The restaurant pulsed with a muted hum, a symphony of clinking glasses and murmured secrets weaving through the air, each sound a delicate thread in the tapestry of the evening, the soft clatter of silverware against porcelain a distant heartbeat beneath the velvet-draped tables.
I stood near the bar, my body leaning against its polished oak edge. Beneath my fingertips, the wood was warm and sticky from spilled wine, and the faint musk of aged leather from the stools curled up to tease my nostrils, mingling with the sharp tang of spilled bourbon that lingered in the grain.
My gaze drifted across the room, a slow, deliberate sweep under the dim chandelier light, its crystal prisms casting fractured golden beams across the faces below, waiting for a client’s signal that they needed service, the anticipation a slow burn beneath my skin, a coiled heat that tightened with every passing second.
A flicker of movement caught my attention, a ripple in the crowd’s calm across the expanse. It was a woman. Her panic struck me like a wave crashing against a silent shore—wide, frantic eyes locked onto her husband, who sat across from her, a silent plea carved into the soft, trembling lines of her face, her lips quivering with unspoken dread, the sheen of sweat glistening on her brow like morning dew.
Her husband frowned, his brows knitting into a quizzical arch, a shadow of irritation flickering in his dark eyes, his lips moving in a low murmur I couldn’t catch. She nodded, a grimace twisting her mouth as if her burden had seeped into his soul, a shared weight I could almost feel pressing against my chest.
He glanced at me, then she did, before looking around the room. I knew that look, the desperate sweep for bathroom signs that didn’t exist, a flare of trouble igniting in the dimness, the flicker of candlelight dancing across her features, highlighting the flush of her cheeks and the quick rise of her chest.
My pulse quickened, a slow, heavy throb beneath my skin, pulling me toward her like a moth drawn to the heart of a flame, my breath catching in the thick, wine-scented air, the aroma wrapping around me like a lover’s embrace.
I nodded and smiled confidently.
“Are you okay, ma’am?”
“Where is the bathroom, please?”
Damn.
Her voice trembled, a fragile thread over the hum of conversation. Her gaze darted to mine with an urgency that prickled the back of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine, the sensation curling into my core. The air around her carried a faint trace of her perfume—jasmine laced with the nervous sweat beading at her temples—mingling with the restaurant’s rich bouquet of Cabernet, roasted garlic, and the earthy undertone of truffle oil, a heady mix that stirred something deep within me, a hunger I fought to suppress.
Her dress clung to her hips, the fabric shifting with each restless movement, a silent invitation I couldn’t ignore. I pointed to the restaurant corner.
“It’s easier if I take you to them.”
“Let’s go quickly… I’m bursting.”
“Okay… follow me. If you need to stop, just whisper.”
“Thank you.”
I turned and led her toward our restaurant’s hidden flaw, the faint scuff of my shoes against the floor a rhythm to her hurried steps. The ladies’ toilets lurked downstairs, a descent into shadow that jolted her as I pushed open the heavy basement door. Its rusted hinges groaned with a low, mournful creak that reverberated off the damp stone walls, the sound lingering like a lover’s sigh, the cold metal biting into her palm.
Her surprise marked her as a newcomer—perhaps she and her friend were unacquainted with this quirky descent to our temporary bathrooms—her hand hovering on the iron rail, fingers trembling like leaves caught in a breeze, one toe testing the first step while her heel lagged behind, a dancer caught mid-pirouette, her balance teetering on the edge of trust, the hem of her dress brushing the step with a whisper.
Fear flickered in her hazel eyes, a storm of doubt as she assessed me, wondering if I was some shadowed deviant lurking in the gloom. My presence was a question mark in the flickering torchlight, the faint outline of my silhouette against the wall a canvas for her imagination. I was, in my own way, a creature of desire, my hunger a quiet beast tamed only by consent—never by force—a line etched deep in my soul, a boundary I’d guard with every breath, though the temptation to cross it gnawed at me in the dark.
“Are you okay, ma’am?”
“We’re going into the basement?”
“I know, it’s crazy. The toilets upstairs are being renovated—until then, it’s downstairs or nothing. I’m very sorry.”
“It’s a bit dingy down there.”
“It’s all we have… sorry.”
“Will you come too?”
“Of course.”
She shook her head, a silent rebuke that hung heavy in the air, the weight of Gustaf’s tightfisted refusal to fund repairs months ago pressing down on us both, a tangible oppression in the damp chill that seeped into my bones.
Ours was the best wine lounge in town, with its velvet curtains and polished marble spoiled by a dank bathroom retreat, even if it was temporary. The opulence upstairs was a cruel contrast to the mold-scented shadows below, with the memory of chandelier light fading with each step.
