The Cotton Club
by Nancy Fairchild — nancy.fairchild@hushmail.com
This is a true story completely and accurately told and, as such, might not have the same eroticism of a true story I have embellished a bit, like The Lost Summer. It also involves some very well-known people in England so their actual names will be omitted but I will use the real name for the protagonist. I asked for his permission and he readily acquiesced on the condition that we might meet again for a future tryst. Unfortunately, he is now married and seeing him again would violate one of my moral tenets because I don’t have affairs with married men, even if they are in an open relationship. Not only do I not want to betray another woman, but married men are not nearly as much fun as a single man who can devote far more time to me. The only married man I fuck is my husband.
This story occurs in the late spring of 2014. I figured that out by recalling what I did for the entire summer of that year. I spent that time with Richard in Bordeaux at the cottage my husband bought for me in Arcachon. Richard is the man I am now currently with while we wait for the pandemic to end and a vaccine to be found. We are in a rather more exotic location than the French Atlantic coast.
My husband, Brian, and my oldest son are in the same position, but in a different and rather unfortunate location, while Brian is earning a fortune advising a government that is neither evil nor particularly good. My younger son is with his grandparents and irresponsible father in Germany. I haven’t seen my husband since early February, but we talk every day and I recently got him to do something very naughty and very sexy for me. We celebrated our ten-year anniversary in June, apart from each other. Richard pretended to be Brian when he fucked me that night which is kind of hard to do if you are French and trying to imitate an American accent.
If you’ve read either The Professor or The Lost Summer you would know that I am also in a ten year ongoing affair with, Adrian, an Oxford don (lecturer) who has an apartment in London on Westbourne Grove and also in Summertown, a very pleasant residential neighborhood in north Oxford. The reason I am so open about my relationship with Adrian is he writes a blog that is widely read in the academic community in Oxford, Cambridge and across American universities. Within that blog are very graphic descriptions of his affair with me. My life and sexual proclivities are well known within that not so small circle of his daily readers.
I spend a lot of weekends with him in Summertown and am quite used to other women recognizing me and giving me ‘the look’. That ‘look’ is one of disdain because they know, by reading Adrian’s blog, that I am happily married, spoiled to death by a devoted younger husband and Adrian is just one of my lovers. There’s a four letter word these women use to describe me and it begins with a ‘s’ and ends with a ‘t’ and when it’s used in public discourse the term is usually spat out with a look of contempt that is meant to humiliate. I have been referred to by that term often, both affectionately by my lovers and with contempt by those most envious of me. Being American, of Jewish background, offers a number of adjectives for women to use to embellish that slur.
I was shopping one spring afternoon in the Marks & Spencer’s food hall on Banbury Road in Summertown when I ran into a rare fellow traveler. Before I go into that, for those of you who aren’t British, Mark & Spencer’s is an institution in the UK and posh people buy their food there which, in a unique way, is virtually all packaged as ready made meals, overpriced, very vaguely nutritious and largely responsible for making the English the fattest people in Europe. But it looks posh, which counts for an awful lot in England. I just buy wine and beer there, both of which make you fat as well.
I was pushing my shopping trolley down an aisle when I ran across two women in a heated argument and I heard that word I described before used in the most vicious way possible. That sort of pissed me off. If one is not used to that sort of verbal onslaught, the event can be traumatic. I interrupted the argument rather abruptly to point out that I was, indeed, a married slut myself and quite proud of it. Then I launched into a loud verbal tirade against the women making those accusations that I didn’t think I was capable of. She quickly slinked off and the other woman wrapped me in an embrace and kissed me on the cheek. That’s how I met Catherine.
Ten minutes later I was having coffee with Catherine, who became my first good girlfriend in Oxford, and she invited Adrian and I over for dinner with her and her husband that evening. As her husband is also an Oxford don, she knew of me but had yet to see me in the flesh. In her early thirties, Catherine is French, tall and willowy, a brunette with a slightly Mediterranean complexion. She’s beautiful in a natural way that is sure spark the envy of the many stout Englishwomen who wander the streets of Summertown. As you can see from pictures of me in this story, I am blonde and also slim. Just to warn you in advance, neither Catherine nor I are even slightly bisexual if you think this is where the story is going. It’s much more interesting than that.
