A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife

[subtoall]

#way to long to read

Then don't read it. That's an option.

Many others like me enjoy long posts. All anyone succeeds in doing with criticism like yours above is to drive away posters. It happens all the time on this site.

Keep it to yourself please.

[54321]

(https://i.postimg.cc/YSHYWD1h/IMG-1973.jpg)

She wore that for her date! OMG! I guarantee you that wherever she went, there would be cocks tingling and hearts fluttering.
Men would want to fuck her and women would want to be her.
I'm sure Mr Businessman (LUCKY man!) was hard the moment he set eyes on her. She is a vision of erotic beauty.

54321

PS. I LOVE your honest and beautifully expressed writing. Don't change a thing.

[hardk]

(https://i.postimg.cc/YSHYWD1h/IMG-1973.jpg)

She wore that for her date! OMG! I guarantee you that wherever she went, there would be cocks tingling and hearts fluttering.
Men would want to fuck her and women would want to be her.
I'm sure Mr Businessman (LUCKY man!) was hard the moment he set eyes on her. She is a vision of erotic beauty.

54321

PS. I LOVE your honest and beautifully expressed writing. Don't change a thing.

Yes she did. 🥵 Thanks so much for your enthusiastic reply, 54321! Your vivid description made me smile—you’re absolutely right. She certainly has a knack for captivating attention wherever she goes, and I’m sure the businessman appreciated every second with her. Your kind words about my writing mean a lot, too. Sharing these honest reflections isn’t always easy, but knowing they resonate makes it worthwhile.

In light of your comments and the recent events I’m about to recall, I’ve been thinking seriously about sharing your feedback with my wife. She still doesn’t know I’m writing here, though, so I’ll need some time to think carefully about that aspect.

Something interesting—and a bit unexpected—happened this week, and it’s been weighing on my mind. My wife recently met up with her long-standing college friend, someone she’s gotten together with regularly—at least once a month—for years. They’ve taken very different life paths; her friend is single, has no kids, and is frequently dating someone new every few months. She’s more extroverted, the type who naturally becomes the center of attention.

This particular friend is also one of only two people who knew about my wife’s extramarital encounters—she was aware of the firefighter and businessman well before I was, and had essentially supported what she thought was an affair at the time. For this reason, I’ll admit I’m not exactly a fan of hers anymore, even though we were friends back in college. She’s unaware of our Hotwife kink but has long been the confidant to whom my wife vents about relationship issues, a fact that’s definitely impacted my feelings toward her. She’s always been pretty egocentric, and this has colored our relationship negatively.

When my wife came home after seeing her friend this particular evening, I instantly sensed something different. Usually, after these monthly meet-ups, she’s energized, cheerful, and chatty—often sharing funny or dramatic stories about her friend’s latest dating escapades. But tonight she was quiet, introspective, and visibly withdrawn.

When I asked how her evening went, she hesitated. At first, she brushed it off lightly, claiming she was just tired. But after a long pause, she opened up, revealing something that genuinely surprised me. Seeing her friend had triggered a deep-seated physical insecurity she hadn’t felt in years.

She described vividly how, earlier that night, her friend had arrived at their dinner spot—radiant and effortlessly confident, dressed impeccably in a fitted emerald-green cocktail dress that accentuated every curve. My wife, who typically radiates her own quiet confidence and allure—something I witness constantly and that her bulls passionately celebrate—found herself unexpectedly rattled, suddenly hyper-aware of her own body and perceived flaws.

“It wasn’t jealousy exactly,” she explained quietly, staring down into her tea. “It felt like being back in college again, invisible next to her. All these insecurities I thought I’d moved past just surged back.”

She went on to describe small moments from the evening that had subtly eroded her confidence. Her friend jokingly remarked about still fitting into clothes from their college days, making my wife acutely aware of the changes motherhood and time had brought to her body. Her friend also made a casual but off-putting remark about me, jokingly commenting, ‘I’m amazed he’s cool with all your extra time away—guess he enjoys having the place to himself,’ a subtle dig implying something less than supportive or involved on my part. At another point, her friend casually reached out and placed a playful hand on my wife’s waist, teasingly commenting that motherhood had made her figure “fill out nicely”—a remark meant lightly, perhaps even positively, but that landed sharply.