Gustaf hoarded his coins like a miser, waiting for a deal to suit his stingy heart, his greed a silent partner in our descent, a shadow that loomed over every cracked stone and trip hazard. The air downstairs grew thicker, a damp chill seeping into my bones. The scent of mold and old wine barrels clung to the rough stone, a primal aroma that stirred memories of hidden places and forbidden touches. The dampness kissed my skin like a lover’s breath.
She teetered on her six-inch heels, and I gripped her arm, steadying her.
“Oh, Christ!”
“Don’t worry. I’m here.”
“I’m sorry… I am such a mess.”
“You need to pee badly… It’s our fault for not getting the bathrooms upgraded months ago and quickly.”
“Thank you.”
Darkness suddenly crashed over us, the street’s roadworks snipping the power again, a blackout that thickened the air with tension and the faint tang of burnt wiring, a sudden void amplifying the rustle of her dress and the quickened beat of her breath, the sound of my own heartbeat a drum in my ears.
Her trust in me teetered, a fragile thread stretched thin. I was a stranger guiding her into this unfamiliar abyss, where the damp stone walls seemed to close in, their cold breath brushing my skin like a lover’s teasing caress, the darkness wrapping us in an intimate cocoon.
I placed a hand on her forearm, giving a gentle squeeze to anchor her. My smile remained steady despite the plunge into shadow, the warmth of her pulse fluttering beneath my fingers like a trapped bird. Her skin was soft and yielding under my touch, a contrast to the chill that seeped through my veins. A flicker of guilt stirred within me, and I questioned myself — had I lured her here with my own desire, a silent architect of this moment?
“Don’t worry. It’ll take ten minutes for them to reactivate the power. We can wait here.”
“I don’t have ten minutes.”
“Oh dear.”
“I feel a few dribbles already. My panties are soaked.”
Her voice cracked and her legs shifted as if her bladder waged a war, a dance of discomfort I could almost feel radiating from her tense frame, the strain etching lines of desperation into her face, her breath a ragged plea in the dark.
The darkness amplified her urgency, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The rustle of her dress was a soft plea that echoed off the walls, fabric brushing her thighs with a whisper of silk, the sound a siren call to my senses.
I flicked my phone’s torch to life, its beam slicing the dark like a lifeline. It cast long shadows that danced across the walls, the light catching the glint of moisture in her eyes and the look of desperation baked into her face —a mask of vulnerability that tugged at my heart.
My breath hitched—had I planned this blackout, my fingers trembling on the switch upstairs, a secret I buried beneath my smile?
“I have a torch. You can borrow it, and I’ll wait outside the cubicle.”
“I need both hands—sorry. Could you please help—?”
“Okay, I’ll come inside and hold the torch, looking away.”
“I don’t care where you look. I’m busting to pee, and I’m having my period.”
“Oh, fuck.”
Her bluntness hit me like a slap in the face, raw honesty cutting through the damp air, stirring a mix of shock and reluctant admiration in my chest, a heat rising to flush my cheeks, my mind reeling with the intimacy of her confession.
I nodded, steeling myself against the intimacy of her need, the torchlight trembling slightly in my grip, its glow illuminating the flush spreading across her neck, the pulse beating visibly beneath her skin. The cubicle door groaned open, its hinges protesting with a sound like a lover’s reluctant parting, and she shed her pants and underwear with a grace born of desperation, the fabric whispering against her skin like a lover’s caress, the scent of her arousal mingling with the basement’s earthy dampness, a fragrance that stirred a forbidden ache within me.
Seated, she glanced up and smiled shyly, her legs parting wide, fingers probing between them, a vulnerability that tugged at my heart, the faint musk of her desire a siren call in the shadowed space, the dampness glistening on her thighs like a secret invitation.
When she looked at me with panic writ large, I gasped because I knew what was coming, a premonition that tightened my chest.
“Strings gone.”
“Fuck! Are you sure?”
“It’s definitely not there.”
Those words stopped my breath, my hands turning icy, my heart pounding like a drum in a storm, the sound echoing in my ears —a thunderous pulse that drowned the distant hum of the restaurant above, my mind racing with the implications of her lie. I froze, a novice to this raw exposure, her tearful gaze piercing me, begging for salvation, the torchlight casting her face in a golden halo of desperation, her lips trembling with unshed tears, a vulnerability that mirrored my own buried shame.
This had never crossed my path before, a moment teetering on the edge of chaos, the damp air thick with the weight of her need and my own rising curiosity, a guilt gnawing at me—I asked myself over and over: had I orchestrated this, my fingers on the switch a deliberate sin?