There are sometimes I really long for my husband because I love showing him off. I love to be on his arm because he’s handsome in a drop dead sort of way and I feel like I sparkle around him and I like women to envy the fact that I bagged a younger man who spoils me to death. That’s why I felt slightly disappointed to go with Adrian to Catherine’s flat in Oxford for dinner. Adrian is handsome but he doesn’t hold a candle to my husband, and I wanted to impress that evening.
The first thing that I saw in Catherine’s flat, after I was introduced to her extremely handsome French husband, Patrick, was the large framed photograph hung over their living room sofa and it rendered me speechless. The picture was a beautiful image of Catherine being fucked by an extremely well-endowed man who clearly wasn’t her husband. I grabbed Catherine’s arm and took her aside, giggling with delight. She led me to the bedroom, whose walls were adorned with further images of Catherine doing all sorts of wicked things with the same man. By this point, I was almost in tears of laughter.
“These are great,” I said to Catherine. “I’ve never been in a house where the husband likes to show his wife off to everyone. You are beautiful in the pictures, but who’s the other guy.”
“That’s Richard,” she replied casually, with a smile. “He’s the ringleader of a little exclusive club in Oxford. I see Richard once a week. You’d like him. He keeps me very happily married. I’m his second wife.”
“Who’s his first wife?” I asked.
“He doesn’t have one,” replied Catherine. “He just has second wives.”
“You are going to get me into even more trouble than I get myself into,” I said. “I want to meet Richard and I want to know more about this club.”
“I can have Adrian and you meet Richard, if you wish,” Catherine said. “He’s very selective about who gets into the club because it’s very naughty.”
“I wouldn’t meet Richard with Adrian,” I replied. “I would bring my husband, Brian, to meet him with me so please don’t bring this up while Adrian is around.”
“Sure,” replied Catherine. “Do you want to see the mark of membership?”
“Of course,” I said.
Catherine then unzipped her skirt, wriggled out of it and pointed to her bum where there was a small tattoo that looked like a reproduction of an old Royal Crown cola bottle cap (see below). It was pretty.
“Those are Richard’s initials,” Catherine said. “Every woman in the Cotton Club has the same tattoo on their bum.”
“How many couples are in the club?” I asked.
“Not many,” said Catherine, as she pulled up her skirt and zipped it. “Richard sees every woman privately once a week and there are only seven days in a week. He’s in the music business so he doesn’t work regular hours so it’s no problem for me to spend an afternoon with him. In the evening, if he wants me to go to his place, Patrick will drive me and wait in the car while we fuck. I have to warn you, it’s kind of hard to think about not having sex with Richard. I’ve made Patrick turn down two jobs in France and the US because I can’t think of not having Richard again. Would your husband be cool with that?”
“He already puts up with a lot worse,” I said with a giggle. “But he is faithful through and through.”
“Part of the fun for Patrick are the monthly parties,” Catherine said. “Richard pairs off the husbands with different wives, so men get to enjoy some variety. How would you feel about your husband being with another woman? I am used to it, but I do get jealous.”
“Brian would never be with another woman,” I said. “He is just incapable of that. I’ve never had to worry about him being unfaithful.”
“Wow, that’s cool,” said Catherine. “I really want to meet him.”
“I really want to meet Richard,” I replied.
Two weeks later Brian and I were in Browns restaurant on Woodstock Road in central Oxford, waiting to meet Richard. I made my husband wear a sportscoat and trousers and a blue shirt that perfectly matched his eyes and I was in a Thierry Mugler dress that showed off both my breasts and legs in a tastefully sexy way. Richard joined us at our table shortly after we arrived. He was not what I expected at all.
Richard looked to be in his mid-forties, was completely bald and handsome in a way a builder might be. He looked a bit rough and unrefined. That, at least, was the first impression, but I knew that there had to be something more to him if Catherine was so fixated on him. After shaking hands, Richard dispensed with formalities and got right to the point. He sat next to me.
“Both of you are beautiful enough to be in the Cotton Club,” Richard said to me. “I don’t know actually which of you is more attractive, but I’m heterosexual. If I weren’t, I would be sitting next to your husband with a raging hard on. The women in the club will be fighting over your husband, without a doubt.”
“He doesn’t fuck other women,” I replied confidently. “Even if I allowed that I know he wouldn’t do it.”