At home, later that night, she stood silently in front of the mirror, examining her reflection—her lean, toned legs from regular cycling, the graceful curve of her hips, and the subtle muscle definition of her core. Yet, instead of seeing the beauty and sensuality she usually embraces, she found herself only noticing imperfections, each perceived flaw magnified in her reflection. She admitted to me softly, almost hesitantly, that part of her insecurity stemmed from the sudden fear that I might secretly desire someone like her friend—someone more overtly attractive, who had maintained a youthful glamour. Her friend is tall and slender, with long, flowing dark hair and strikingly symmetrical features—someone who effortlessly turns heads and commands attention.

The irony wasn’t lost on either of us. Here she was, this vibrant woman deeply desired by two dedicated bulls who worship her body, a woman living fantasies that many only dream of, yet shaken to her core by a simple evening with an old friend. It was a powerful reminder of how deeply ingrained these insecurities can be, lurking beneath even the most confident exterior. My wife also shared something that caught me off guard: she said the validation from her bulls doesn’t truly soothe these insecurities. ‘It’s just sex to them,’ she said quietly. ‘Men have pretty low standards when it comes to who they sleep with. Their attention feels fleeting, easy to get. It’s not the same as being genuinely desired or seen as truly beautiful by someone who matters deeply to you.’

We stayed up late, talking it through. I took my time to reassure her, carefully describing every aspect of her that I find breathtaking. I reminded her of her slim, athletic figure, how she consistently draws amazed reactions when people learn she’s a mother—not just of one, but multiple children. I spoke vividly about how her body moves with such graceful strength, her toned, slender legs that turn heads wherever we go, the subtle, defined muscles that speak to her dedication to cycling and fitness. I described how her delicate features and smooth skin still hold the youthful charm she fears she’s lost, and I emphasized how her quiet confidence, intelligence, and genuine warmth amplify her beauty far beyond mere appearance. I made sure she knew, in explicit detail, exactly how deeply I desire and appreciate every inch of her, physically and emotionally.

By the time we fell asleep, there was a softer, more relaxed expression on her face, and we shared a quiet laugh over the absurdity of insecurity reappearing despite all evidence pointing to the contrary.

It’s a striking reminder that no matter how outwardly confident someone seems, vulnerabilities lie beneath the surface. It also surprised me deeply to hear her say that the validation from her bulls didn’t truly reassure her. I’m curious—have any of you or your partners experienced moments like this? Feeling deeply insecure, even when clearly desirable to others, and finding superficial validation inadequate?

[venus-can99]

Thanks for sharing this episode and thank you being the pillar of strength for your lovely wife - who has a lot more than her friend. I suspect she may be harbouring her own insecurities and comparing herself to your lovely wife

[pixmangurn]

"Thanks David. If people want me to give shorter accounts I can try. But I generally write here to get things off my chest. So I just write what comes to mind."

This is YOUR story, tell it the way YOU want.

[David52]

I agree that this looks like a defensive expression of envy. Your wife has so much more going for her than her friend … children, 2 boyfriends and a husband who adores her. What more could any woman want?

That said, I wonder if she is beginning to look beyond her firefighter? She may have everything she needs now and I understand her demands for privacy, but she did find 2 guys on the apps in the past. Has she started to look again?

[hardk]

I agree that this looks like a defensive expression of envy. Your wife has so much more going for her than her friend … children, 2 boyfriends and a husband who adores her. What more could any woman want?

That said, I wonder if she is beginning to look beyond her firefighter? She may have everything she needs now and I understand her demands for privacy, but she did find 2 guys on the apps in the past. Has she started to look again?

Wow, your intuition is wild. I’m just editing a post about yesterday that speaks to this. I would love to hear more as you might have caught this before I did.

[hardk]

My wife has always been a creature of motion. She was a runner first—half marathons, 10Ks, a few medals. She was pretty competitive when we first started dating 15 years ago. About five years ago, she transitioned to cycling, I’ve always been into it. But now rides pretty regularly, 4-5 times a week. Maybe once a week or so our schedules align and we do it together.

