Prologue — hotel suite, now, 7:22 pm
The stockings aren’t going to work. I shift my pose and glance at the full-length mirror. I do love how they look on me. The contrast of the sheer black material against my milky white thighs is super sexy. But I really want to wear my strappy sandals tonight. Unfortunately, I don’t think open-toed heels are a good look with black stockings. I quickly peel them off.
“Marc, I’m not going to go with the thigh-highs.”
He’s walking out of the bathroom, drying his hair. “Why? I think they look great on you.”
“I want to wear my new strappy heels. I just had a pedicure at the spa downstairs and my toes look so pretty. See?” I lift my leg and wiggle my toes at him.
“Wow… is that lavender? I likeee.”
I’m at the closet searching through the clothes I brought with me. I settle on a black mini-skirt with a ridiculously long thigh slit and a sleeveless purple blouse that shows some cleavage. Not that I have much!
I like the skirt because it’s tight and it accentuates my shapely booty. The close fit also makes the slit stay perpetually open which is good since I think my muscular thighs look pretty awesome. So many squats.
“What do you think?”
Marc has finished dressing and looks over. “Fuck, babes! That’s hot… although I still think the stockings would have looked good. But hey, this is your night! You should be comfortable.”
“It’s NOT just my night, mmmhh?”
“Well, I guess…” He’s so cute when he thinks I’m not onto him.
I’m doing inventory in the mirror.
Curly blonde hair courtesy of the hotel curling iron… check.
Ruby red lipstick… check.
Blue eye shadow to match my eyes… check.
Thick black eyeliner and extra long fake lashes… check.
Oh, and a banging mom bod thanks to many hours at the gym and despite having four kids and enjoying many years of suburban backyard barbecues.
All in all, I don’t think I’ve looked so glam since our second honeymoon in Cabo.
I look at my watch. 7:35 pm.
“Should we go down?” I ask.
“We’re not meeting him until 8. You want to get a drink before?”
I’m thinking I could use a drink. Or twelve? “Sure.”
He stops at the door and turns around. “Hey what panties are you wearing?”
I smile.
“Holy shit! Really?” His face lights up.
I’m a little disappointed though. I had wanted to surprise him with that particular detail.
I glance at the small, shiny, jeweled object sitting on top of the dresser as we pass by. I point at it. “Marc, should I…?”
He shrugs. “Up to you babes.”
I consider it but then put the butt plug into the top drawer underneath all the panties that I’m NOT wearing.
We walk out the door.
Hotel bar, now, 7:54 pm
I run my manicured index finger lightly along the rim of the martini glass. Marc is gazing like a hawk at the entrance to the bar. I have no idea what I should be looking for so I settle into my thoughts. Like… what am I doing here? And… are the kids alright? And… damn but my french-tipped fingernails are pretty! But also… what the hell possessed me to wear this skirt with no panties? I can’t cross my legs so I’m just sitting here with my heels firmly on the ground and my knees clamped together.
“Love, should we call the twins real quick?” I ask, since they had just crossed my mind.
Marc doesn’t turn away from his death stare at the entrance. “I’m sure they’re fine babes.”
“But we’ve never left them with a babysitter overnight before.”
“Yeah, in seven long years. It’s about time, don’t you think?” He spares a quick glance at me. He looks anxious. I realize that I’m not. Should I be?
Bedroom, seven years ago
We were lying in bed. Marc had his head propped on his hand. “Do I still make you happy?”
I looked at him with what must have been a blank stare.
“You know…” he added. “Sexually?”
He had just fucked me three ways to Sunday after making me cum twice with his tongue and fingers. Who does that after 20 years of marriage?
It was our first time having sex since the twins were born. Which is what you get, apparently, when you wait until you’re 38 to have what you think will be your third and final child.
“Um… YEAH!” I said. And I meant it.
“But I’m the only one you’ve ever been with. And we’ve been married a long time.”
This was true. Marc took my virginity during my last year of high school… while he was my AP World History teacher and 10 years my senior. Hey, what can I say? I had overprotective parents and a long-repressed rebellious streak. Which, by the way, ended when my introduction to sex got me pregnant with our first son.
Oops.
