Hubby’s View of His Hotwife’s Vegas Trip
Posted: Fri Mar 19, 2021 2:39 pm
True story, albeit a bit long.
I glowed as I walked into my local Starbucks to pick up a chai latte that late winter morning. The sun seemed just a bit brighter. The morning songs of the birds just a bit crisper. A pep in my step, I greeted the green-clad baristas with a chipper new day’s cheer. Anyone paying attention at that moment would be sure that I had indeed and undoubtedly gotten laid the night before.
And they would be wrong.
Very wrong.
The reality is that I spent the night alone drinking mid-range red wine and smoking a cheap cigar with my dog until I passed out in my solo bed. Getting laid was off the table. My wife had just arrived in Vegas for a three-day “girl’s weekend” (as we told the family and co-workers) and I was at home with the required implements of any sex, solo of otherwise, firmly locked in an unforgiving chastity device. My sleep was fitful and short.
And yet that bounce in my step could not be missed.
No. I did not get laid. But my wife did. And that reality led to the glow and the bounce and the smile that was obvious even from underneath the bland plane of my Covid mask.
This was a new adventure for her. For us. Sure, we’d long talked about her “hall pass” and my encouragement for her to not miss any opportunities that might arise. We had secured the reassurances that came with her knowledge that, no matter where her explorations ranged, I was committed to remaining monogamous to her. She had been on solo dates with potential guys who never panned out. She had even slept with other men since we met, with my specific blessings and voyeurism. But only at venues where such hook ups were the norm, if not the expected, activity of the night.
But getting on a plane to Vegas, accompanied by another more experienced hotwife, with the express intent to spoil themselves as they deserved and prowl for men to please them? No. This was a first.
The buildup to the trip started weeks before. Buying her the air package to an exclusive Strip hotel, with the upgraded room, so she felt extra special upon arrival. Helping her go through her dresses and choosing the right ones to pack. Spending too much money at Victoria’s Secret being seduced by the idea that there was a chance, however slim, that someone other than me could be taking these new delicates off of her body. Taking her, the day before departure, to have her legs waxed and her nails painted. Going to the pharmacy to make sure she mad all that she needed, such as a fresh razor and condoms in sizes too large for me. Just in case, you know.
The buildup was exciting and sexual energy slowly charged between us as the date of departure drew closer. Just before we left for the airport it boiled over. She dropped her towel after showering and offered me the opportunity to say goodbye to her properly. I dove between her slowly opening legs to match her passion. Her heat and energy were palpable. Within moments of my lips reaching hers she groaned and came hard on my face. Her fugitive juices ran down my beard as she squirted into my open mouth. Checking the clock for time, she demanded that I fuck her before she clicked the chastity device in place. We did so, briefly, and passionately. Our thoughts went upspoken, although we both knew that this could be the last time I made love to my wife before she earned her full-fledged Hotwife status. The last time before she was truly shared. The thought that the next person to please her may not be me put me over the top and we were on our way to airport shortly thereafter.
And that was all just the buildup. There was, of course, no guarantee that anything would happen in Vegas. Chances are that she would strut around feeling sexy with her friend and end each night having phone sex with me. And if that were the case the trip would already be a success. She deserves to feel sexy and spoiled and I’m proud to be able to provide her with the adventure. But anything happening still seemed like a long shot.
Those were my thoughts as I passed out around 1:30 in the morning after her departure. The early night featured some flirty photo texts showing me her gold sparkle dress she was going to wear to dinner and her new, fancy bra that gave her perfect shape that right amount of Vegas lift. I had slipped my favorite panties into her luggage, and in her pics I could see their sheer leopard print and bare coverage were being called into duty.
I left my phone ringer on and eventually dozed into a hazy sleep of fantasies that likely wouldn’t come true.
I woke with a start at dawn of the next morning. Did I sleep through her call? Was she safe? How did her night go? I stumbled over to my phone and, through bleary eyes, saw one text message sent at 4:32 in the morning. It simply read “So we double teamed a 23-year-old last night.”
That was it. No details. Was she kidding? Was the hunt successful? Did they really lure a young stud to their room? One that was nine years younger than my wife and closer to 15 years younger than her friend?