She pleaded, utter desperation filling her expression, her voice a broken whisper.
“Help me, please!”
“Umm, oh god… I err. Well, ugh.”
“Please, help me. I can’t go poking around inside myself.”
“You want me to touch you… down there.”
I nodded between her legs, terror filling me, a cold sweat breaking out on my brow, my heart a traitor pounding with both fear and fascination.
“Yes… fuck, yes, please help.”
Tears brimmed in her eyes, glistening like dew in the torchlight, a crystalline shimmer that caught my breath, and I knelt, a hand on her knee, my fingers brushing her labia—swollen, sticky, a secret unfolding in the flickering glow, the warmth of her skin searing into my fingertips.
I searched gently, averting my gaze, her wetness a surprise that stirred a flicker of desire deep within me, the texture of her flesh, soft and yielding, sending a shiver up my arm, her warm slick coating my fingers like a lover’s unspoken invitation, my own breath hitching with the weight of my intrusion. A memory flashed—hands on a switch, a deliberate blackout—my guilt a shadow in the light.
She giggled, and I stared accusingly at her, my eyes narrowing, a flush of anger mixing with my arousal.
“Your pussy is very sticky. Are you turned on?”
“I do like being fingered by other girls, sorry.”
“I thought that was your husband upstairs.”
“It is; I still prefer girls fingering me, though.”
“Oh. Does he mind you cheating?”
“It’s not cheating when my husband joins in.”
“Do you allow other women to fuck him?”
“Only if you want to fuck him.”
“And if I do?”
“My husband told me to ask if you would fuck him while I watch the two of you.”
Her confession hung like a velvet curtain, desire threading through the damp air, her voice a soft caress that sent a shiver down my spine, the words wrapping around me like a silken promise, her husband’s shadow looming larger in my mind, his demand for her to ask a silent command I could feel.
I fingered her sensually, a pretense of tampon-hunting, her pussy lips swelling against my touch, her hole trembling from recent love, the slickness coating my fingers like a forbidden promise, the warmth a stark contrast to the basement’s chill.
“Did your husband fuck you before coming here?”
“Yes… Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing all the time.”
“I do that far too often.”
“I can smell your husband’s cum.”
“Feed me.”
I circled inside her hole, enjoying her gasps and moans, the sound a melody that filled the space, then squeezed her solid, creamy clitoris, her playful smirk breaking free as the torchlight danced on the walls, illuminating the flush creeping up her neck, her breath hitching with every gentle press, my own desire a mirror to her pleasure.
“You aren’t having your period, are you?”
“No… sorry. I lied to get you down here.”
“I’d ask if you’re hitting on me, but with two fingers inside your pussy, it’s pointless.”
“Would you like me to be hitting on you?”
“Yes.”
“Then I am hitting on you.”
“Still want to lick my fingers?”
“God yes… please.”
I retrieved my fingers and fed her each one, enjoying how tightly she clenched her lips around each before licking and sucking her husband’s semen and her sticky nectar.
Her palm pressed against my shoulder, a whimper escaping as I returned to the job at hand and hooked my fingers inside her cunt, rubbing her G-spot, the rough patch yielding under my touch, a hidden treasure that pulsed with her arousal, my own pulse racing with the realization of her plan.
I reached down with my spare hand and teased her clitoris on the end of my fingertip, rubbing it around, her face lighting with joy, a dance of seduction igniting between us, her vulnerability a mirror to my own hidden wants, the air thickening with the scent of her desire. She was beautiful, her blonde hair catching the torchlight, strands clinging to her damp forehead, her husband’s presence upstairs a silent specter in my mind, his dominance a weight I could almost taste, my guilt a whisper—had I been the prey all along?
“What do you have in mind… uh…?”
“Cathy.”
“Why did you hit on me, Cathy?”
“I want to watch you fuck my husband.”
“You’re a cuckquean?”
“Yes. Kind of… sorry.”
“Why do you apologize so much?”
“I’m ashamed. I chose you for him, but he insisted I ask.”
“Okay… I’ll treat him well, and you can watch or join in, and we can fuck him together.”
“I like watching my husband fuck other women. I can’t explain it.”
“But you said you like girls too.”
“That’s up to you.”
“Right… so if I want you to clean my pussy after your husband creampies me?”
“Yes, please. I would love to.”
I slid my fingers back inside her tight cunt, her smile radiant, knees spreading wider, her hips rolling forward for deeper penetration, the motion a silent plea that echoed in the damp confines, the wet glide a testament to her need, the sound of her arousal a symphony in the stillness.
