The room was dim, lit only by the orange-pink glow of the Caribbean sunset spilling in through the balcony. The ceiling fan spun lazily above them, stirring the humid air while Mina lay on her back, legs open, her thick thighs framing her husband’s hips. Her skin was still warm from the afternoon sun, the salt of the ocean lingering on her collarbone. They hadn’t even made it to dinner—this was round two, maybe three. She’d lost count.
Her husband moved inside her with a familiar rhythm—deep, steady, savoring her curves like he always did. One of his hands gripped her breast, the other braced beside her head. She moaned, wrapped her legs around him tighter.
Mina was already close—again—but this time, something was different. She felt… looser, freer. Something about this trip, the way she’d caught men glancing at her by the pool, the way her husband kept looking at her like she was more than just sexy—like she was dangerous—it had started to stir something bold inside her.
Over the years, her husband had often pushed the hotwife fantasy—dirty talk, roleplay, even pictures and videos. But he’d always tried to sneak in the “BBC” part, and every time, it turned her off. She’d shut it down immediately. It felt fake, cliché, and not her thing. She made it clear: if he wanted her turned on, he’d leave that part out.
But this time… something was different.
And then it slipped out, low and breathy between moans.
“I bet the men here are hung…”
Her husband froze for half a second, then thrust harder.
Mina gasped, her body reacting before her mind caught up.
“I mean… the Dominicans,” she panted, arching her back. “Mixed with black… I bet they have big, thick cocks…”
That did it.
Her husband let out a deep, guttural grunt—a sound that startled her—and came hard, hips bucking, burying himself inside her. His whole body shook as he collapsed over her, arms trembling from the force of it.
Mina blinked, stunned. Not because he’d finished—it wasn’t the first time he’d lost control. But this… this was different.
It wasn’t just the dirty talk. It was the way the words had made her feel. Electric. In control. Desired.
And maybe even… powerful.
As the room settled and her husband caught his breath, still buried deep inside her, she let her fingers run slowly up his back.
It wasn’t lost on her that this whole fantasy—hotwifing, BBC—was already taboo enough. But for her, an Albanian wife raised in a culture where loyalty, pride, and modesty ran deep, it felt even more forbidden. More wrong. And that was part of why she’d resisted for so long.
But at the same time, she loved her husband. She loved how much this turned him on. And at her core, Mina was a woman who loved to please him—especially when she had the power to undo him with nothing more than a whisper.
She looked up at him with a teasing smile, still panting slightly. “Wow… that really got to you, huh?”
He could only nod, dazed.
The Shower
Later, in the marble shower, steam swirling around them, she bent forward to rinse off, letting the water roll over her ass. Her husband slid in behind her, already recovering, already hard again. He gripped her hips and entered her slowly from behind.
“Still thinking about it?” he whispered.
Mina bit her lip, bracing herself against the wall.
“Maybe,” she teased.
Then, as he thrust deeper, she tilted her head back, letting out a breathless moan.
“I bet a big black cock would’ve bent me over harder.”
He groaned again, clutching her tighter.
She kept going, her voice darker now, sultrier.
“I bet it’d reach deeper… cum in me better…”
Her husband couldn’t hold back—he came again, less than a minute in.
Mina turned slowly, water running down her breasts, her breath hot against his neck.
“That really turns you on, doesn’t it?” she whispered.
He nodded, panting.
And she smiled—because what shocked her wasn’t just how much it turned him on… but how much it had turned her on too.
Not the idea of another man, necessarily—not yet—but the power of the fantasy, how it made her feel: bold, wanted, irresistible. For once, the idea of being that woman—his hotwife, the hotwife—didn’t feel far away. It felt dangerously real.
Going Out For Dinner
The shower had left her flushed and glowing, but Mina still felt the heat simmering beneath her skin. Her husband had barely recovered from round three, but she couldn’t stop smiling as she dried off in front of the mirror, hips swaying just a little more than usual. She wasn’t done—not really.
Not with how her body felt.
Not with how her mind had turned a corner she never thought it would.
She stood in front of the closet wrapped in a towel, flipping through the dresses she’d packed. Her husband watched from the bed, towel hanging low on his hips, eyes heavy and dazed from what had just transpired in the shower.
“You’re still thinking about it,” he said, voice hoarse.
Mina glanced over her shoulder with a sly smile. “Maybe.”
She pulled out the red dress. The dress. The one that hugged every curve and barely contained her natural 38DD breasts. She hadn’t worn it in years—too tight, too bold—but tonight, it felt right. She wanted to feel desired. Seen.
