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This is a Nude Day contest story. Please vote.

Six, rich women use a CFNM party to take revenge on their cheating husbands.

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The three, beautiful black male strippers, Big Willie, Marvin, and Otis arrived at their destination. Big Willie, the darkest of the three had the defined features of a proud African man. It was obvious, by their much lighter skin tones and more sculptured features that Marvin and Otis had some white blood mixed with their DNA.

Much different in appearance than so many of the average sized white, male strippers, fully clothe or totally naked, there was nothing averaged sized about the three men. No doubt, when the women saw these three men they’d think, if their hands and feet are this big, imagine their penises. All well over six feet tall and muscular, if meeting Big Willie, Marvin, or Otis on the street or seeing them at the stadium, on the track, or at the ballpark, they could be easily be mistaken for professional athletes.

In fact, they were all once athletically inclined. Willie, a star college fullback, Otis, a highly regarded track star, and Marvin, a naturally talented homerun hitting pitcher, all allowed their inner city neighborhoods to interfere with their passions for professional sports careers by allowing their so called friends to destroy their dreams. Indeed, with the show they were about to put on and the gyrations, stretches, and amazing things they could do with their bodies, it would be difficult to differentiate where the dancer began and the athlete ended. All in top physical condition, the best of the best, better than all the rest, this CFNM show would be like no other CFNM revue.

“Holy shit. How many families do you think lives in this huge building?” Otis looked up at the mansion through the car window.

“Just one,” said Big Willie with a laugh.

“Say man,” said Marvin, looking over at Big Willie, “how’d you score this gig anyway?”

“An older woman, Patricia, called me out of the blue and asked if we could perform on short notice and here we are,” said Big Willie, the owner of the male stripper group.

“There’s nothing better than getting naked in front of an older, horny, rich, white woman,” said Marvin with a laugh.

“What makes you think she’s white? Maybe she’s a sister,” said Big Willie looking at Marvin.

“Say what? A sister? Unless a sister won the lottery, she couldn’t afford to live here. And if a sister won the lottery, she’d never move her black ass to Snow White’s neighborhood, that is, unless she was living next door to Oprah in Santa Barbara,” said Marvin with a loud laugh.

“How many women are there?” Not waiting for Big Willie’s reply, Otis looked out his window at the landscaped grounds. “I wish I lived here. It’s beautiful. I wish I had a driveway as big as this big ass driveway. I wish I had a driveway,” he said with a laugh.

“Six women, there’s six of them, six, all white, rich bitches. So you’d better be on your best behaviors,” said Willie. “It’s a private party, an intimate group,” said Willie with a laugh, “if you know what I mean,” said Willie moving his hand back and forth in front of his mouth, as if giving a blowjob.

“All Caucasian, no doubt. Unless she’s the maid, the cook, or the nanny, not many sisters live in this fine neighborhood,” said Marvin again but with attitude this time.

“Even if there were some sisters living here, they’d keep a low profile and never hire the likes of us to entertain them,” said Otis with a laugh. “I’m surprised no one called the police on us, a car full of black dudes slowly driving through this neighborhood at night, while looking for the address with a flashlight,” he said with an angry laugh.

“Oh, yeah. This is picturesque, like something you see on the rich and famous,” said Willie. “I could live here. I saw two Bentleys and an Aston Martin go by, before we even rolled up to the gates.”

“You didn’t give me much notice to get myself ready,” protested Otis. “I had to break a date with a fine, black fox, a Nubian princess, who wanted me to give her a private show, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, well, sorry about that but Patricia didn’t give me much of a notice,” said Willie, “which is why it’s double our normal rate. When she told me where she lived, I wasn’t about to pass up this gig. If we all give them what they want and what they need, with some big tips from the extra service routines we do, I’m hoping to make a nice piece of change with this striptease show,” said Willie turning to look at both Otis and Marvin.

“I can dig that,” said Marvin exchanging skin with Big Willie. “My rent is due and I’m behind on my car payment.”

Willie parked his van at the end of the circular driveway behind the other cars that were already there, a British racing green Jaguar, two shiny black BMWs, a liquid silver Mercedes, a midnight blue Lexus, and a lipstick red Ferrari. With no outward attempt to help save and preserve the planet, the lights out front lit the place up, as if it was daytime.