My heart leaped, and sunk, and leaped again. Unfamiliar chemicals flooded by system. My hands started to shake. I needed to know more but, being only two hours since she sent the text, I knew she must have been sound asleep.
But sleep wasn’t something that was happening anytime soon for me that morning. My mind was spinning and my chastity cage was tight. I tired laying there to no avail. I had to know more. The wait was excruciating. And then finally my phone buzzed and she was on the other end.
I paced around the house with unfocused energy as she told me of her evening. How she pointed out a cute guy playing blackjack and suggested her friend and her take the empty seats next to him at the table. How her friend, the more experienced hotwife, put on a demonstration in how to lure a man back to a hotel room. How they talked him out of his shirt, how she slid out of her sparkled dress, how he couldn’t believe any of this was actually happening.
I tried to just listen and let her tell her story at her pace. It was a challenge. I had so many questions and was hungry for so many details. But this was her adventure. Her details to share as she wished. I reached into my waistband as she talked only to be reminded of the cold plastic between me and any sensations. My hand retreated and I just listened with a shaking hand and stalled breaths.
Her voice was distant as she recalled the night. I could tell that her words were for me but in her mind she was reliving the previous twelve hours. I could practically smell her pheromones over my iPhone as she described him confidently removing the new, sparkly bra I had just bought her for the trip. Her tanned breasts exposed for a new lover as Victoria’s secret dropped to the mottled carpet. How long did his eyes linger before meeting hers again?
Her attention drifted back from the clouds for a moment at the next part. She knows me perhaps too well. She knows that one of my favorite parts of intimacy is the moment I slowly slide her panties down. She knows a part of me pangs when the last strip of delicate fabric finally and gently kisses away from her skin and surrenders its fight to obscure her privacy. She knows my heart races hardest as they slide down her strong legs and slips free from her perfect, pedicured toes.
And she knew where to focus her story. Her words lingered as she painted the picture of this stranger sharing the experience of sliding off the sheer, leopard print panties that I had snuck into her travel bags. I imagined his good fortune and stepped into his shoes, remembering clearly the first time I undressed her body and she allowed me the privilege of seeing all of her. That night, this guy shared in that incredible experience. She gave him that. She gave herself that. She gave me that.
The idea of that reality bore into my chest as I was filled with a potent mix of jealousy, arousal, excitement, and torment. Feelings that I revisited upon her return as I tackled the laundry from her bags. I came across those panties, my favorite panties, the panties from that night. They require hand washing, which I eagerly did with a standard of care usually reserved for museum pieces. I want them to last. They are a totem now. A souvenir from Vegas. A physical manifestation pulled right out of a fantasy world. I imagined those unseen hands sliding over the elastic waistband and the throbbing of my wife’s heart as she crossed the point of no return and offered her prey full access to the gifts that are only hers to give. I held them in my hands and drank in the lingering energy still clinging to their threading. I stared down at them and imagined just how wet they were that night and how her sweet musk must have perfumed from them as they gave way from his gentle downwards tug.
I hung them carefully to dry from the shower rings.
I could hear the reddening of her cheeks as she continued the story. They were red, I’m sure, from some residual shy embarrassment in confessing such things to her husband. As if her confession made them real. Undeniable. But also red from remembering the passion of the night. I could hear her pacing increase as she relived the more erotic moments of her encounter, and then pause just before she unveiled the naughtiest of recollections. She paused as if reaching the end of a diving board. A pause. A deep breath. A moment to trust that what she had done was okay. To trust that I was not upset.
In that pause I waited. I knew the stakes were high. We had talked about these things, but this was the first time it has happened on this scale. I was determined for her to know that upset was nowhere in my formula. That, conversely, her eroticism was quicky re-addicting me to her ever deeper. She was leaving me speechless in all the good ways.
She paused, breathed, then continued her tale trusting that her audience was eager to hear and knowing that it was hanging on every word.
