It had been a few months since the conference, that electric night where she’d pushed their boundaries further than ever, surrendering to two men while he waited at home, pride and arousal mixing in equal measure. The memory lingered like a spark, igniting their nights with whispered retellings and heated reclaimings. Their trust had deepened, their fantasies bolder. So when his birthday rolled around, she planned something special—a weekend getaway to the Kimpton Hotel, just the two of them, or so he thought. Two hours from home, the annual escape they sometimes took, but this time laced with her wicked ingenuity.
He was always impatient waiting for her to get ready, pacing the room in his crisp shirt and slacks, his mind already wandering to the evening ahead. “Go down to the bar and have a drink while I finish off,” she suggested with a sly smile, ushering him out. “I’ll join you soon.” He obliged, settling into a corner stool at the cocktail bar, nursing a whiskey, his phone buzzing with anticipation.
The first photo came through minutes later: a teasing shot of her pert breasts, spilling slightly over the lace of her bra, nipples pebbled against the fabric. Then another, her ass framed perfectly in silk thong panties, the curve inviting touch. The caption hit him like a jolt: Who’s taking these off tonight?
His cock stirred instantly, the question hanging in the air like a promise. Would she arrive alone, or was this another layer of her game? He sipped his drink, eyes flicking to the door every few seconds, the bar’s dim lights and low hum of conversation doing little to ease his growing impatience. The barman—a tall, rugged guy in his early 30s with a confident grin, broad shoulders, and big arms that strained against his shirt sleeves—poured drinks with easy charm, but he barely noticed, lost in the fantasy her photos evoked.
Around 30 minutes later, she turned up, striding in like she owned the place. Over-the-knee boots clicked against the floor, hugging her calves, paired with a long white shirt that skimmed her thighs, unbuttoned just enough to hint at the lace beneath. No pants, no skirt—just the shirt, daring and provocative. She slid onto the stool beside him, that same wicked look in her eye from the conference night, the one that said she was in control and loving every second.
They enjoyed dinner at the hotel’s intimate restaurant, laughter flowing with the wine, her foot occasionally brushing his under the table. More cocktails followed back at the bar, where there was a bit of light flirting with the barman—in front of her husband, no less. She leaned in with a playful laugh as he mixed their drinks, her fingers brushing his when she took her glass, a subtle exchange of glances that made the air hum with possibility. “You’ve got quite the arms there,” she teased lightly, her voice carrying just enough edge to make her husband shift in his seat, a thrill of recognition sparking as he caught it all.
The barman flexed subtly with a grin, playing along, his big arms flexing as he shook the mixer. Though her husband caught it all with a thrill of recognition. His hand slipped under her shirt hem during lulls in conversation, fingers grazing her silk knickers. As the night drew on, they grew wetter and wetter, her arousal soaking through the fabric, her breath hitching when he teased her clit lightly, discreetly. She leaned in, whispering filthy promises about his birthday gift, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
As they returned to the hotel lobby, buzzing from the drinks, she pulled him close. “Get yourself one more drink at the bar,” she murmured, her lips brushing his ear. “In around 20 minutes, order a bottle of champagne and bring it to the room. I’ll be waiting.” He nodded, kissing her deeply before she sauntered off, her boots echoing down the hall.
Unbeknownst to her husband, earlier in the evening—while he’d stepped away to the restroom—she’d handed her room key to the barman with a sultry glance, murmuring, “0100, Kimpton Room 119. Don’t be late.” The barman had pocketed it with a knowing nod, his eyes tracing her curves as she walked away.
He lingered at the bar, the minutes stretching with delicious tension, then ordered the champagne as instructed. Bottle in hand, he headed up just after 0100, his heart pounding with expectation. Sliding the key into the lock, he pushed the door open—and froze.
There she was, on her knees in the dimly lit room, her lips wrapped around the barman’s cock. He was rather large—enormous, really, thick and veined, stretching her mouth as she sucked eagerly, her hands stroking what she couldn’t take. The barman groaned, his fingers tangled in her hair, clearly lost in the moment. She pulled back at the sound of the door, wiping her lips with a naughty grin, her eyes locking onto her husband’s shocked face.
“You’ve always talked about hotel cuck chairs,” she said, her voice husky and commanding. “Now sit there and watch your wife enjoy herself. If you’re lucky, you’ll get to join in.”
The shock of returning expecting one-on-one sex hit him like a wave, but he found himself instantly hard, his pants tenting as he set the champagne down and sank into the armchair by the bed. This was their fantasy made real again, edgier than the conference, right here for his birthday. Her newfound stud was desperate to fuck her, stripping off his shirt to reveal a toned chest, and he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, no hesitation in this taboo setup.
The husband watched, transfixed, as the barman devoured her pussy, pushing her back onto the bed, his tongue lapping at her soaked folds while she moaned, her eyes flicking to her husband with that wicked gleam. She came once already, her body arching, before standing and walking over to the chair. She placed her hands on the arms, bending forward so her ass was presented, her silk knickers pulled aside.
“Come and fuck my married pussy,” she instructed the barman, her voice dripping with need.
He positioned himself behind her, rubbing his enormous cock against her entrance. “Happy birthday,” she said to her husband, closing her eyes in bliss as another man’s cock entered her pussy, stretching her wide. Both truly in their element—she reveling in the power and pleasure, he in the exquisite torment of watching.
He watched his wife cum three times—first from the deep, relentless thrusts that made her gasp, then again when the barman flipped her onto her back and pounded her missionary-style, her legs wrapped around him. This guy had some stamina, outlasting anything they’d imagined, his hips snapping with raw energy. She always wanted to be held up and fucked, a fantasy she’d whispered to her husband during their hottest nights, and the barman duly obliged, scooping her up with those big arms, pinning her against the wall as he thrust upward, her legs locked around his waist, her moans echoing as she came hard in his grip, weightless and impaled.
Panting, she asked her husband to lie on the bed. He complied, stripping quickly, his own cock throbbing. She came to the edge, hovering just above his face, her pussy glistening and swollen. The barman stepped up, and the husband watched, mere inches away, as another man’s cock entered his wife’s pussy—12 inches from his eyes, the sight intimate and overwhelming, the sounds of her wetness and their grunts filling the room.
She begged him, “Fill my married pussy with cum. My husband wants a creampie, and it is his birthday.” A few minutes later, the barman tensed, groaning deeply as he came hard inside her, pumping rope after rope of hot seed into her depths.
After gathering herself, she slowly lowered her cum-soaked pussy onto her husband’s face, grinding against his tongue as he lapped at the messy mix, tasting the evidence of her pleasure. She came a fourth time, shuddering above him, her moans echoing.
The barman dressed and left with a satisfied smirk, leaving them alone. She pulled her husband up, kissing him deeply, the taste of everything shared between them. They made love then, him reclaiming her with fierce passion, the champagne forgotten as they tangled in the sheets, their bond stronger, their fantasies alive for whatever came next. They both passed out eventually, spent and sated—he had the best birthday ever, a night etched in ecstasy and trust.
The next morning, after a lazy breakfast in bed, she stretched with a mischievous grin and said, “Great cocktail bar—we’ll definitely be going there again.”