“Hi, bursa escort welcome to my home. I’m Patricia,” she said opening her front door to the men, as soon as they walked up to the door.

“The servants must have been sent home for the weekend,” laughed Marvin.

“Actually, I gave them the day off. We’re alone,” said Patricia giving Marvin the eye with him returning her leer.

As if they were Patricia’s daughters, acting more like immature schoolgirls, instead of her friends and neighbors, Joan and Maureen stood behind Patricia giggling. Already picking out her man, no doubt, Kathy looked over Patricia and made eye contact with Big Willie. Assessing them with a sharply critical eye, Carol looked at the three men, in the way she, no doubt, looked at potential jurists or felons. Irene hid behind the five women cowering.

“You have a beautiful home, Patricia.” Willie looked around the large reception hall and smiled.

“Thank you,” said Patricia.

“Where can we setup and get changed?” Willie surveyed the reception hall.

“You may use the downstairs powder room. It’s just to the left of you. It has a sitting room more than big enough,” she said staring down at the bulge in Big Willie’s pants, while measuring her words to give him more than one meaning.

“And where do you want us to perform?” Willie looked from Patricia to Joan to Maureen to Kathy to Carol and to Irene. “Hello, hello, hello, hi, hi,” he said.

“Hi,” they all said in unison, as if high school girls all enamored with their teacher.

“The living room is very comfortable and very large,” said Patricia, again staring down at Willie’s bulge and again playing with her words to get her real meaning across.

“You ladies relax in the living room, while we get ready out here. We have a curtain that we’ll put over the doorway that we’ll stand behind to make our entrances and exits for costume changes,” said Willie. “When you hear the music, is when the show starts.”

“And how long is your show?” Kathy made no attempt to hide her fixation with Big Willie’s big bulge nor did she try to hide the meaning of her innuendo.

“As long as you want it to last,” said Willie making eye contact with Kathy with a smile. “We offer lots of extra, personal services, if you’d like to see us do more than just dance,” he said with another smile.

Tit for tat, with the mood set, the air was already thick with sexual innuendoes and horniness.

“I’m definitely going to want lots of extra, personal services,” said Kathy slowly and punctuating her suggestive statement by putting a manicured finger to her full lips, while giving Willie the eye.

“Oh, I think just the dancing will be plenty enough for me,” said Irene nodding her head, while taking a step backwards and clutching her collar to her neck. If she had a purse with her, she would have clutched that, too. “Oh, yeah, just the dancing will be more than enough for me, that’s for sure. Yeah, that’s all the entertainment I’d need or ever want,” she said, as if talking to herself, while reassuring herself.

“Oh, no, not me. I don’t want the blue plate special, sugar. I want the a la carte menu, where I pick and choose who and what I want,” said Joan in her southern belle accent with a lusty laugh that made her big tits shake, while staring at Otis.

“Okay, ladies, just give us a few moments to get ready to entertain you,” said Big Willie, while Marvin and Otis carried in the heavy poles and hung the drapes across the doorway.

* * * * *

The Scarsdale Six is how the six women humorously referred to their little group. Patricia, Joan, Kathy, Maureen, Carol, and Irene weren’t a terrorist organization tucked away in an affluent bedroom community. They were six, attractive, college educated, well-to-do women, who didn’t want to validate the lives that their mothers had lived by living their lives in the same way. Instead of closing their eyes to their husbands’ indiscretions and sexual infidelities, rather than going through a costly divorce, they took their husbands unfaithfulness as their official invitation to have some sexual fun themselves.

Willing to do anything to break the mold, aside from letting go of the good life, they were all so bored and so lonely. Yet, because of social status, accepted and expected norms, and personal perceptions, somehow they stuck to their customs and traditions like glue. Sometimes expected and pretending to feel guilt by their enormous wealth, the more they revolted and riled against their lavish lifestyles and tried to tone down their spending, bewilderingly, the more they stubbornly adhered to it, spent, and immersed themselves in it.

