughty till you’re ready”), the Sybian (“That machine’ll make you see stars, honey, Hank loves watching me ride it”), the theme rooms (“Mirror one’s my favorite; feels like you’re in a porn set with infinite yous”). They shared stories casual like: how they got into swinging after Hank’s Vietnam tours left him craving connection, how Gloria discovered her bi side at a house party in the eighties. “Keeps the marriage spicy,” Gloria winked. “And you two? Siblings or something? You got that close vibe.” We laughed it off then, but their eyes twinkled like they knew more than they let on.

They got us going for the night, poured us whiskey at the bar, introduced us to a few couples: fit brunette Lisa and tattooed Mark, curvy redhead Sarah and burly Tom, voluptuous black woman Keisha and lean Jamal, petite Asian Mia and her husband Chen. Among them was a college aged couple, early twenties like Candace and Emily, him a clean cut frat type named Brad, her a petite blonde stripper named Tiffany with a body built for sin: perky small tits, tight ass, endless legs, and that innocent face hiding zero boundaries or gag reflex. Tiffany locked eyes with me instantly, grinning wicked. “Boss? Holy fuck, it’s really you!” She’d danced at one of my clubs back home a couple years ago, fresh out of high school, eager to please. We’d fucked plenty, backstage quickies, after hours marathons where she’d deepthroat me without flinching, swallowing every drop like it was her job. Candace’s eyes lit up like fireworks, her grip on my arm tightening with excitement. “Wait, this is her? The one you bragged about taking your cock so deep her nose touched your stomach?” She laughed breathy, turning to Tiffany with a wicked grin. “He shared so many stories about you, how often you two fucked, how your boyfriend back then was such a cuck who got off on you getting railed by him at work. God, I love that, makes me wet just thinking about it.” Tiffany licked her lips slow, leaning in close enough that her breath tickled our ears. “Guilty as charged, baby. God, I wish you’d just claimed me full time back then, Boss. I’d have been your perfect little cock hungry submissive slut, no limits, no fucking jealousy. Unlike those other whiny bitches you dated who got all possessive and cried if you looked at another pussy. I’d have let you fuck whoever you wanted, whenever you wanted, brought them to you on my knees, held their hair while you wrecked their holes, licked your cum out of them after. And you know what? I felt it was my duty to make sure you came at least once every shift we worked together. Running strip clubs is stressful as hell, the drama, the money, the bullshit. You deserved that relief, deserved to blow your thick load down my throat or deep in my tight cunt whenever the night got heavy. Remember that hotel threesome with Chantilly Lace, the buxom porn legend? You flew her in for that weekend feature gig, and after closing we took her up to the suite. I was on my knees between you two, gagging on your cock while Chantilly straddled your face, her massive tits smothering you as she ground her wet pussy on your tongue. Then you bent me over the bed, fucked me raw doggy style while I buried my face in Chantilly’s cunt, lapping up her juices. She screamed for you to fill me up so she could suck your cum straight out of my hole, god, I came so hard when you unloaded inside me, feeling her tongue scoop it out while you watched. Brad here gets it; he loves watching me get used like the filthy little whore I am.” Brad just smiled, cool with it; they were open, no jealousy.