But what always takes my breath is how she looks doing it. Especially in her kits—like the one she wore today. That black Lyrica bib with the colored trim is practically a second skin. High-compression fabric gripping every curve. The material stretches across her ass like it was molded in place—every contour visible. And the top? Sleek, often unzipped just enough to give a peek of the sports bra beneath. Her nipples, already firm from the morning chill, pressed faintly through the thin fabric. It wasn’t intentional. But I’ve seen enough men glance her way mid-ride to know it’s attention getting.

Some clips from yesterday -
https://i.postimg.cc/Rq5pWsLm/IMG-2263.jpg
https://i.postimg.cc/66RkXn0K/IMG-2262.jpg

Yesterday we were about 30 miles into a ride today when we pulled off at a small café just off the trail. Popular spot, lot of foot traffic with tables spilling onto the patio.

She offered to go in to order while I stayed with the bikes. I locked them up on the rack, then chose a table in the sun near the edge of the patio—partly for the warmth, partly because it gave me the best view of our bikes. They are pretty expensive.

From where I sat on the outdoor patio—half shaded by an umbrella—I had a clear angle through the café’s front window.

That’s when I saw them.

He looked maybe 22, 24 at most—one of those college guys. He had a light tan, possibly Latino or Mediterranean, with thick, dark curls. His black hoodie hung open over a white athletic-fit tee that clung to his chest in a way that suggested he’d recently discovered the gym. Lean, but not scrawny—there was definition in his shoulders, the kind of frame that came from soccer or swimming, not lifting heavy. He wore joggers, and one leg was bent up onto the patio chair, revealing toned calves and low-cut sneakers, no socks. His earbuds hung around his neck, his phone screen cracked, and a small, well-worn canvas bag sat on the table beside a half-drunk espresso.

His head was buried in his screen—until she walked past. And then it wasn’t.

He watched her step into line, his eyes tracking her in a way that wasn’t subtle. They dropped from her face to her chest—pausing briefly—then continued lower. He was scanning her, openly. I could see him take in her tight Asian frame like he was trying to memorize every curve beneath that cycling kit. The high, tight ass. The toned thighs. The shape of her hips, the zipper of her jersey riding low enough to tease but not quite reveal.

He said something. I couldn’t hear what, but I saw her glance sideways, give a faint smile and nod—polite, warm, restrained. Her usual deflection when she doesn’t mind the attention.

But then my attention became more focused. She tucked her hair behind her ear, unable, but trying, to hide a knowing smile. I know that move. It’s her tell. When she feels the gaze and leans into it, just a little. Her body shifted subtly—weight onto one leg, hips canted slightly, just enough to give him better angles. Then, with a flick of her eyes and a tilt of her head, she glanced back toward him—barely a second, but deliberate and noticeable. He responded. I saw it in the way his eyebrows lifted, his lips twitching into a smirk he tried to bury behind his coffee.

I sat there, coffee-less, cock already twitching in my own cycling bibs with a quiet jealousy. I wondered how many times she’s played out this quiet dance when I wasn’t around—how often she’s caught eyes and held them just long enough to make hearts skip. She never would’ve responded like that if I’d been right beside her. There’s something about distance, about having just enough space to flirt with the edge of things without falling over. I appreciated this now although I still find it very conflicting to accept.

And then I saw her do something that sent another jolt through me—she reached into the back pocket of her jersey and pulled out a lip balm, uncapping it slowly. With exaggerated care, she traced it over her lips, pausing just enough between strokes to make the act feel almost sensual. She wasn’t looking at him directly, but the move felt designed for him—casual on the surface, but loaded beneath. He noticed again. He leaned in slightly, his laptop was totally forgotten at this point, his eyes locked on her without even trying to be discrete, visibly swallowing. I felt my stomach tighten. It was so small, so innocuous, but unmistakably suggestive.

I continued to watch her interact with him—she was now waiting for our order and his table was maybe five feet away. She had positioned herself closely to his table. Her back was to him, but not entirely—angled just enough that he had a clear view of her profile, of the stretch of her hip and thigh through the bib’s sleek contour. She reached up to adjust her ponytail, lifting her arms in that slow, absentminded way that arched her back and subtly pulled her chest forward. He shifted in his seat. Then—boldly—he stood up, stood beside her leaning toward her as if to say something again. His hand moved briefly, a small gesture toward the ground. She turned toward him, stepping half a foot closer.