And boy did her story continue! She described in detail the passions of the night. Her body was ready for this after weeks of buildup and uncertainty that anything would actually happen in Vegas. She described in detail how he touched her, slid his fingers into her, and made her cum almost immediately. Apparently, he hadn’t encountered a squirter quite like her before, but rolled with the rapidly wettened bed coverings. I imagined him quite excited receiving that sort of feedback from his lover. Being well familiar with the erotic euphoria inherent in sharing her orgasms with her, it was easy to imagine his feelings that night. That growing heat on her body, the thin layer of perspiration on her skin, her tightly squeezed eyes as she loses control of her inhibitions and lets her inner wantonness out without restraints. Her guttural growls followed by an eruption. The pressure releasing in a forceful gush rushing hard enough to push unfortified fingers and tongues away from their goals. Sharing this with her must have been life-altering. I easily imagined his excitement and satisfaction in knowing that he was able to make a woman feel like that.
Bedding soaked, they moved to the floor. Her shyness abated as she continued the story. She described how he was bigger than they had guessed down in the casino. That his length and thickness were perfect. My mind went into picture mode as she talked and I pictured her freshly manicured nails slowly dragging up his length as she explored her new toy. His dick, she reported, was powdery soft and handsome. She described cupping his small, tight balls. Teasing his head with one long kiss before she laid back and demanded more satisfaction.
This poor guy had no idea where his night was going to lead. In town for just a night for a business meeting, his plans were to play some blackjack and get to bed early. Now here he was, in a random hotel room in the middle of the night with two beautiful, naked married women demanding he satisfy them. One had just given him the epic blowjob of his first 23 years and the other was now laying below him, legs open, inviting him to make her even more. Part of him must have known this was a dangerous situation. These sort of things don’t happen in real life. And, if they do, it can’t end well. What’s the catch? Where is the other shoe? Will he have both kidneys when he wakes up?
But, thoroughly seduced, he took the leap. And for his bravery, he was rewarded with the ultimate Vegas story. He wanted badly to join my wife on the floor and meet her passion with his. But he wasn’t expecting this night. Unprepared, he sighed away his peaking excitement, knowing he didn’t have the condom needed to see the night all the way through.
Safe to say he was new to this. He had heard the term “hotwife”, but likely assumed it was a teenage boy’s urban sexual legend. It can’t be real. The other half of those wedding bands can’t be cool with this. The husbands couldn’t have paid for two amazing Vegas suites just so their wives could get laid. There is no way that their husbands sent them on their trip well equipped with condoms of two different sizes.
But it was all true. Sensing the desperation, my wife’s prowling companion simply said “we got you” and threw him a box of condoms.
There was nothing left to be said. The deal was set. I silently paced around the house, the dog curious about the change in my energy, as my wife told me how they started in the missionary position. Her voice oozed as she told me how he filled her. How she could still feel him inside her. He caressed her perfect, firm breasts with skills that defied his age. Not grabby or squeezy. Just timid or virginal. He unlocked the mystery of a woman who usually is indifferent towards that part of her body and she glowed under his touch.
His energy was perfect. Masculine. In control. Yet respectful. He vocalized what he was feeling in her ears. Not a whisper. Not a growl. Just dripping words of dirty talk that raced south and caused her muscles to clamp tightly around his cock as she came hard again. Her strong legs wrapped firm around his hips as she gushed all around him.
From there more orgasms followed. There was no counting in her gauzed-over, starry recollections. Their enraptured dance moved across the glow of neon lights flooding the room. She climbed to her knees and invited him in from behind, a visual he certainly replay for years to come. She then climbed on top, grinding down from above, fully riding him. I imagined him looking up at his evening’s paramour. Her eyes would have been black with passion. Her pert breasts glistening from exertion in the dim light. His hands firmly holding her hips as she rocked up and down mining for more satisfaction. She spun around, riding him from behind. This hotwife was going for it. She came this far, and it was obvious she was going to see this through.
The next part of her story actually made her a bit mirthful. It was his turn to explode, so he slid back on top of her and went for it. She giggled as she described him moving in and out of her faster and faster until she couldn’t tell if he was coming or going. She started the trip hoping to land an older gentleman, but by this time in the encounter seemed pleased to revisit the energy and stamina of the early twenties.
“He totally railed you wife on the hotel floor!” Her voice had a heavy I-still-can’t-believe-it undertone. “My pussy is still sore from him.” My pleasure in her comfort with sharing these details with me was, and still is, incalculable.
He had turned the tables and now it was her that was unsure this was really happening. His pace quickened even faster as she clamped down hard and met him, energy with energy, both cumming simultaneously in a sweaty chorus of moans and feral growling.
