I’m Bea. A Hotwife now, but that was not always the case. You see, a Hotwife requires her man’s blessing to take another partner. But the truth is, my path began as an illicit affair, one I initially regretted but later came to celebrate.
We had not been married long when we arrived at my spouse’s new military assignment in the Florida panhandle. The Gulf War was raging, and Tom was abruptly deployed to join his unit, leaving me to manage things at home with my school-aged sons. It was the second marriage for both of us, so was quite self-sufficient, but new to military life. Having so recently left all my old friends behind, and now with my new husband also away, I found myself longing for adult companionship.
Fortunately, the kids were active with sports, so I welcomed being a soccer mom, providing snacks, driving them to practices, and spending time with the other parents. While these interactions with my new friends didn’t satisfy all my needs, I valued the social engagement, nonetheless.
Most of my new circle were women… the one exception was Mike. He and his wife, Liz, were in a situation similar to ours, except it was Liz who deployed, leaving Mike home, in charge of their son, Chris. Working part-time as an engineering consultant, he had the flexibility to be active in his son’s activities and with our group of ladies. Tall and charismatic, Mike embraced his role as the token dude in the group. He joined all our girl-talk like he was one of us, which added a layer of hilarity to our gatherings. Everyone knew Mike and Liz as a couple, but since no one had met Tom before he was deployed, I was viewed as a “single gal” in the group. By default, as the two odd ones out, Mike and I frequently teamed up at events.
Conveniently, they lived right down the street, and our boys became friends. Chris often hung out at our house after school, giving his dad an excuse reason to drop by in the afternoons. Several times each week, I’d drive the boys, including Chris, to their various activities, and Mike would drive them home after he got off work. Eventually, I started inviting Mike and Chris to dinner at our place, where they’d linger into the evenings. It kept the boys occupied, and I appreciated the adult company. While the kids played video games or did homework, Mike and I would chat over evening drinks.
Thirty-five at the time, I was a little older than the other ladies in our circle. Standing five foot-ten, weighing about 145 pounds, I could still turn heads. I don’t know if he was drawn to my mature confidence, pert B-cup breasts, or short, dirty blond hair, but Mike and I quickly formed a connection that I didn’t share with my girlfriends.
Over time, an unmistakable chemistry developed between us. Our conversations often turned flirtatious, and after a couple drinks, even naughty. One night, as we reviewed my plans to redecorate the kitchen, Mike asked with mock earnestness, “So, will the carpet match the drapes, or do you prefer a bare floor?”
A little tipsy, I played along with his cheeky innuendo, “Well, I have an appointment with my decorator tomorrow. I already have a fuzzy little rug at the entrance, and yes, it does match the drapes.” I said, coyly flipping my hair. “But I think I’ll ask her to wax underneath. Do you think it would be an issue if it were smooth like that?” I added, with an exaggerated, look of intrigue across my face.
Without missing a beat, he quipped back, “It might get slippery when wet, so I’ll have to be careful, won’t I?”
I laughed out loud, but let that one slide. Though I was intrigued by the prospect, I wasn’t drunk enough to ask exactly how he might encounter my fuzzy rug and slippery bare entrance, or what he’d do if given the chance tread there. I’d always felt my tidy bush gave me a sexy MILF vibe rather than a schoolgirl look. Describing it to Mike was fun and unsurprisingly turned me on. Without my man around, I was growing restless.
With every visit, our exchanges became friskier, and our behavior even more irreverent. Looking back, I could have nipped it in the bud, but truthfully, I relished the attention. Our casual goodbyes became friendly hugs, which progressed to light kisses on the lips. When walking past, I came to expect, and very much enjoyed, a covert swat on the butt when the kids weren’t around. Each subtle escalation added a saucy thrill to my otherwise mundane days. Soon, sports practice followed by dinner became the highlight of my weeks. Then we ratcheted it up with family outings on the weekends.
On a rare empty Saturday before summer baseball kicked off, we took the kids to swim at a nearby bayou. I rocked a modest two-piece swimsuit which earned a favorable “yowzah!” from Mike. Over several hours, we snacked and shared a few beers while the kids played in the crowded beach area. I enjoyed Mike’s not-so-subtle stare. Toward the end of the day, I ventured over to a shoal across the water…furtively hoping Mike would follow close behind.
Obscured by some reeds and sea grass, but still within sight of the shore, Mike approached from behind, wrapped his arms around my waist, and kissed the nape of my neck. “Wow!” I exclaimed, “You are really testing the boundaries today!”