From my seat on the patio, the window framed everything—like a voyeur’s stage. She glanced down and saw the wrapper on the floor—dropped from her back jersey pocket when she’d pulled out the lip balm earlier. She turned around, bent at the waist slowly, almost theatrically, letting the bib stretch tight across her ass as she picked it up. When she stood, she didn’t walk away. Instead, she turned slightly toward him, pretending to examine the small piece of trash in her fingers, then looked up—eyes catching his. Her expression was soft, curious. Open. There was a softness in her expression—a fake innocence I knew too well after fifteen years at her side—now turned toward a stranger who looked to be about the same age I was when I started dating my wife.

And I found myself wondering: what did he think she was? A grad student on a weekend ride? A bored Korean housewife? A flirty stranger in tight lycra who just liked to flirt?

He said something else, and I saw her head tilt slightly—an automatic gesture she does when someone catches her off guard in a good way. Her response was soft, brief, but carried that distinctly warm tone she uses when she’s disarmed, when she’s letting her guard down without quite meaning to. They weren’t quite face to face—she kept a modest half-step of distance. But then she reached out—lightly, almost absently—and placed her hand on his forearm as she laughed at something he said. Not a long touch, not lingering, but unmistakable. The kind of physical contact that says: I’m comfortable. I’m letting you in, just a little.

The guy blinked—caught off guard. Like he hadn’t expected the brief touch. He said something I couldn’t hear, and she responded with just the tilt of her head, and a tiny nod.

She was still angled toward him when our order was called from the counter.

She turned, nodded politely, and stepped away to retrieve the tray. I watched her carry it back with effortless balance—two drinks, one for me, one for her. But instead of heading straight out the door, she circled back to him.

She set the tray down on the edge of his table. Said something with a faint smile, perhaps a thank you, perhaps something else. Then he did something bold, but not with his hands. As she set the tray down briefly on the edge of his table, he reached into his canvas bag and pulled out a pen—clicked it nervously—then flipped over a napkin and scribbled something quickly. His number, maybe. Or his name. He held it between two fingers and offered it to her like it was a dare.

She looked at it. Took it. Read it. Then handed it back.

But she didn’t walk away either.

Instead, she looked at him with that calm, unreadable gaze she reserves for people trying to impress her. Then, to my surprise, she reached into her jersey pocket and pulled out a hair tie. Without a word, she dropped it gently on the napkin, like a token in response.

It was quiet. Entirely ambiguous. But the look in his eyes said everything—he understood it wasn’t rejection. It was acknowledgment. Something to remember her by.

Then she picked up the tray and turned to leave, no hesitation in her step, but a new looseness in her shoulders.

He stood there, napkin and hair tie in hand, looking stunned. Like he'd just been given a puzzle he’d spend days trying to solve.

She stepped out into the sun, tray balanced in both hands, her expression calm and unreadable. When she reached the table, she passed me my cup without a word and settled into the chair across from me. The patio was lively, the late-morning buzz of cyclists and hikers swirling around us.

We sat quietly at first, sipping. The coffee was good—hot, the kind that forces you to slow down. She leaned back, lifting her chin toward the sun, sunglasses on so I couldn’t see her eyes. She looked relaxed, satisfied. At ease.

She was glowing a little. Her voice lighter. Her shoulders looser. She didn’t say anything about the exchange inside, and I didn’t ask. But it stayed in my mind—the subtle flirtation I’d witnessed, the quiet power she wielded without saying a word.

As we neared the end of our drinks, I set my cup down and said, gently, "He seemed... very taken with you."

Her eyes met mine, steady. She didn’t flinch. Just held my gaze and lifted one brow, her lips twitching at the corners.

"Hmm?" she said, feigning innocence—but there was a glimmer behind her eyes.

I smiled and leaned in slightly. "It was fascinating to watch. And honestly? Kind of... provocative."

She didn’t answer. Just sipped her coffee, her sunglasses staring back at me, then glanced away with a soft, knowing smirk.

That was all I needed.

I let a few more quiet minutes pass before I said, casually, "So... did you find him cute?" I nodded toward the window. The guy was back at his laptop, the napkin still sat on the table, her hair tie resting on top like a strange little monument.

She didn’t look right away. Just stirred the last of her coffee, the spoon clinking softly against the ceramic. Then, finally, she glanced through the window, her expression unreadable behind the sunglasses.