Her retelling of her night left no doubt that they both had completely and fully fucked each other. I saw no other way to describe what she told me. And I was left in awe of my wife. We were both unsure of how the Vegas trip would play out. Not fully confident the trigger would be pulled when the bullseye was in the scope. But when the moment was at hand, she did it! She let go of her inhibitions and doubt. She trusted me and her marriage. And she found the courage to take what she wanted as a woman and not apologize for doing what she wanted to do. She took hundreds of years of demands on women to be good, chase, pure, and loyal servants to their husbands and left that dogma in a rumpled pile of squirt-soaked towels in the corner of a fancy Vegas strip hotel room. With a middle finger to societal expectations and her patriarchal upbringing, she owned the fact that, sometimes, a lady just needs a good fucking with a hot new partner. And that couldn’t make me love her more.
Her trip lasted two more days and nights, and this was far from the only mark she left on Sin City. It is, however, how it started. And it only got better from there.
A whirlwind seventy-two hours brought me back to the airport to bring her home. She had done Vegas right, but three nights on the Strip bears a cost on even the heartiest. She was tired, sore, and ready for her own bed. It was my pleasure to help her rest and spoil her until she was back on her feet. She had earned more than that, but it was all I could give her.
Her trip was clearly on both of our minds, even if was mostly unspoken. The next morning, while unpacking, she help out an anklet and asked me to hang it back up on its designated jewelry peg.
“You know I wore this while I was getting laid”, she teased.
I looked at her with a gulp. I was unsure if I should play it cool or let her see the fire her flirting ignited in my eyes. I managed to mutter something that admitted my curiosity as to whether she had it on the same time.
“Yup. I was wearing nothing but my anklet, wedding band, and diamond earrings while he fucked me”.
Any chance to play it cool disappointed with her words. I felt my eyes darken with lust as I leaned in towards her with hopes of reclaiming my wife.
To no avail.
Vegas had left her thoroughly satisfied and she smirked as she deftly sidestepped my advances. And when “my pussy is still too tired” is the excuse, the husband of a Hotwife knows that the excuse is sexier than the reclaiming. I clumped upstairs to replace her anklet on the jewelry board fully understanding that we may have just created a monster.
And being unable to feel anything but gratitude for the evolution.
I glowed as I walked into my local Starbucks to pick up a chai latte that late winter morning. The sun seemed just a bit brighter. The morning songs of the birds just a bit crisper. A pep in my step, I greeted the green-clad baristas with a chipper new day’s cheer. Anyone paying attention at that moment would be sure that I had indeed and undoubtedly gotten laid the night before.
And they would be wrong.
Very wrong.
The reality is that I spent the night alone drinking mid-range red wine and smoking a cheap cigar with my dog until I passed out in my solo bed. Getting laid was off the table. My wife had just arrived in Vegas for a three-day “girl’s weekend” (as we told the family and co-workers) and I was at home with the required implements of any sex, solo of otherwise, firmly locked in an unforgiving chastity device. My sleep was fitful and short.
And yet that bounce in my step could not be missed.
No. I did not get laid. But my wife did. And that reality led to the glow and the bounce and the smile that was obvious even from underneath the bland plane of my Covid mask.
This was a new adventure for her. For us. Sure, we’d long talked about her “hall pass” and my encouragement for her to not miss any opportunities that might arise. We had secured the reassurances that came with her knowledge that, no matter where her explorations ranged, I was committed to remaining monogamous to her. She had been on solo dates with potential guys who never panned out. She had even slept with other men since we met, with my specific blessings and voyeurism. But only at venues where such hook ups were the norm, if not the expected, activity of the night.
But getting on a plane to Vegas, accompanied by another more experienced hotwife, with the express intent to spoil themselves as they deserved and prowl for men to please them? No. This was a first.
The buildup to the trip started weeks before. Buying her the air package to an exclusive Strip hotel, with the upgraded room, so she felt extra special upon arrival. Helping her go through her dresses and choosing the right ones to pack. Spending too much money at Victoria’s Secret being seduced by the idea that there was a chance, however slim, that someone other than me could be taking these new delicates off of her body. Taking her, the day before departure, to have her legs waxed and her nails painted. Going to the pharmacy to make sure she mad all that she needed, such as a fresh razor and condoms in sizes too large for me. Just in case, you know.