Until then, our digressions had not been so brash, but his touch was scintillating. I giggled and lowered, shoulder-deep, to allow his hands to investigate beneath the water’s surface, cupping my breasts through the thin fabric of my bikini, fingers tracing the edges of my swimsuit. Only when they slid between my thighs did I stop him. We were loitering at the verge of infidelity and I wasn’t ready to go there.
“This was still just a fun dalliance,” I reassured myself. Nevertheless, my skin tingled as we swam separately back to shore.
After some dinner on the beach, we packed up to drive home. While the kids roughhoused loudly in the back seats, Mike and I stared forward in awkward silence, unable to voice what swirled through our heads. At one point, he reached for my hand, but I pulled away, as I rehashed the afternoon’s alluring yet unsettling events.
By the time we got home, the sun had set. After unloading the vehicle on the driveway, I pulled Mike aside to ask, “What was that about earlier?”
Somewhat puzzled, he responded, “I don’t know. I thought that was why we swam to the shoal. Wasn’t it?” It was, but I didn’t want to admit it.
Then, in the shadows, he leaned in to kiss me. I half-protested, “The kids are right inside,” but he persisted. My nipples roused under his touch as I felt a tingling warmth spread below. Again, I stifled my reservations, permitting our kiss to deepen, right there in the open. Just in time, Chris yelled from the house that he was ready to go home, jolting us back to reality…almost too late.
While I knew better, I could not resist his insidious temptation. The following nights, my dreams floated between the tender intimacy of my husband’s last touch and the electrifying sensation of Mike’s fingertips exploring my flesh, his lips claiming mine. I indulged in fantasies of what might have happened had we not been interrupted; what he could have done to me. I imagined my own fingers were his, massaging myself to orgasm before I drifted, restlessly, to sleep.
The next Thursday, Mike swung by to take the boys to baseball practice. Rather than coming inside as he normally did, he just honked the horn, and the boys ran out to the vehicle. Alas, he was married too, and I suspected he was also rethinking our two close encounters. I should have felt relieved–after all, the right decision was made–but I could not help but feel deflated.
Not twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. Answering it, my spirit lifted to find Mike waiting outside. Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped inside, cupped my face, and kissed me passionately. Any lingering hesitation melted as our tongues danced.
“What kind of slut am I?” I fretted, even as I grabbed his hand and pulled him back to our bedroom. The very room where, three months ago, I last made love to my husband.
Enroute, I snatched off my T-shirt and tossed it to the hall floor, followed by my bra. He took complete control of me, pulling my tits to his mouth, sucking my aroused nipples.
“Oh, God,” I purred, stimulated by every forbidden touch. He pushed me onto the bed, watching me unbutton my shorts, so he could swiftly pull them off, along with my soaked panties. Lying naked before him, a tear rolled down my cheek. I had finally crossed the line. I was a willing…no, an eager, adulteress. I parted my knees to gesture my submission.
Fully clothed, he kneeled, pulling my legs over his shoulders and pressing his face between them. He wasn’t gentle, as he’d been at the creek.
“DAMN!” his tongue felt exquisite, lapping between my silky lips, tickling my cli! Overwhelmed by emotion and this surge of pleasure, I climaxed against his face.
Grasping my hips, he flipped me over the bed like a rag doll. Dropping his pants to his knees, he shoved my face into the bed, spreading my cheeks with both hands to expose my glistening sex. An ecstatic groan welled up in my throat as he plunged balls-deep on the first thrust. Panting and trembling, I felt another wave build as he pounded me harder and faster from behind.
Between strokes, he spanked my ass with an open hand until it was as scarlet as the imagined “A” on my chest. I cried out, “Do it AGAIN! HARDER! AGAIN!” I had never been taken with such raw ferocity, and I wanted more!
After cumming again, I turned to wrap my lips around him, tasting my own zest, clenching his balls as he neared his own peak. Just as he was about to unload down my throat, he pushed me back to the mattress. Mesmerized, I watched him step out of his pants and rip off his shirt. His magnificent, veined cock swayed proudly before me. All I could think was that I craved it–I longed to feel his hot cum shoot deep inside me.
I lay back, feverishly fingering myself, inviting him to climb between my legs. He mounted me, urgently seizing my breasts and kissing my mouth.
“Fuck me!” I pleaded. With each successive, rhythmic thrust, I screamed, “Fuck me! Make me your whore!” My body shuddered; my pussy clamped him tightly. I moaned and gasped with every pump of his hips.
“Cum inside me! NOW!” I demanded. After several more phenomenal thrusts, he finally released his first hot salvo deep within me. The warmth spread through my womb just as I imagined it. Then, pulling out, he unleashed ropes of semen onto my belly, my tits, and my face. Even as he continued to grimace with exertion, I sat up to take him back into my mouth, determined to suck his balls dry. Swallowing every, last, drop.
