Nicki - Ex Girlfriend Series
Nicki and I have been together eighteen months.
The fantasy talk has escalated from whispers in bed to a real FabSwinger profile, a couple of careful hotel meets with polite bulls, and now this: an invitation to Club Obsidian.
Obsidian is legendary in the lifestyle circles: ultra-exclusive, invitation-only, old-money men only. No phones, no names, no recording. Just a converted Georgian mansion on the edge of the moors, black marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and a single rule for visiting couples:
Women must be presented naked for inspection.
If the members approve, the woman is used.
If they don’t… the couple leaves quietly and is never invited back.
We've both talked about it for weeks.
Nicki is terrified and dripping at the thought.
She’s still the relatively innocent version: soft curvy body, she’s self-conscious about, D-cups with the left nipple pierced, auburn hair, green eyes, tight from lack of use during her long previous marriage and no kids. She’s only had three bulls so far, who have all been respectful, all vanilla, compared to what Obsidian promises.
Tonight she’s dressed to kill on the drive: tight black dress, heels, no bra, tiny thong. In the passenger seat, she keeps tugging the hem down over her thighs, whispering:
“What if they think I’m not pretty enough?
What if they laugh?
What if they say no?”
You squeeze her hand.
“That’s part of it, baby. We both want to feel that edge.”
The gates open automatically. Gravel crunches under tyres. Valets in black take the car.
Inside, the air is thick with money and cologne.
A woman in a silk robe greets you. It’s the hostess.
She smiles politely at you, then turns to Natalie.
“Dress off, please. Shoes may stay.”
Nicki's hands shake as she unzips. The dress pools at her feet. She steps out in just the thong and heels, arms instinctively crossing over her soft belly.
The hostess gently pulls her arms down.
“No covering. Follow me.”
You’re both led to the main salon, low lighting, leather chesterfields, perhaps twenty men in tailored suits, drinks in hand. Conversation hushes as Nicki enters.
A low platform in the centre, spotlit.
The hostess guides Nicki up the two steps.
“Thong too, darling.”
Nicki hooks her thumbs in and slides it down, steps out, now completely naked under the bright light. Heels clicking on marble. She stands, trembling, while twenty pairs of rich, appraising eyes roam over her.
The inspection begins.
Men approach slowly, circling.
One runs a finger along her collarbone, lifts a breast, thumbs the pierced nipple until she gasps.
Another turns her around, palms her arse, and spreads her cheeks briefly.
A third lifts her chin, looks in her mouth, as if checking a horse.
Comments are quiet, clinical:
“Nice tits, natural hang.”
“Soft, not gym plastic.”
“Tight little thing still.”
“Piercing’s cute.”
No one has touched her pussy yet.
The lead member, silver-haired, maybe 50, watch worth more than your house, finally steps forward.
He slides two fingers between her legs without asking, finds her soaked, and pushes inside easily.
He nods, his eyes are cold and calculating.
“She’ll do… for testing.”
A soft ripple of approval through the room.
The hostess smiles at you for the first time.
“You may watch from the sidebar, sir. Or leave. Your choice.”
Nicki looks at you over her shoulder, green eyes wide, lips parted, fear, arousal, pleading.
You sit at the bar, order a whiskey you don’t drink.
The night has only just begun.
They haven’t even made her kneel yet.
Welcome to Obsidian. |
Love the start
