Visit to Burgholzhausen

American readers may be inclined to think the following is a work of fiction, and if my wife ever reads it, I hope that she does, too.

*

Having landed in Frankfurt for a business meeting but having some hours to kill, I drove my rental car up the A5 north and east around the city to the nearby village of Burgholzhausen. At the edge of the village, between an apple orchard and bright yellow rapeseed fields, in a thicket of woods providing decent privacy, was the parking lot of my destination. On arrival, I parked near one of the brick paths that weave through a crowd of classical nude statues to the front door of the club.

“Waren Sie schon mal bei uns?” asked the dark-haired, jaded but friendly woman at the reception desk. She was attractive enough to make one wonder whether she had ever worked as the younger women inside were working now.

“Jawohl,” I answered. I have indeed been here before. No need to explain to me how the place works or where everything is. I handed her the €65 cover charge and extended my left arm to receive a colored plastic wristband.

She handed me a numbered key and a big yellow bath towel. “Viel Spass.”

“Danke.” I smiled. A lot of fun was just what I expected to have.

Going through the doorway, I turned right and stashed my wallet in the lockbox on the wall corresponding to the key I had been given. I then continued down a short hall and a long flight of stairs to the men’s locker room.

“There’s some freaky shit goin’ on around here!” exclaimed a boisterous fellow to his companions as they stood by their lockers. Young and fit, they did not match the profile of a typical FKK club patron. Without question, they were American soldiers who had made the 45 minute drive from the base in Wiesbaden to check the club out, and it had blown their minds.

Ignoring them, I proceeded to the far side of the locker room, to the racks of sanitized rubber sandals, and picked a pair in my size. Then I found my locker, which bore the same number and opened with the same key as the lockbox above. I stripped, put the towel over my shoulders, locked up all my things, and headed to the showers.

Scrubbing myself under the slowly warming stream of water, I took care to thoroughly clean my genitalia with the cheap liquid soap on hand. An as-yet-unidentified woman would presently be putting my privates in her mouth and I owed her the human decency to wash them first.

After I dried myself and wrapped the towel about my waist, I headed back upstairs to the bar. Only non-alcoholic drinks flowed freely here, which suited me just fine. I was here to get laid, not buzzed.

“Wasser, bitte,” I said to the barmaid, who was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt.

“Mit Sprüdel?”

“Stilles,” I answered. Water with gas tends to give me gas. Go figure.

I had barely begun to drink my water when I felt a soft hand on my shoulder and heard soft words in my ear: “Möchtest du Gesellschaft?”

Even without seeing the speaker, I knew how to respond to this, the most hackneyed club pickup line. The least attractive women in an FKK club always swarm around a newcomer, hoping to snag him before he realizes that he has other, better choices. During my first few club visits, I, too, made the newbie mistake of going with the first woman who approached me. This time, I turned my head, confirmed my suspicions with a glance, and gave her the equally hackneyed club brush-off: “Vielleicht später, Schatz.”

With accustomed disappointment, she turned and continued to hunt the club for other prey. Women pay the same cover charge as men in Germany’s FKK clubs and take home whatever the men may give them. Some earn healthy five figures, while others struggle to pay the cover charge, their cab fare, and other occupational expenses like condoms and lube. It is not easy being an independent contractor in a service industry, but it can be rewarding — especially if you like your work.

Along the bar, men sat and drank and talked about work, about sports, about life in general. Sometimes they just watched soccer on the big TV screen hanging grup escort on the wall. Not so different from any other pub around the world, except that here the men wore nothing but a towel around their waists, and beautiful naked women would periodically come by and hit on them.

The next woman to hit on me was Michelle, a vivacious young lady from Basel, Switzerland. I had gotten to know her in the biblical sense on an earlier visit, and she remembered me. I remembered her as well: her long curly hair, her hourglass figure, her intelligence and sense of playfulness, and her incredible oral skills.

This time, she tried to tempt me into a threesome with her equally playful friend, who was touching me and teasing me and cajoling me to come with them and have some fun. But her friend was not quite my type, so I politely declined.

Ordinarily, though, I like threesomes in a club. They seem to work out well for all parties involved. Popular culture maintains that women prize men with sexual stamina, but the opposite seems to be true for women who have sex professionally. Like doctors subject to health care cost controls, many seem to prefer each visit to be as short as possible, so that they can collect their fee and move on to the next. Getting plowed for a solid half hour is the last thing they want. With a threesome, my prick can get the extended attention it prefers without either woman getting too irritated.