And she knew exactly what kind of attention she’d get in it.
As she slipped it on, tugging it over her hips, she caught her husband’s expression shift. His jaw tightened. His eyes darkened.
“Too much?” she teased, giving her breasts a playful lift into the plunging neckline.
“Too perfect,” he muttered, unable to look away.
By the time they made it down to the resort’s beachside restaurant, the sun had fully set and the lights glowed warm across the white sand. The place was lively—music playing softly, couples dining under thatched canopies, waitstaff darting between tables.
Heads turned as soon as they walked in.
Mina walked ahead slightly, hips swaying, every inch of her soft, curvy figure on display. Her breasts practically bounced with each step, only the thin straps of the dress keeping them contained. She felt the stares—and she liked it. She could feel her husband’s eyes on her too, the tension building again in the space between them.
At the host stand, three young waiters—barely in their twenties—fumbled to get them seated. They cracked jokes, flirted shamelessly, their eyes darting to her cleavage every chance they got. One asked if she wanted the “hottest seat in the house,” and Mina laughed, playfully placing her hand on his arm.
Another one, taller and darker-skinned, smirked when she laughed and asked if she needed a personal fan to keep her cool. She let her fingers linger on his forearm just a moment longer than polite.
Every time, she glanced back at her husband—her eyes wicked, teasing.
As they sat down, menus open, she leaned across the table, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I bet they’re picturing it,” she said.
He blinked, leaning in.
“Picturing what?”
Mina smirked, brushing her fingers slowly over the deep line of her cleavage. “Putting their big black cocks right between my tits…”
Her husband exhaled sharply, shifting in his seat, eyes flicking around the restaurant like he suddenly needed air.
Mina just smiled, slow and knowing. This wasn’t pretend anymore. Not completely.
Out To Dinner
Dinner was slow and sensual—just like everything else that week. The breeze off the ocean was warm, the drinks were strong, and Mina was already two cocktails in, cheeks flushed from the heat, the rum, and the lingering afterglow of what had already been one of the most intense days of sex they’d ever had.
She leaned forward on her elbows, cleavage front and center, laughing easily at the attention the waitstaff continued to pour over her.
The same waiter from earlier—tall, with caramel skin and a knowing smirk—kept coming by their table more than necessary. Asking if she was enjoying the drinks. Suggesting dishes with a wink. Asking if her husband was treating her as well as he would. It was bold—but not obnoxious. Flirtatious. Youthful. Almost like he sensed something in the air. And Mina, buzzed and warm all over, gave it right back.
She laughed, tossed her hair, touched his arm when he made her laugh.
Her husband watched quietly, drinking it in. She could feel his eyes on her neck, her lips, her chest—watching her be watched. And it turned her on more than she wanted to admit.
Then, as she reached for her third cocktail, her hand fumbled the base of the glass.
The drink tipped.
In a split second, a stream of icy liquid splashed right across the front of the waiter’s pristine white linen pants—directly over his groin.
Mina gasped.
“Oh my God—I’m so sorry,” she said, covering her mouth with both hands, eyes wide.
The waiter jumped slightly, the cold no doubt hitting him fast. But he just laughed, brushing it off with a charming shrug.
“No worries—it’s just rum,” he grinned, grabbing a napkin.
But as Mina’s eyes instinctively dropped to the now-soaked fabric clinging to his pants, her apology caught in her throat.
The wet linen had turned nearly translucent—and was now molded tightly to the shape beneath.
Her breath caught.
Even flaccid, he was hung. Thick. Long. At least six inches soft, maybe more. Her thighs pressed together under the table on reflex.
She tore her eyes away, heat rushing to her face.
But it was too late.
The image was burned in her mind.
And with the rum in her system, the flush from earlier, and the lingering pulse between her legs from the shower, her imagination filled in the rest.
God… if he’s that big soft…
She bit her lip.
She wasn’t proud of the thought. But it didn’t stop it from happening.
She glanced at her husband, who had seen the whole thing—her glance, her reaction, the flush creeping up her neck. His eyes narrowed slightly, lips parting, as if he knew exactly what she’d just seen, and what she might be thinking.
Mina cleared her throat, trying to laugh it off. “Guess I’m more tipsy than I thought,” she said softly, dabbing at her own dress with a napkin.
But her body was buzzing. The warmth between her legs had returned, deeper now, pulsing with every heartbeat.
The fantasy wasn’t just flirting with her anymore — It was sitting at the table.
Slowly Making Her Decision…
Mina’s cheeks still burned, but not from embarrassment anymore.