Her tightness gripped me, a delicious challenge, her vulnerability stirring my heart amidst the basement’s chill, the air thick with the scent of her arousal and my rising heat — a heady mix that made my pulse race, my desire a tangled knot of guilt and want.
“You’re perfectly lubricated, Cathy.”
“Thank you.”
“And your pussy is very tight. I can feel you squeezing back.”
“Do you like it?”
“I like you, and yes, I enjoy fingering you.”
“I’m allowed to fuck my husband’s lovers if they like.”
“I like. After I fuck him… I’ll fuck you.”
“Thank you.”
Cathy pulled me close, her lips brushing against mine. A kiss ignited my soul with a spark of electricity that coursed through my veins. The taste of her lips was a heady mix of wine and want, her breath warm against my skin, a contrast to the cold stone at my back.
Her orgasm crashed, and I grinned, kissing her deeply, our tongues entwining in a dance of desire, the heat of her mouth a flame that consumed me, my arousal a secret I could no longer deny.
I pushed a three-finger wedge inside her pulsating, tight cunt, fucking her hard, her head tossing, blonde hair swirling like a storm, moans turning wild and unrestrained, the sound a private confession that echoed off the stone walls, the dampness amplifying every cry.
Her body shuddered, warmth flooding my hand, a symphony of pleasure that reverberated through the damp space, the slickness coating my skin like a lover’s mark, my fingers sticky with her essence.
“Argh! F-f-fu-”
“Shh, or everyone will want the same service.”
Cathy chuckled, biting her lip, descending into bliss. The flush on her cheeks was a testament to her release, the dampness of her skin glistening in the torchlight, her breath a soft pant against my cheek.
The lights flickered on, a sudden flood of illumination casting her in a golden glow, and she startled, a gasp escaping her lips, but I pressed her clitoris, stroking steadily, the warmth of her skin a beacon in the newfound light, the air electric with our shared heat, my own heart pounding with the thrill of her surrender.
I smiled when she stared desperately at me, begging for more, her eyes wide with a hunger that mirrored my own.
“Let’s finish this, honey.”
“Then will you fuck my husband?”
“Yes… of course.”
“At my home… in our bed?”
“Yes.”
“Are you working tomorrow?”
“I’m off all weekend.”
“Can you stay with us?”
“Damn right.”
Her thighs slid on the seat, forcing my fingers deeper inside her tight, slick hole, the wet glide a testament to her need, the sound of her groans a melody that filled the space, building until another orgasm ripped through her, violent and wet, a torrent that soaked the air with her release, the scent of her arousal a heady perfume.
She tensed, screaming, her voice a raw cry that bounced off the walls, then slumped against me, squirting her cum all over my hand, a mess of ecstasy that drenched my skin, the warmth a stark contrast to the basement’s chill, the liquid heat a testament to her abandon, my arousal a fire stoked by her vulnerability.
I held her, fucking her cunt with my wedge, a spare fingertip rubbing her solid, slick pearl, arousal burning through me like a wildfire, my desire a mirror to her ecstasy, the scent of her release mingling with the damp stone, my guilt a shadow—had I been complicit in this trap?
When she begged me to stop finger fucking her, her voice broken, I retrieved and licked my fingers, her taste lingering—a sweet, musky blend that coated my tongue, a flavor that lingered like a secret, a taste of sin and surrender. As she dressed, the rustle of fabric was a soft counterpoint to her grin, the sound a gentle wave in the stillness, brushing her thighs with a whisper.
Her relief mirrored my hunger, a bond forged in this shadowed space, the air thick with the promise of what lay ahead, my heart joyous with the weight of my role.
“Will you fuck my husband?”
“I’ll do him all weekend, Cathy, and you can watch him cum inside me every time, then eat it out.”
“Oh god, thank you.”
The basement air thickened with our shared secret, the damp stone walls holding our breaths. The scent of her release mingled with the earthy dampness, a heady aroma that wrapped around us like a lover’s embrace, the cold stone a contrast to the heat of our bodies.
If you want to read more stories from Gusta’s Wine Bar, please check out:
Even under the circumstances she sensed the poor girl's trama might be slightly more projected than real. What wasn't projected was the warmth the author captured right along with the terrible urgency to pee. The more she talked about it the more it didn't seem like the urgency was the key point and that was only further exaggerated when she began fingering around in the other girls pussy. When the truth was finally revealed all parties were in the same page. Promised to be a good weekend for the cuckquean as well as her mark and the lucky husband. Good hot story, thank you Kate.
Lucky husband 😁