“Honey, you’re all I need,” I assured him, believing at the time it was true. “You’re all I’ve ever needed.”
As I said that, I quickly brushed all thoughts of Gerald, my personal trainer, Becca, the cute barista at the coffee shop, and our mailman, Pete, out of my head. Oh, and the two bald-headed hunks from the “Fast and Furious” movies. Hey I was allowed my fantasies! But it didn’t mean I wasn’t happy.
I had a sudden thought. “How about you?”
Marc smiled. “Babes, I never want to be with another woman. Ever.” He paused. “But then I had a long run before I met you.”
“Which ended quite abruptly when you knocked me up!”
“That wasn’t the reason I married you.”
“Oh really?”
“Nope, it was your dad’s shotgun to my head,” he said with a grin.
I chuckled at the long-running joke. My father is and always has been a pacifist.
Hotel bar, now, 7:57 pm
Using a strategically placed hand, I’ve finally figured out a way to cross my legs without the unwashed masses catching a glimpse of my panty-free pussy. I’m now letting my strappy sandal hang precariously on the toes of my crossed leg. I think that’s way more sexy than a splayed out cunt on a wooden bar chair.
I try to make small talk. “He’ll probably be late.”
“No, I don’t think he will be,” Marc says. “He doesn’t seem the type. He’s very together.”
“Really? So what does he look like?”
Marc finally dislodges his gaze from the bar entrance for more than a beat and looks directly at me. I coyly sip on my martini and bat my fake eyelashes at him.
“I thought you said you wanted to be surprised!”
This was also true. I hadn’t been able to decide on any of the online candidates. It had gotten to be a barrier to actually going through with our crazy plan. And since I really wanted to go through with it, I thought it would be fun to put the decision in the hands of my husband. After all, there were examples he could draw on…
Kitchen, three years ago
It’s true that plumbers’ exposed butt cracks are a cliche but in the case of Dario, it was a very appealing cliche.
As my husband managed our daughter’s “Sweet 16” birthday party in the backyard, I was in the kitchen watching over Dario. You know… To make sure he was doing a good job fixing the pipe that had suddenly burst underneath the kitchen sink.
His butt crack playfully peeked out from a pair of jeans that were wrapped around his incredibly muscular buttocks. Those Levi’s were way too tight for typical plumbers’ work. I was particularly enchanted by the small line of delicate, dark hair right at the end of his crack.
“Can I help you, miss?”
Apparently, Dario had sensed me hovering over him. “I just wanted to know if you needed anything. A glass of water? A tool? An extra hand?”
I’m pretty sure I managed to sound innocent.
“Nope,” he said getting up and flashing the six million watt Latin smile that had made me wet when he first walked in. “I’m all finished. It’s fixed.”
Well, darn!
“Are there any other services you’d be interested in, miss?” I could have sworn he was flexing his impressive pecs underneath his tank top as he said that.
“Well if I wasn’t married, with four kids, and on the wrong side of 40, there would definitely be some services I’d be interested in.”
Whoa! Where the fuck did that come from?
Dario picked up his tool chest and headed for the front door as if I hadn’t just intimated that I wanted him to service my own pipes. But then he stopped as he came up next to me and nonchalantly said, “Would you like to feel what you were looking at, miss?”
I don’t know if it was his overpowering confidence, the delicious musk emanating from his taut body, or the way he kept calling me “Miss,” but suddenly I found my hand grabbing one of his buttocks and then I was running a middle finger slowly along the cleft between them.
Without skipping a beat, he smiled, handed me the receipt, and walked out the door.
Gasping, I turned around and there was Marc, grinning at the open window above the sink.
“I heard. I saw… Caught ya!”
Hotel bar, 7:58 pm
The martini glass is empty. I consider asking Marc to order another but instead I ask, “How long were you thinking about it?”
“About what?”
I don’t say anything until he turns around.
“Oh, this!” He shrugs. “I don’t know… a couple of years. I wasn’t sure how you would react.”
Out to lunch with a friend, one year ago
Cynthia was droning on about gardening as I picked at my salad. I love Cyn — especially her impressive boobs which make me both envious and lustful — but gardening is boring… and icky. The cheery chirping sound of a text message from Marc was a blessed relief.