“That’s true,” Brian added. “I would never be unfaithful to Nancy.”
“We’ll discuss that later,” Richard said to Brian. “Right now, I am taking your wife to my apartment to fuck her. I live right across the street so we will only be an hour. You can have dinner and wait for us and, when we come back, we’ll talk about membership.”
That was literally the shortest courtship of my life, which is saying something for me because I have fucked a number of men since I’ve been married to Brian. Richard took my hand and I grabbed my purse and let him guide me across the street and up to his apartment which was in an attractive building literally across the street from Browns. When he got me upstairs and out of my dress, which he considerately hung on a hanger for me, he ravaged me like no man had before, and he played with my body like he already knew it intimately. He rubbed my clit to my first orgasm within five minutes and he had his fist inside my pussy shortly thereafter while I had his huge hard cock in my mouth. It happened so fast I didn’t realize he was uncircumcised until afterwards.
He turned me on my back and rubbed the head of his cock on my clit until I came a second time and I begged him to put it inside me. He filled me completely, which few men can do, and pumped into me with what seemed to be the force of a jackhammer, pausing briefly to effortlessly flip me over and take me from behind, which drove him even deeper inside me. I don’t think we uttered a word while we made love, but my moans were loud enough to be heard throughout the apartment. He reached his arm around my back and his fingers found my clit again, this time my orgasm matched his and we collapsed together, my pussy full of his spunk.
After kissing my back Richard rose from the bed and nipped into the bathroom. I heard the shower going briefly and then he reappeared and started putting on his clothes and shoes.
“Would you mind if I take a brief shower?” I asked, sill lying on the rumpled bed.
“Yes, I would mind,” Richard replied with a smile. “The most attractive scent for a beautiful woman is sex and I want to smell that when we go back to meet your husband. So, no shower for you.”
To his credit, Brian appeared nonplussed when we returned to the table at Browns. It’s so sweet to have a husband who is not shocked that his wife is literally leaking cum from her pussy while she kisses him lightly on the cheek. I’m sure I reeked of sex and he could pick up the scent. It seemed totally natural to have Richard’s arm around me while he casually resumed talking about the Cotton Club as if whisking me away for a quick fuck was totally copacetic. I guess it is in Richard’s circle.
Richard named off a number of well-known women from television and the film world who were in the club and emphasized how important discretion was. Among the women was a Sky News presenter that I knew Brian fancied (he is allowed to do that) and a BBC presenter, whose membership even shocked me because she comes across as about as prim and proper as any English woman could pretend to be. It was nice to find out that there are other women who are as naughty as me, even if they are better than me pretending that they aren’t.
I’d like to say we joined the club, but my lifestyle precluded that. A requirement for female members is that they have no other affairs besides with Richard or any sex outside of their marriage, and with Richard, except when he pairs them off with others at his monthly parties. Also, husbands are expected to willingly be paired off with other female members of the club. My husband refused that, without any prompting from me, and Richard said that would really piss off the wives because he would easily be the most attractive man in the club. I told Richard that I would not give up my existing affairs or the prospect of new ones.
When I see Adrian in Oxford for a day or two, I used to sneak off and see Richard occasionally because I understood where Catherine was coming from. A woman needs sex like Richard provides and it’s actually better if it’s not with her husband. It made her marriage better because she brought that sexuality back to her husband. As far as pure savage sex, Richard is the best I have ever had. I like his arrogance too because I am equally as conceited. I only stopped fucking Richard when he got married.
I made Brian order a car for our return trip to London that evening. We had arrived by train but, after Richard fucked me, cum had flowed out of my pussy and made my dress wet in the back and nobody could mistake the patch for spilled water. It looked and smelled like hot spunk. I did let Brian lick my pussy until I came again when we got home and guided his prick inside me afterwards. He is well endowed, but it took some extra effort for him to get off in my stretched pussy. He likes that a lot.
I still see Catherine every time I go to Oxford and, even now during the pandemic, we stay in email contact. She and Patrick have a daughter now (it’s her husband’s) and they no longer belong to the club, but she still plays around while she has trained her handsome husband to be like Brian and remain completely faithful, so much so that we talk about her affairs openly in front of him without a thought. He is totally committed to their daughter and his wife’s happiness. The tattoo faded a bit, but she had it restored to its original colors. She’s very proud of it.