She inhaled softly through her nose, the faintest smile forming at the corners of her lips. "He was... bold," she said, her tone even but warm. "And kind of sweet. It was kinda fun to chat.”

That was as much of an admission as I was going to get at that moment. But the way she said it—it lingered.

I leaned forward a little. "And the note?" I kept my voice light, playful, but I couldn’t quite mask the heat behind the question.

She smiled then, fully, the kind she gives when she knows I know more than she’s letting on. She tilted her head slightly. "The note just said, 'This’ll make your next ride harder to concentrate on. I’ll be thinking about how that bib hugged your behind'—then his number."

She chuckled and added, “Then he said, ‘I know some climbs that’ll make your legs burn and your heart race. Would love to ride with someone who clearly knows how to move. I usually like to ride out front... but I’m okay following your wheel.’”

She paused, then looked down at the table. "It was kind of cute. And confident. He knew what he was doing."

I raised an eyebrow. She went on, slowly now.

"He told me he rides too. I asked if he raced. He said yes. He rides for a domestic pro team. Road and gravel. That explained the calves. The tan. The confidence talking about cycling."

I felt my stomach clench faintly. Not from anger.

"So why didn’t you take the napkin?" I asked.

She hesitated, then smiled again, a different kind of smile. Almost shy. "He was barely older than the students I used to TA. Maybe 22? And honestly, with the way he rides—pro, fast, fearless—I wouldn’t last one mile trying to keep up."

She gave a small chuckle and added, "Besides, I already have two bulls who know what to do with me. And I’ve got you. This was just... a little spark on a sunny patio. I’ll take the compliment—especially after the other day," she added, referring to her friend’s comment and the way it had lingered in her mood.

She stirred the coffee again, slower now.

I grinned. "But you left your hair tie."

She shrugged, lips curving. "The first thing he said to me was that with my loose hair I was losing watts but gaining attention in my shorts." She paused, then added, “That line stuck.”

"And I figured, why not? He called out the hair, so I left him the thing that was supposed to tame it. But it also said, ‘You noticed. So did I.’”

She leaned back and smiled—soft but unmistakably satisfied.

I chuckled at her boldness, but before I could stop myself, my mouth moved faster than my brain. "You know... maybe you should go back and take the number." It came out softer than I expected, but there was heat under it—equal parts arousal, curiosity, and something darker I couldn’t name.

She lowered her cup slowly and turned her head toward me, lips parted just slightly in surprise. Then, that sly glint returned to her eyes—mischievous, measured.

"Are you saying that as my husband?" she asked, voice low, teasing. "Or as a man turned on by the idea of his wife being wanted by a guy 15 years younger?"

She took another sip, slow and deliberate, then set the cup down with a soft clink.

“If I went back,” she said, almost musing, “what exactly would I be going back for?” Her tone was casual, but I saw the spark behind her sunglasses. “A ride I can’t keep up with? A boy with good legs and no filter?”

She tilted her head. “Or… would I be going back because you want to see what someone that young would do with a woman like me? With a wife like me?”

I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, she laughed—soft and knowing—adding, “Careful,” eyes still on her cup, contemplative. “You remember what happened the last time you encouraged me to flirt online, right?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Just smiled faintly and added, “And then I met him. And the other one. And what started as play... became something else.”

Her fingers brushed the rim of her coffee cup. “So if you're saying it again—about this guy—you should know... when you give me permission, I tend to take it seriously.”

She paused, letting the silence settle between us.

“Not saying I will,” she said softly, “but last time you handed me the key, I really liked what I found on the other side of the door.”

She took a slow sip finishing her coffee, still not looking away. And in that moment, I wasn’t sure if my cock or my heart was beating faster.

Before either of us could say more, I saw a shadow stretch across the patio. The college guy had stepped out of the café, slinging his canvas bag over one shoulder. He looked around briefly, then walked straight toward our table.

My wife didn’t turn to look at him immediately, but I saw her posture shift. Her back straightened. Her chin tilted up ever so slightly. By the time he reached us, her smile was already forming.

“Hey,” he said casually, holding the hair tie and folded napkin in one hand. “You forgot these.”