“Hang on Cynthia. Marc is texting me.”
Marc: Question…
Me: Shoot!
Marc: Ever heard of the phrase hotwife?
Me: Isn’t that a wife who’s hot? Like me? ::smiling face::
Marc: Yeah you’re hot but noooo…..
At this point I could feel Cynthia’s judginess washing over me. She hadn’t finished her soliloquy on the joys of desert cacti.
Me: I wanna know! But can you tell me tonight? I’m at lunch with C.
Marc: Of course ::winking face::
Hotel bar, now, 7:59 pm
A beautiful black man comes into the bar and starts to approach our table. He’s dressed in casual white slacks and a yellow dress shirt. How bold! I feel a little spot of moisture form inside my cunt and my sphincter contracts involuntarily. Could it be him? Does Marc know about that particular fantasy?
The man passes without stopping and I’m left thinking… What was the whole sphincter thing about?
Shower, two months ago
I purred contentedly as Marc ran the soapy loofah up and down my back. With his free hand, he was cupping and caressing my ass cheeks. The combined sensations of the sponge, his hand and the warm running water were driving me wild.
Eventually, a single soapy finger made it to my asshole and started to work its way in. My husband was making sure all of me was clean. How sweet!
I pushed gently back onto his digit, loving the intimacy of him being inside me like that. Marc leaned into my back and whispered in my ear, “So when are you going to finally let me inside there?”
“You’re in there now,” I answered playfully, even though I knew exactly what he meant.
Marc had wanted to fuck my ass almost from the very beginning, but back then — when I was still a teenager — it had just seemed wrong. I didn’t feel that way anymore but the thought of anything larger than a finger or the smallest of butt plugs still freaked me out.
Marc let out an exaggerated sigh. “27 years of sass and still no ass…”
So whiny!
I felt bad so I reached around and placed my hand over his, gently pushing his finger in a little further even though it was making me feel super uncomfortable.
“Baby, I just want you to know this is YOUR ass and I want you to have it. I’m going to train it for you and when I’m ready, you can fuck me there whenever you want. My ass belongs to you and only you…”
“Even if we…?”
“Yes baby, my ass will only ever be just for you.” I pushed back even a little further as I heard him let out a moan.
Hotel bar, now, 8:00 pm
“Are you absolutely sure about this, babes?”
I check my watch. “Isn’t it a little late to ask that question?”
“Not really. We can back out anytime. YOU can back out. You know that, right?” He’s being so earnest.
But I know what’s going on. This wonderful, sweet man — this loving husband and doting father — is being racked by some last-minute guilt that he is leading me down a depraved path of his own design. One in which his greatest fantasy will come true but only at the cost of his sweet wife’s imagined innocence. The rubber is about to hit the road and he isn’t sure he can handle the speed.
He has no way of understanding that I want this far more than he does. I’ve always wanted it even if I didn’t always know it. And I can never fully convey that to him because it would betray a fundamental truth in our relationship that would bring everything we’ve built crashing down.
At just barely 18, I was still a naive, innocent girl who hadn’t had a chance to discover who I was or what I wanted to become — sexually or otherwise. In one night of unbridled passion, he took away every opportunity for me to find out. He’s a good man and he did what he thought was right by making an “honest” woman out of me. I don’t doubt that he fell in love with me in the process and in his mind, that made it all right. But he had no idea the damage that was done. Neither did I.
It turns out that my resentment had been simmering in the dark undercurrents of our marriage ever since the beginning.
When he first brought up the notion of my becoming a hotwife, I realized this basic truth. And it had slammed into me like a wrecking ball.
Tonight is the beginning of a journey. MY journey. I truly do love Marc and I’m glad for him to join me but he has no clue where and how far I plan to go. I’ve had decades to finally understand who I really am. This is my time to become the real me.
And now I realize why I’m not anxious.
“He’s here!” Marc says. “And right on time.”
I look towards the entrance.
He’s tall and muscular with a confident stride. He’s wearing a bright pink polo shirt and tan khakis that are a shade too tight. I can’t see his ass but I know what his buttocks feel like. I can already smell his musk. As he approaches, he flashes that six million watt Latin smile.