The buildup was exciting and sexual energy slowly charged between us as the date of departure drew closer. Just before we left for the airport it boiled over. She dropped her towel after showering and offered me the opportunity to say goodbye to her properly. I dove between her slowly opening legs to match her passion. Her heat and energy were palpable. Within moments of my lips reaching hers she groaned and came hard on my face. Her fugitive juices ran down my beard as she squirted into my open mouth. Checking the clock for time, she demanded that I fuck her before she clicked the chastity device in place. We did so, briefly, and passionately. Our thoughts went upspoken, although we both knew that this could be the last time I made love to my wife before she earned her full-fledged Hotwife status. The last time before she was truly shared. The thought that the next person to please her may not be me put me over the top and we were on our way to airport shortly thereafter.
And that was all just the buildup. There was, of course, no guarantee that anything would happen in Vegas. Chances are that she would strut around feeling sexy with her friend and end each night having phone sex with me. And if that were the case the trip would already be a success. She deserves to feel sexy and spoiled and I’m proud to be able to provide her with the adventure. But anything happening still seemed like a long shot.
Those were my thoughts as I passed out around 1:30 in the morning after her departure. The early night featured some flirty photo texts showing me her gold sparkle dress she was going to wear to dinner and her new, fancy bra that gave her perfect shape that right amount of Vegas lift. I had slipped my favorite panties into her luggage, and in her pics I could see their sheer leopard print and bare coverage were being called into duty.
I left my phone ringer on and eventually dozed into a hazy sleep of fantasies that likely wouldn’t come true.
I woke with a start at dawn of the next morning. Did I sleep through her call? Was she safe? How did her night go? I stumbled over to my phone and, through bleary eyes, saw one text message sent at 4:32 in the morning. It simply read “So we double teamed a 23-year-old last night.”
That was it. No details. Was she kidding? Was the hunt successful? Did they really lure a young stud to their room? One that was nine years younger than my wife and closer to 15 years younger than her friend?
My heart leaped, and sunk, and leaped again. Unfamiliar chemicals flooded by system. My hands started to shake. I needed to know more but, being only two hours since she sent the text, I knew she must have been sound asleep.
But sleep wasn’t something that was happening anytime soon for me that morning. My mind was spinning and my chastity cage was tight. I tired laying there to no avail. I had to know more. The wait was excruciating. And then finally my phone buzzed and she was on the other end.
I paced around the house with unfocused energy as she told me of her evening. How she pointed out a cute guy playing blackjack and suggested her friend and her take the empty seats next to him at the table. How her friend, the more experienced hotwife, put on a demonstration in how to lure a man back to a hotel room. How they talked him out of his shirt, how she slid out of her sparkled dress, how he couldn’t believe any of this was actually happening.
I tried to just listen and let her tell her story at her pace. It was a challenge. I had so many questions and was hungry for so many details. But this was her adventure. Her details to share as she wished. I reached into my waistband as she talked only to be reminded of the cold plastic between me and any sensations. My hand retreated and I just listened with a shaking hand and stalled breaths.
Her voice was distant as she recalled the night. I could tell that her words were for me but in her mind she was reliving the previous twelve hours. I could practically smell her pheromones over my iPhone as she described him confidently removing the new, sparkly bra I had just bought her for the trip. Her tanned breasts exposed for a new lover as Victoria’s secret dropped to the mottled carpet. How long did his eyes linger before meeting hers again?
Her attention drifted back from the clouds for a moment at the next part. She knows me perhaps too well. She knows that one of my favorite parts of intimacy is the moment I slowly slide her panties down. She knows a part of me pangs when the last strip of delicate fabric finally and gently kisses away from her skin and surrenders its fight to obscure her privacy. She knows my heart races hardest as they slide down her strong legs and slips free from her perfect, pedicured toes.
And she knew where to focus her story. Her words lingered as she painted the picture of this stranger sharing the experience of sliding off the sheer, leopard print panties that I had snuck into her travel bags. I imagined his good fortune and stepped into his shoes, remembering clearly the first time I undressed her body and she allowed me the privilege of seeing all of her. That night, this guy shared in that incredible experience. She gave him that. She gave herself that. She gave me that.