Quenched, he collapsed next to me on the bed. Wiping his spent load from my mouth, he kissed me again. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I’ve wanted you since you first described this…” his hand stroked the fuzz over my “entry” as he called it weeks ago. I laughed, recalling that prophetic conversation–never expecting my clever tease would lead us here.
We lay intertwined, as our lust waned. “What about Liz? And Tom?” I mused, uncertain if I even wanted an answer.
“Liz is fine with it,” he revealed coolly. “She’s been screwing a woman in her unit since she left. We learned years ago not to make these separations harder than necessary.”
I was stunned. Confused. “How can I be the only cheater?” I exclaimed, tears burning my eyes, as if shared guilt could somehow make this OK.
Mike responded sympathetically, “I can’t tell you how to work it out with your husband. But I want more of this…” his hands stroking my sticky mound as he continued “…with no strings attached. And I want you to enjoy this again…” he said, wrapping my hand around his still engorged cock.
I took a long moment to compose myself, dry my eyes, and contemplate. All while stroking him back to full stature. I answered him by straddling his hips and guiding his shaft inside me. I wanted a final climax before he had to leave to get the kids. I rode him methodically, feeling every inch, focusing only on my own gratification. When satisfied, I dismounted. And as abruptly as he had just upturned my life, Mike left.
With his tangy seed lingering on my tongue, I took in the enormity of what I had done. I had surrendered to another man. Not a stranger. Not a lover. I not only let him cum inside me, I begged him to do it; then tacitly agreed to do it again. My initial humiliation at being used as a mere plaything subsided, replaced by anticipation for when I would use him again the same way. Precisely as he put it, no strings attached.
Despite qualms about what we were doing, I continued to enjoy Mike’s companionship, both with and without clothes. Our “vanilla” relationship continued as it had; weekly dinners and friendly drinks into the evenings–but minus the sexual tension. Whenever he asked me to fuck, I enthusiastically agreed… Perhaps twenty or more times I guess? I lost count.
What I do know is, until Tom returned from Iraq, I no longer joined my girlfriends at baseball practice. Instead, after Mike dropped off the boys, he returned to fuck my brains out. Sometimes at his place and sometimes at ours. I greeted him with nothing underneath my robe. I gave myself to him in every way; however, he wanted me; in any room of the house–except our master bedroom. Somehow, I rationalized, it wasn’t truly cheating if it wasn’t in our marriage bed.
Many nights I impatiently dropped my panties for an after-dinner quickie. The beeps and buzzes of video games next door heightened my thrill. Other times he’d ravage me on the grass at a secluded spot outdoors. We both understood that it wasn’t about making love–it was purely raw, exhilarating sex between two friends. An ideal arrangement until our respective loves returned.
Before we knew it, both our spouses did return. Our affair didn’t end, but did change character. The first time I met Liz, she leaned in to kiss me tenderly on the lips. I was prepared and kissed back; Mike had warned me it was a term of their “arrangement.” At events, she’d always cast a knowing smile, but we never spoke of what I did with her husband.
More than once, with Tom and Liz standing in the bleachers above us, I furtively lifted my skirt in the shadows and bent over for Mike to penetrate me–strictly no strings attached.
Tom reveled in my sexual energy, my new desire to experiment. He didn’t know then, that at least in part, lingering remorse drove me to pleasure him as I continued to service Mike. He especially loved it when I talked dirty in bed, encouraging me to divulge my wildest fantasies. I obliged, describing in elaborate detail my most recent rendezvous with Mike. The secret of both men’s seed mingling in my womb absolutely enthralled me.
Fast forward two years. We had long since moved from Florida. One Sunday afternoon, with his cock buried deep inside me, Tom asked, “Would you ever consider really doing something like that? I’d love to hear stories of your actual exploits. Damn, and to watch too.”
It was not the first time he had asked, nor even the twentieth. But at that intimate moment, I decided to confess; every explicit indiscretion. All the conflicting emotions I experienced, and why I continued for so long. How often, unbeknownst to either man, I enjoyed both in the same night; fucking one and making love to the other.
We continued to make love as I spoke; I anxiously searched his face for a reaction. To my relief and delight, his curious smile turned into a wicked grin. With every enticing word I uttered, he grew thicker, pushing even harder and faster. On the brink, and struggling to speak, he stammered, “Babe, that is so HOT!” Then he released into me. “But tell me before you do it again. I want to screw your freshly used pussy!”
I was free! No longer an adulteress, I was a Hotwife.