With none of them admitting it but all of them, no doubt, knowing it, this CFNM party was their last hurrah, before sacrificing their wills to dote on their husbands, as their good and obedient wives. Still kicking and screaming, they weren’t going along easy with the flow and submitting themselves to the lunacy malatya escort of garden clubs, lawn parties, and political fund raising dinners. Fearful of losing their identities to charity events and eventually to grandchildren, they were just six liberated, albeit bored and sexually frustrated housewives. Aside from the jewels, the furs, the cars, the houses, and the vacations, they wanted more than what their mothers had. Looking for some adventure now that they could look back upon later with fond memories, they needed something to show that they had lived their lives in the way they wanted to live it without having to dance to the beat of their husbands’ whimsy.

Other than shopping and spa services, sex was the common thread that all six women shared, not so much doing it but talking about doing it. Much in the way of college coeds living at the dorm, sex is what they discussed, laughed over, and gossiped about. With trips to the salon, the boutique, or the islands, they used their luxurious lifestyles to soothe their sadness. With all of them bored to tears, they were personal testimony that money doesn’t buy happiness, yet none of them were willing to live without it, however.

As if their plugs had somehow become dislodged from their sensual sockets, there was an undercurrent of sexual frustration in all of their marriages. Positioned at that erotically heightened, sexually aware, and horny age, they silently suffered, while wondering if they could have done better, no so much financially, but better in bed with a spouse who wanted them, serviced them, and sexually satisfied them. They wondered not if their husbands were cheating on them but with whom. Still young enough that their sexual needs played a big role in their personal lives, they still wanted and needed to be sexually desired, too.

Just embarking upon that life changing age, they sadly, yet, realistically considered their choices. When looking in the mirror, surrounded by women with perfect bodies and ageless faces, they were confronted by the thought of plastic surgery. Should they try to look as good as their husbands’ mistresses? How could they? How dare they? In comparison, the mistresses were so very young and they were, well, more mature. As did their mothers before them, closing their eyes to their husbands’ affairs, would not only give their husbands carte blanche to cheat on them but also confess their affirmed knowledge that they couldn’t compete with their mistresses. Not a pleasant one to confront, the reality that they no longer sexually appealed to their mates, at first made them angry then, now, made them want to give up trying.

Fortunately for them, there was another option. They could just lose their minds to a wine so fine that they wouldn’t care what they looked like and what their husbands did behind their backs, so long as they didn’t embarrass them publically. Without doubt, their husbands knew that an indiscrete affair would mean the end of their marriage, accompanied by an ugly divorce with a large divorce settlement. The only ones who wanted that to happen more than the wives were their divorce attorneys and the tabloid newspapers.

An easy life choice to make, deciding to age gracefully with their French friends, Rothschild’s Chateau Lafite, Cristal champagne, and others, and not give a care to how they looked tomorrow, they opted for the wine, the conversation, the laughter, and the good times with friends over sex. That is, until now, when the six women sat in Patricia’s living room sipping French wine and talking about nothing and laughing over everything. Now they all wanted to experience what their husbands were experiencing. Certainly what was good for the goose was even better for the gander, especially after when they had been so rejected and ignored.

Patricia, a Wellesley woman awash in old money and the matriarch of their small, select group, was tall, slender, and confident. In the way she walked and talked, she effused wealth. As if an advertisement to the silver mine she owned, her hair glistened with grey purposely left there to give her that wise oracle look. In her articulated enunciation, every time she spoke her perfect diction, she evoked the image of Diane Sawyer, when reporting the news and, because of her poised confidence, those in her small audience listened to whatever she said.

Especially proud of her long, sexy legs and shapely exercised thighs, always somehow making it appear accidental by slowly and seductively crossing and uncrossing her stems, she was expert in flashing her silk panties to admiring men and then acting offended and insulted, when one took her up on her open legged invitation. Never one to break and enter, yet she’d be the first inside with the alarm sounding, however, once the door was open. The CEO of the group, taking charge suited her and she did her job with clandestine mischievousness well.

“God knows where our husbands really are and what they are really doing,” said Patricia with an uncaring shrug, çanakkale escort before taking another soulful sip of her wine and closing her eyes to allow the delicate bouquet to take her to a better place.