The idea of that reality bore into my chest as I was filled with a potent mix of jealousy, arousal, excitement, and torment. Feelings that I revisited upon her return as I tackled the laundry from her bags. I came across those panties, my favorite panties, the panties from that night. They require hand washing, which I eagerly did with a standard of care usually reserved for museum pieces. I want them to last. They are a totem now. A souvenir from Vegas. A physical manifestation pulled right out of a fantasy world. I imagined those unseen hands sliding over the elastic waistband and the throbbing of my wife’s heart as she crossed the point of no return and offered her prey full access to the gifts that are only hers to give. I held them in my hands and drank in the lingering energy still clinging to their threading. I stared down at them and imagined just how wet they were that night and how her sweet musk must have perfumed from them as they gave way from his gentle downwards tug.
I hung them carefully to dry from the shower rings.
I could hear the reddening of her cheeks as she continued the story. They were red, I’m sure, from some residual shy embarrassment in confessing such things to her husband. As if her confession made them real. Undeniable. But also red from remembering the passion of the night. I could hear her pacing increase as she relived the more erotic moments of her encounter, and then pause just before she unveiled the naughtiest of recollections. She paused as if reaching the end of a diving board. A pause. A deep breath. A moment to trust that what she had done was okay. To trust that I was not upset.
In that pause I waited. I knew the stakes were high. We had talked about these things, but this was the first time it has happened on this scale. I was determined for her to know that upset was nowhere in my formula. That, conversely, her eroticism was quicky re-addicting me to her ever deeper. She was leaving me speechless in all the good ways.
She paused, breathed, then continued her tale trusting that her audience was eager to hear and knowing that it was hanging on every word.
And boy did her story continue! She described in detail the passions of the night. Her body was ready for this after weeks of buildup and uncertainty that anything would actually happen in Vegas. She described in detail how he touched her, slid his fingers into her, and made her cum almost immediately. Apparently, he hadn’t encountered a squirter quite like her before, but rolled with the rapidly wettened bed coverings. I imagined him quite excited receiving that sort of feedback from his lover. Being well familiar with the erotic euphoria inherent in sharing her orgasms with her, it was easy to imagine his feelings that night. That growing heat on her body, the thin layer of perspiration on her skin, her tightly squeezed eyes as she loses control of her inhibitions and lets her inner wantonness out without restraints. Her guttural growls followed by an eruption. The pressure releasing in a forceful gush rushing hard enough to push unfortified fingers and tongues away from their goals. Sharing this with her must have been life-altering. I easily imagined his excitement and satisfaction in knowing that he was able to make a woman feel like that.
Bedding soaked, they moved to the floor. Her shyness abated as she continued the story. She described how he was bigger than they had guessed down in the casino. That his length and thickness were perfect. My mind went into picture mode as she talked and I pictured her freshly manicured nails slowly dragging up his length as she explored her new toy. His dick, she reported, was powdery soft and handsome. She described cupping his small, tight balls. Teasing his head with one long kiss before she laid back and demanded more satisfaction.
This poor guy had no idea where his night was going to lead. In town for just a night for a business meeting, his plans were to play some blackjack and get to bed early. Now here he was, in a random hotel room in the middle of the night with two beautiful, naked married women demanding he satisfy them. One had just given him the epic blowjob of his first 23 years and the other was now laying below him, legs open, inviting him to make her even more. Part of him must have known this was a dangerous situation. These sort of things don’t happen in real life. And, if they do, it can’t end well. What’s the catch? Where is the other shoe? Will he have both kidneys when he wakes up?
But, thoroughly seduced, he took the leap. And for his bravery, he was rewarded with the ultimate Vegas story. He wanted badly to join my wife on the floor and meet her passion with his. But he wasn’t expecting this night. Unprepared, he sighed away his peaking excitement, knowing he didn’t have the condom needed to see the night all the way through.
Safe to say he was new to this. He had heard the term “hotwife”, but likely assumed it was a teenage boy’s urban sexual legend. It can’t be real. The other half of those wedding bands can’t be cool with this. The husbands couldn’t have paid for two amazing Vegas suites just so their wives could get laid. There is no way that their husbands sent them on their trip well equipped with condoms of two different sizes.
But it was all true. Sensing the desperation, my wife’s prowling companion simply said “we got you” and threw him a box of condoms.