After her friend wandered off, Michelle stayed to chat further. She could tell I was tempted to book her again, but I held firm and informed her that I wanted to give another woman a try today. She understood perfectly. If guys like me were content to screw the same woman time after time, we would stay home with our wives. She made me promise, though, to come and find her if the woman I chose wasn’t good enough. She then left me to ponder my other options.

The splendid thing about the bigger FKK clubs is the broad menu of choices they provide: from Africans to Asians to the girl next door. I imagine it resembles what young Muslim men reportedly expect when they press the detonators for their explosive-filled vests. Some ten to twenty nubile women mill about, wearing nothing but high-heeled shoes, and each one is willing and eager to please.

My perch at the bar was a prime location for perusing the dishes on that day’s menu: it was only two steps away from the lockboxes to which each couple would go after emerging from one of the bedrooms. The guy would pull out his wallet and hand her the agreed-upon fee: the club standard €50 per half-hour of sucking and fucking, plus separately negotiated surcharges for extras like anal or a money shot on her tits. She would thank him with a peck on the cheek. Then they would say farewell and part. For a careful, discreet observer, the smile on his face at this point often served as a good indicator of the quality of her service.

Three or four such women whom I observed while I sat at the bar were rather tasty looking blondes (or with highlights nearly so) — truly beautiful women who would have ignored me completely if we were to pass on the street. I resolved to bed one of them.

From experience, I knew that working women invariably took an after-sex break for at least fifteen minutes, to shower, fix their makeup, and do whatever else women may do to make themselves “fresh”. So I asked the barmaid, “Was gibt’s zum Essen?”

Gesturing to the buffet behind her, she said, “Kartoffeln, Schweinebraten, Reis, und Hähnchenbrust.”

The international reputation of German food is well deserved. I passed on the potatoes and pork, opting instead for the rice and chicken.

I took my plate through a labyrinth of passages to the club’s well-lit back hall where I knew I could find a place to eat in relative peace at one of its six tables. On the walls were pornographic frescos of maidens being ravaged by men and gods of classical antiquity. Below the dining area, a towel-clad fellow took a nap in a lounge chair by the big whirlpool, in which two corpulent nude iranlı escort men carried on an animated conversation.

I turned my attention instead to the nearby big screen TV, which was tuned as usual to Germany’s business news channel. Between bites, I tried to follow the inane chatter about how the DAX had performed this morning and what the experts predicted for the afternoon. As if they even had a clue.

The food didn’t taste particularly good, but it was free and I knew I would need the energy soon. When I was finished, I left the plate to be cleaned up by the uniformed, middle-aged maid who steadfastly avoided looking anyone in the eye, and made my way back to the bar. I needed a drink of something flavorful to wash away the buffet’s aftertaste.

A glass of sparkling apple juice in hand, I meandered over to the large, dimly lit room past the bar. In the middle was a small circular stage with a pole. In all my visits, I had never seen anyone dance there; apparently it is used only during the special events sometimes announced on the club’s website.

Lining the walls of this room were small, red leather sofas, some occupied by bored, naked women who were smoking, chatting, and waiting for someone to fuck them. Naturally, they all stared at me, hoping I would return their gaze. The bolder ones called out to me with crude pick-up lines. Perhaps this is how a pretty girl feels when she enters a pub full of men.

Halfway across the room, I found what I was looking for: two of the blond beauties I had spotted earlier were seated together and engaged in friendly conversation. What luck. I smiled at them and approached.

The taller one mistakenly thought my smile was directed only at her friend and got up to clear my path. “Moment mal,” I said quickly. “Du auch.”

She smiled a pretty smile, pleasantly surprised to hear that she, too, was invited to my private party. We both sat down, me snugly between them, and got all acquainted.

The shorter one (maybe 5′ 7″), pale and thin, was named Magda. The taller one (maybe 5′ 10″), tanned and curvy, was named Alicja. Both were from Poland and spoke adequate German. Alicja thought perhaps she had done a number with me before, but her angelic face and heavenly body were unfamiliar to me.

As soon as Magda’s cigarette was finished, I let them lead me past the bar and through two small hallways to a room big enough for the three of us. As we went in, Alicja turned the hanging sign on the door from a green “Frei” to a red “Besetzt,” so that others would know not to enter.

The room was typical for this club. Most of it was taken up by a raised tile platform, on which rested a firm mattress covered by a reasonably clean fitted sheet and a few throw pillows. The walls were mostly mirrored tile.

The girls spread out two big yellow bath towels onto the bed, to absorb any bodily fluids that might otherwise drip or splatter, and I did likewise. Then, after checking my watch, I lay back and let the fun begin.

To start things off, Magda crouched to my right on the bed and began to kiss me.