The image of the waiter’s length, outlined perfectly through the wet linen, had jolted something primal awake in her. She hadn’t meant to look. Hadn’t meant to stare. But now that she had, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. How thick he was. How soft he still looked. What that would mean when he was hard.
And the way he’d just smiled through it, relaxed, like he didn’t even care his cock was on display… that only made it worse. Or better.
Across the table, her husband said nothing—but his eyes hadn’t left her. Watching her shift in her seat. Watching her thighs press together. He knew.
The waiter returned a minute later, still smirking, but with the front of his pants now clinging tighter to his skin. The rum had soaked in good.
Mina reached quickly for a fresh cloth napkin from the side of the table. Her voice came out soft and sweet.
“I feel so bad,” she said, rising slightly from her chair. “Let me at least help…”
The waiter started to wave her off with a chuckle, but Mina was already reaching forward. Not frantic. Not flirty.
Controlled.
She leaned in slowly, brushing the napkin gently over the soaked spot near his zipper—just enough to make it look innocent.
Her hand moved carefully.
One soft pat. Another. Then she dragged the cloth slowly downward—right over the shape of him.
Still soft. Still thick. Still huge.
Her fingers lingered just a second too long. Pressing through the napkin. Feeling him. Measuring him.
The waiter froze for the briefest second—just a flicker in his eyes—then smiled again. Wry. Curious.
Mina glanced up at him, eyes meeting his. No words passed between them.
But everything was said.
Her breath was shallow. Her heart pounded. The alcohol was fueling her now—liquid courage, lust, and years of repressed fantasy all melting into something she could no longer control.
As she sat back down, smoothing her dress over her thighs, she caught her husband’s expression.
His jaw was clenched. Eyes locked on her hand.
He had seen everything.
Mina leaned over, napkin still in hand, and whispered just loud enough for him to hear:
“He’s even bigger than I thought…”
Her husband didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
But the bulge now forming beneath the table on his side told her exactly how he felt.
Mina bit her lip and sat back in her chair, a slow, wicked smile forming across her face.
This was no longer just his fantasy. It was hers too.
His Consent…
The night air was warm, but Mina felt hotter than ever.
Her thighs buzzed with anticipation. Her pulse fluttered in her neck. The napkin still sat in her lap, damp from the rum—but more so now from what touching that waiter had done to her.
She couldn’t stop replaying the feel of him. The weight of him. The way he’d looked at her when she touched his cock through the fabric—like he knew she wanted it. Like he already knew she’d say yes.
Across the table, her husband was silent.
Still processing.
His jaw was tight, one hand clenched lightly around his fork—but the other, resting on his thigh, had gone still. His breath had deepened. And beneath the tablecloth, Mina could already see it—him—pressing against the fabric of his shorts.
She smiled.
Without a word, she shifted her chair slightly closer. The music from the restaurant’s speaker system covered the soft scrape of the legs. No one noticed.
She let her hand slide off the table, then beneath it—into the shadows.
Her fingers grazed his thigh.
Her husband flinched slightly, looking at her sharply.
Mina kept her eyes on the menu in front of her, lips curled in a small, dangerous smile. She moved her hand higher.
Then she found it—his erection—thick and straining through his shorts. She wrapped her fingers around it slowly.
Her husband let out a quiet exhale through his nose, leaning forward slightly, his hands now gripping the edge of the table.
Mina leaned in too, so close their shoulders brushed. Her voice was a whisper, silky and low.
“You’re still sure this is what you want?” she asked.
He turned to her, eyes wide, lips parted—but no words came.
She gave him one slow, deliberate stroke through his shorts.
“Because I’ve made up my mind,” she murmured.
Another stroke. Firmer now.
“I’d let him fuck me tonight.”
He swallowed, hard.
“I’d let him take me in that little staff room behind the bar… or maybe out here, under the stars, if I got drunk enough to stop caring…”
She kept stroking him under the table, her voice pure poison and silk.
“He’s huge, baby. Even soft. And if he got hard? God… he’d stretch me like no one ever has.”
Her husband groaned, barely audible, his hips twitching into her hand.
“I saw how you looked at me when I touched him,” she whispered, leaning close enough for her breath to brush his ear. “I know you want this too. But I want to hear it.”
She stopped moving.
Let her hand rest there—waiting.
“Tell me,” she whispered again, voice lower, darker, dripping with heat. “Say it…”
Her hand squeezed once more.
“Say you want your wife on her knees for him… bent over for him… in any position he wants for that big black cock.”
She paused.
Then with a wicked grin, added, “Say it…”