There was nothing left to be said. The deal was set. I silently paced around the house, the dog curious about the change in my energy, as my wife told me how they started in the missionary position. Her voice oozed as she told me how he filled her. How she could still feel him inside her. He caressed her perfect, firm breasts with skills that defied his age. Not grabby or squeezy. Just timid or virginal. He unlocked the mystery of a woman who usually is indifferent towards that part of her body and she glowed under his touch.
His energy was perfect. Masculine. In control. Yet respectful. He vocalized what he was feeling in her ears. Not a whisper. Not a growl. Just dripping words of dirty talk that raced south and caused her muscles to clamp tightly around his cock as she came hard again. Her strong legs wrapped firm around his hips as she gushed all around him.
From there more orgasms followed. There was no counting in her gauzed-over, starry recollections. Their enraptured dance moved across the glow of neon lights flooding the room. She climbed to her knees and invited him in from behind, a visual he certainly replay for years to come. She then climbed on top, grinding down from above, fully riding him. I imagined him looking up at his evening’s paramour. Her eyes would have been black with passion. Her pert breasts glistening from exertion in the dim light. His hands firmly holding her hips as she rocked up and down mining for more satisfaction. She spun around, riding him from behind. This hotwife was going for it. She came this far, and it was obvious she was going to see this through.
The next part of her story actually made her a bit mirthful. It was his turn to explode, so he slid back on top of her and went for it. She giggled as she described him moving in and out of her faster and faster until she couldn’t tell if he was coming or going. She started the trip hoping to land an older gentleman, but by this time in the encounter seemed pleased to revisit the energy and stamina of the early twenties.
“He totally railed you wife on the hotel floor!” Her voice had a heavy I-still-can’t-believe-it undertone. “My pussy is still sore from him.” My pleasure in her comfort with sharing these details with me was, and still is, incalculable.
He had turned the tables and now it was her that was unsure this was really happening. His pace quickened even faster as she clamped down hard and met him, energy with energy, both cumming simultaneously in a sweaty chorus of moans and feral growling.
Her retelling of her night left no doubt that they both had completely and fully fucked each other. I saw no other way to describe what she told me. And I was left in awe of my wife. We were both unsure of how the Vegas trip would play out. Not fully confident the trigger would be pulled when the bullseye was in the scope. But when the moment was at hand, she did it! She let go of her inhibitions and doubt. She trusted me and her marriage. And she found the courage to take what she wanted as a woman and not apologize for doing what she wanted to do. She took hundreds of years of demands on women to be good, chase, pure, and loyal servants to their husbands and left that dogma in a rumpled pile of squirt-soaked towels in the corner of a fancy Vegas strip hotel room. With a middle finger to societal expectations and her patriarchal upbringing, she owned the fact that, sometimes, a lady just needs a good fucking with a hot new partner. And that couldn’t make me love her more.
Her trip lasted two more days and nights, and this was far from the only mark she left on Sin City. It is, however, how it started. And it only got better from there.
A whirlwind seventy-two hours brought me back to the airport to bring her home. She had done Vegas right, but three nights on the Strip bears a cost on even the heartiest. She was tired, sore, and ready for her own bed. It was my pleasure to help her rest and spoil her until she was back on her feet. She had earned more than that, but it was all I could give her.
Her trip was clearly on both of our minds, even if was mostly unspoken. The next morning, while unpacking, she help out an anklet and asked me to hang it back up on its designated jewelry peg.
“You know I wore this while I was getting laid”, she teased.
I looked at her with a gulp. I was unsure if I should play it cool or let her see the fire her flirting ignited in my eyes. I managed to mutter something that admitted my curiosity as to whether she had it on the same time.
“Yup. I was wearing nothing but my anklet, wedding band, and diamond earrings while he fucked me”.
Any chance to play it cool disappointed with her words. I felt my eyes darken with lust as I leaned in towards her with hopes of reclaiming my wife.
To no avail.
Vegas had left her thoroughly satisfied and she smirked as she deftly sidestepped my advances. And when “my pussy is still too tired” is the excuse, the husband of a Hotwife knows that the excuse is sexier than the reclaiming. I clumped upstairs to replace her anklet on the jewelry board fully understanding that we may have just created a monster.
And being unable to feel anything but gratitude for the evolution.
