Woman in the club: VIP room

My name is Olga, I'm 28 years old. I've been married for five years, and the last three have been a blur—diapers, borscht, sick days. My husband, Sergey, is a good man, nine years older than me. He works as a shop foreman, comes home tired, and usually falls asleep in front of the TV. We had sex once a month, purely marital, no-nonsense, and that was generally fine with me. I'd forgotten that I used to love dancing until the morning. A month ago, my old friend Kristina, the perpetually lonely adventurer, talked me into going to the new nightclub, Hades. My husband let me go without question, only chuckling, "Where are you going with your maternity-age body?" I pouted, bought myself a tight black dress, styled my hair, and went off to prove to myself that I was still an attractive woman. The club smelled of smoke, sweet alcohol, and something musky and alien. Kristina immediately disappeared onto the dance floor with a bartender, leaving me alone at a high table with a cocktail. The lights flickered, the bass pounded right into my solar plexus. I felt awkward, but at the same time somehow drunk from the very atmosphere of freedom. And then a man approached me. Tall, muscular, with a short haircut and dark eyes. He looked to be about thirty. He introduced himself as Artur, said he worked as a promoter, and immediately noticed that I was new. The compliments flowed; I was embarrassed and blushing, but I was incredibly flattered. Fifteen minutes later, he persuaded me to dance. We moved through the crowd, his hands sliding lower and lower down my waist, but I was confident I was in control. I simply enjoyed the attention. When Kristina waved and left with the bartender in a taxi, I realized I was alone in a strange place. Arthur immediately suggested, "Let's go to the VIP area, it's quieter there, have a nice drink, and I'll call you a taxi." Naive, I agreed. The VIP room turned out to be a small space with couches, dim red lighting, and a hookah table. Two of his friends were already there—a burly, bald Dan and a skinny, tattooed guy they called Fox. All three seemed too relaxed, too confident. The door closed softly behind me, and the music became barely audible through the upholstery. I sat down on the couch, clutching my purse in my lap, and asked for water. Arthur handed me a glass, and I took a sip. The water tasted strange, with a bitter aftertaste, but I assumed it was from the straw. Within a couple of minutes, my head felt light and my body felt like cotton wool. There was no fear, only warmth and a kind of relaxed curiosity. Arthur sat down next to me and placed his hand on my thigh. I wanted to push his hand away, but my fingers moved too slowly. "Don't twitch, girl," he whispered in my ear. "You deserve a proper rest." His thumb pushed back the hem of my dress and brushed the lace of my panties. Dan and Lis watched silently, sipping something from their glasses, and their gazes made my face flush. Arthur didn't ask permission. He lifted my dress to my waist and flipped me over onto my stomach, as easily as a doll, burying my face in the leather sofa. I felt my panties being pulled down. "How long has she been without a man, huh?" Fox chuckled. I tried to protest, to talk about my husband, about how I wasn't like that, but only a stifled moan escaped my throat. And then Arthur entered me from behind—sharply, roughly, without foreplay. I cried out from the unexpected fullness, my body clenching around his cock. "Shh, shh, relax," he whispered, pressing down on me. I remember what happened next in flashes. I was lifted up and forced to my knees in front of the couch. Someone's cock was thrust into my mouth—it smelled musky. I moaned and tried to turn away, but someone's fingers grabbed my chin and forced my mouth open. It was Dan, his cock thicker than my husband's, and it was literally pushing my jaw apart. "Suck it, Mommy, learn," he growled. Meanwhile, Arthur continued pounding me from behind, knocking the air out of my lungs with each thrust. Fox waited his turn, stroking his cock through his pants. It was a conveyor belt. They kept changing, leaving me breathless. Blowjob, vaginal sex, more blowjobs. At one point, when I was lying on my back with my legs spread wide and Lis bukvoeb.run was pounding into me from above, Arthur caught my eye and said, "You're married, right? The ring's shiny." I squeezed my eyes shut in shame and arousal. It was his words, the humiliation of the situation, that suddenly arched my body, and I was overcome by my first real orgasm—not a sham, not a marital obligation, but a wild, writhing spasm that made me scream and dig my nails into Lis's shoulders. They came on me one after the other: on my stomach, on my chest, and one in my mouth, forcing me to swallow. The taste of the cum was foreign and salty; I almost threw up, but I swallowed, afraid of angering them. It was all over after about an hour and a half. I lay on the couch, sticky, my thighs smeared with someone else's fluid, with pain in my lower abdomen and a sore throat. Arthur handed me a wet wipe and said, "Get yourself together, my friend. And here, take this." He put a black business card in my purse with a phone number and the inscription "Hades, private." I returned home in the early morning, tiptoed into the bathroom, and spent a long time washing away the evening's scent. My husband was asleep, his face buried in his pillow. I lay down next to him, afraid he'd wake up and smell the scent of strange men. P.S.: I called Arthur a week later, when my husband went on a business trip and my mother took the baby. Now I go to "Hades" every Friday under the guise of "meeting Kristina." Arthur introduced me to other girls from the VIP escorts, but for now I only go with him and his friends. I got an IUD after the first time—Arthur insisted, he hates condoms. I learned deep throating and stopped gagging. And the worst part is, I stopped wanting my husband. When he touches me, I imagine the red light of the VIP room and three pairs of hands on my body. I know this will end badly. But I can't stop now.