I should note that some women in these clubs decline categorically to kiss the men they fuck, while others make the decision on a case-by-case basis. For their part, some men try to assess whether a woman is a kisser before they decide to go to a room with her, and some even insist on including kissing as part of the deal in their pre-sex negotiations. Getting plenty of genuine, meaningful kisses from my wife at home, I can take it or leave it myself.

Magda’s kisses were a prime example. While I appreciated the spirit with which they were given, it was like being exposed to second-hand smoke in liquid form when she slipped me her tongue.

What I don’t get at home, on the other hand, is oral sex. My wife drew this line over ten years ago, making a somewhat lame excuse about TMJ, but I married her anyways because of her other fine qualities. Had she been more orally receptive, I might never have found my way to an FKK club. Nothing feels so wonderful as keçiören escort fellatio from a beautiful woman (unless, of course, she is wholly incompetent).

Alicja, to my delight, was more than competent. Her eager lips gently tugged the sagging skin of my lazy member until it stiffened fully in her mouth. Then her lips and tongue moved softly back and forth, up and down, over its sensitive surface. While Magda assaulted my mouth with her tobacco-laced tongue, Alicja gave me five full minutes of absolute bliss.

Only with some reluctance, then, did I agree to Magda’s suggestion that they switch. Fortunately, her oral skills were equal to Alicja’s. I felt not even a hint of teeth, just soft lips and rough tongue. Another five minutes of bliss ensued.

Feeling obliged to do something, Alicja gave me a quick kiss — with her lips clamped tight like a vice. Then she dangled her big rubbery boobs in my face and let me play with them as I willed. Her pussy was also within reach, and my gently probing fingers found it surprisingly tight and moist.

Magda eventually broke off and asked, “Willst du mich ficken?”

I was tempted to say, no, actually, I don’t want to fuck you just yet; please keep doing what you’re doing for another hour or so. But I had not withdrawn enough Euros from the airport cash machine to cover that sort of expense. “OK.”

She put a condom on my cock and mounted me.

Now, when my wife is on top and seeking her own pleasure, she sometimes flexes her hips and bends my shaft in a way that nature never intended. Some professional women similarly get carried away and hop so vigorously on me that I fear my dick will slip out and get painfully — perhaps even permanently — crimped.

But Magda did it just right: she kept up a slow, steady, straight motion for as long as her thighs could last.

Then she dismounted and assumed the underdog position. I shifted myself around, slid my cock carefully into her pussy crack, and lightly took hold of her thin thighs. The sight of my shaft disappearing under her little round buns was almost as good as it felt.

Her youthful body was mine now. Slow or fast, gentle or hard, shallow or deep, the decision was up to me. I settled into a pace that felt good to me. Perhaps she enjoyed it. She made some mewing noises as if she did. But with a professional, a man has the luxury not to care.

As I pumped away at Magda, enjoying the feel of her snug pussy, I almost forgot Alicja. When I did turn my head in her direction, she smiled at me and ostentatiously masturbated. I stifled a laugh at her game but obviously fake efforts. As with all other women I have ever seen in an FKK club, her pubic hair had been completely shaven away, to give guys like me an unobstructed view of her cunt.

Time to give her a try, I thought. I disengaged from Magda and let her remove the condom with a paper towel, a roll of which is always in arm’s reach in these rooms. Alicja then put her own condom on me and asked, “Welche Stellung?”

“Missionarisch,” I answered, so that I might look into her beautiful dark eyes as I humped her.

But Alicja kept closing her eyes, perhaps to dream that I was Brad Pitt or the Polish equivalent. So, after a few minutes of breathless rutting, I rearranged us into the doggie position. The fucking resumed.

Without warning, perhaps sensing I was close, Magda threw her arms around my shoulders, pressed her lips against mine, and thrust her tongue inside my mouth, again and again, matching me in aggression, violating me just as I was violating her friend, with the same force and rapid speed and desperate intensity.

The stereo effect was more than I could take. I succumbed, and filled the rubber receptacle with all I had to give.

Alicja carefully removed it with a fresh paper towel, and we lay there for some moments, waiting for me to catch my breath and for my heart rate to subside. I checked my watch to make sure that I did not inadvertently linger past the 30-minute mark. Most women in FKK clubs do not watch the clock so closely, but those who do can be surprisingly expensive.

To make conversation, Alicja mentioned that she was looking forward to her 22nd birthday the following week, whereas Magda was less happy about her distantly approaching 24th. As a man in his forties, I could only smile.

Back at the lockboxes, I handed them each a fifty and kissed them both goodbye.

* * *