Marc and I get up.
Before my husband can say anything, the man closes the distance to me, grabs my hand and kisses it with a flourish. “Good evening, miss. It’s so wonderful to see you again.”
“Hello Dario.” I smile. “And you can call me Jill.”
We all sit down. This time I don’t put my hand over my crotch as I very slowly and deliberately cross my legs.
Hotel suite, now, 12:21 am
Dario removes his enormous cock from deep down my throat. A long, thick strand of saliva momentarily keeps us connected all the way from the golf ball-sized head of his penis to my quivering lower lip. He unceremoniously picks me up from my knees in front of him and tosses me face down on the bed as if I was a rag doll. I feel him climb on top of me. He’s using his heavy, muscle-bound body to press me into the mattress.
He’s already taken me three times tonight, coming once in my mouth and twice in my now swollen and sore pussy. I’ve never been so thoroughly fucked in my life and I don’t know that I can take another pounding.
On the other side of the bed, I can see Marc sitting in one of the armchairs. He has a look of both stricken awe and pure joy on his face. His half-erect cock is in his hand and he’s casually stroking it. He’s had two orgasms so far. One powerful one in my mouth, as Dario took me from behind, and another weaker one while he watched me bounce up and down on the plumber’s massive tree trunk of a cock. He’s looking pretty spent right now.
Dario grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls my head up as high off the bed as my neck will stretch. Holy fuck! I can feel his heavy breath in my ear as his face comes next to mine.
“Jill, I’m going to fuck you in your ass now.”
What?!? He very clearly said, “going to,” not “want to.” Or even, “may I?” An involuntary but delicious shiver runs down my entire body at the confident timbre of his deep voice. His powerful alpha vibe has had me quivering all night.
“You’re going to help me by reaching behind you and spreading your ass wide for me.”
I’m watching Marc who can obviously hear everything that Dario is loudly whispering into my ear. His eyes are wide with… I don’t know what? Is it fear or panic… or happiness?
I’m waiting for a sign from him when all of a sudden, Dario uses his other hand to grab and roughly force my hips up off the bed and into his groin. I can feel his impossibly huge cock pulsating in the crack of my ass.
In that moment, I take a deep breath and freely choose to submit.
Very slowly, while keeping my eyes glued on Marc, I move my hands behind me and spread my cheeks as far as they’ll go without ripping my ass apart.
Then, as if I’m out of my body, I hear myself moan loudly as that monstrous cock, still drenched with my cum and spit, plows slowly but steadily into my virgin asshole, spreading it wider than I ever thought was possible until I feel his rough pubic hair on my cheeks and his heavy balls slamming heavily into my sensitive pussy lips.
Then Dario fucks my ass for hours.
Epilogue, hotel suite, now, 2:14 pm
The bags are packed. The bill is paid. We’re ready to go home. Back to kids, laundry, and backyard barbecues.
Marc is sitting on the edge of the bed. The bed where I got dominated and fucked for what seems like eons as a newly minted hotwife. I’m grinning with satisfaction as I let that sink in. I learned something about myself last night that Marc will never understand. And that’s OK. He loves me and I love him. We’ve built a life together.
But he will never own me like Dario did last night. Or like all the other lovers will in my future.
“Do you remember how many times you came?” he asks.
“I lost count.” And it’s true. I did.
“14.”
“Really? You could tell each time? How?”
“Your legs spasm and you spread your toes wide.”
Fuck, I never knew that!
“Did you enjoy finally getting to fuck my ass?” I ask, with the wonderful memory of how he had pounced on me after Dario left.
Marc grins at me.
“You didn’t mind the ‘sloppy seconds’?” I watch way too much porn.
He shakes his head. Of course he didn’t. My ass may not be entirely his but he can have it now whenever I let him. Progress!
We grab the bags and start heading out. I realize that I’ve forgotten to pack something. I slide the top dresser drawer open and grab the pile of panties that I never wore. Lying forlornly underneath them is the small butt plug I had put there last night.
As I pick it up, I make a note to myself to order a bigger one once we get home. A much, much bigger one.