Having been down this road before, she refused to waste her time and energy on things not in her control. What she controlled now was to get drunk, so drunk that she no longer cared who her husband was with and what he was doing. She opened her eyes and paused to examine the full bodied yet silky color of her wine and smell the fruity bouquet mixed with the essence of leather, tobacco, and oak, before taking another thoughtful sip of her Bordeaux that she still was savoring from dinner. She had more important things to ponder than thinking about her husband getting sucked and fucked by some sweet, young thing who only wanted him for his money. Keeping a stiff upper lip, she didn’t voice where she really thought her husband was and what she really thought he was doing. She didn’t have to think about it, she knew and didn’t really care.

The wine slowly coated her palate and lingered in her mouth in the way she wished her husband would lick her pussy and, as she inhaled and sucked in air to mix with the wine to lessen the bite of the alcohol, the liquor caressed her mouth in the way she needed her breasts caressed and her nipples sucked by her imagined lover. Experiencing the taste with a finish that lasted much longer than the last time she had intercourse with her husband, it was as if she had a mini fourth of July fireworks display exploding in her mouth. Only, this wine was so much better tasting than the last time her husband exploded the passion he no doubt had for someone else in her mouth. Who needed sex, when she had a well stocked wine cellar of this magical elixir?

Fashioning herself in the way of Delta Burke, when she played Suzanne Sugarbaker on Designing Women, Busty Joan, short and affable, laughed at most anything, especially at those doctors and patients who made passes at her, whenever she volunteered her time at the hospital. Obviously loving the attention, her sense of humor, quick wit, sense of fun, and laughter were her way of defusing a sexually volatile, albeit erotically tempting situation, no doubt. Yet, armed with sexual innuendoes and a heavy hand of teasing, she always fueled her sensual sexuality by wearing oh, so low cut, loose fitting tops that showed the abundance of her natural double D cup breasts with a long, deep, lingering line of cleavage.

She wore sheer, yet supportive custom made bras that showed the size of her nickel sized nipples, when excited. Directly in proportion to the size of her breasts, she loved the attention that men gave her because of her big tits. Always with a giggle, a jiggle, and a wiggle, she feigned surprise when, in a moment of out of their minds passion, male admirers found her alone in a hospital room or an elevator and lost control of their senses over the sensuality, sexuality, and pure adrenaline bursting eroticism of her.

Whether they were doctors, male nurses, patients, or orderlies, the horny men dared feel her big breasts, before sticking their horny hands down her blouse to grope what she so freely showed, while kissing her, trying to French kiss her, and force her to fondle their erections. Always she allowed them a kiss and a feel, until they tried to go beneath her blouse and lift up her bra. A transplanted southern belle finely filtered and slowly aged to perfection by generations of tobacco money, loving the horny, albeit desperate attention, if it wasn’t for her volunteer work and the attention she received from her flirting, she’d be bored to tears.

“John told me last week that they were leaving late Wednesday evening for a hunting trip in northern, Maine. Hoping to bag a moose or a deer, they thought I was dumb enough not to know that the hunting season doesn’t begin until the fall,” said Joan with a honey oozing accent that made men say, do, and promise her anything to fondle and suckle her big breasts.

“Hunting my ass,” said Kathy with a laugh. “The only game their hoping to bag is beaver.”

“Of course, with John not being an outdoorsmen, never even having even camped in the woods, and with room service being his preference, I didn’t believe for one minute that he was going hunting in the backwoods of Acadia National Forest. He doesn’t even own a shotgun and has never even fired a pistol. I was raised with guns and my Daddy taught me how to shoot, before I had breasts, which was when I was nine-years-old,” said Joan with a laugh.

“I agree with you, Kathy,” said Patricia. “The only hunting any of them have ever done is hunting for pussy,” she said with a laugh that made everyone laugh.

“I knew John was up to something,” said Joan.

Kathy, naturally blonde and genetically beautiful, the wild child of the group, always stretched the envelope of appropriate behavior with inappropriate antics. If she wasn’t so rich, she’d be working as a model or a spokesperson for a makeup or perfume line. To temporarily alleviate her boredom and make her feel alive, she’d shoplift items that she could well afford to buy, just for the dare and just for the fun of it. Aware of the silly games she enjoyed playing, the stores she shoplifted from just added the items to her monthly bill with a line item note that she forgot to pay.

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