She laughed lightly, as if surprised. “Did I?” she said, reaching out slowly to take them. “Or did you just want another excuse to come say hi?”

He grinned, eyes flicking to me for the first time. “And you are?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “This is Caleb (an alias she gave),” she said smoothly. “He’s from my cycling club.”

I nodded, offering a polite smile. “Nice to meet you.”

The guy turned back to her. “A cycling club, huh?”

She nodded. “Yeah, we do long rides most weekends. Gravel and road. Caleb likes the excuse to get out of the house and away from his wife. His legs keep me honest.”

The words hit me like a low punch cloaked in banter. It was clever, seamless, a perfect fit for the role she was playing—but something about it stung. I knew it wasn’t personal. I knew it was part of the dance. But hearing her refer to me that way—to reduce me to a fabricated domestic detail in front of this young, flirty stranger—sent a ripple through my gut. My wife has always been honest about my existence and how she was married with both the firefighter and business man.

Part jealousy, part arousal, part something harder to name grinder inside me. It reminded me of how good she was at this. How quickly she slipped into another version of herself— I wasn’t entirely sure where the line was anymore between her performance and her truth. Was he too young? Was she always honest? Why the fabrication? 

He laughed, brushing his hand through his curls, then extended the folded napkin again. “In case you change your mind. Text me this week if you want to set something up. I know a few routes I bet you haven’t seen.”

She took it this time, tucking it into her jersey pocket like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’m... Jennie (the alias she uses with her bulls) by the way.”

“Andre,” he replied. “Hope to see you out there, Jennie.”
He gave me one last glance at my wife, ignoring me entirely, then with a small wave, he turned and headed down the sidewalk, earbuds slipping back into his ears.

My wife waited until he was a good twenty yards away before she looked at me again. Her expression was mixed. Amused. Curious. Proud. A little charged.

“Well,” she said softly, “I guess that escalated.”

There was a flicker in her eyes—something tender beneath the playfulness. “You know… when you told me to go back, part of me almost did. I might have if he didn’t come up here.”
She paused, then smiled faintly. “But it’s never just about you giving me permission. That’s not how it works anymore. Not really.”

She shifted in her chair, “If I ever go back to something like that… it’ll be for both of us. Your desire, and mine. That’s what makes it real for me. That’s what makes it right. That’s why I took the note now. Not earlier.”

I didn’t answer right away. Just watched her as the wind stirred a loose strand of hair across her cheek. She didn’t brush it away.

The ride back would be quiet, I knew that. But not empty.
It would be full of tension. Of potential. Of questions left suspended between us—unresolved, but electric.

And somewhere on the other side of town, a young man with dark curls and a cracked phone would be wondering if the woman in the bib shorts and tight jersey was really just a local rider... or something else entirely.

She didn’t answer right away. Just traced her finger along the folded edge of the napkin tucked into her jersey pocket.
Then she said, quietly but clearly, “Because with him… I wanted to be a different kind of girl.”

“Why?” I replied without even thinking.

Her voice dropped, eyes not on me now, but on the space where he had stood just moments ago. “Not the wife. Not the hotwife. Not the woman who has two regular bulls and a husband watching from across the patio. Just... a girl on a ride. A little flirty. Maybe in a situationship but nothing too complicated. Someone his age could fantasize about without doing the math.”

She glanced over, the edge of a smirk tugging at her lips. “I didn’t want to be intimidating. I wanted to be interesting. Accessible. The kind of girl who might say yes on impulse. A girl who plays coy but leaves behind something to wonder about.”

“And let’s be honest,” she added, eyes flicking to mine, “he didn’t want a woman with a husband in tow. Not really. The kind of girl who rides hard and breathes harder. That’s who I was for him.

Her words landed with a quiet force—no drama, no flourish. Just truth. And it hit me squarely in the chest.

I looked at her then—really looked at her. The way the jersey clung to her ribs as she breathed. The faint sheen of sweat still visible in the hollow of her throat. Her sunglasses hiding her eyes, but not the smirk at the edge of her mouth. She was radiant. Composed. In control. And I realized, sitting there on that patio table, that she wasn’t just telling me a story—she was letting me see the version of herself she gave him. And it wasn’t entirely pretend.

That stung. And it thrilled me.

There was a part of me that wanted to stand up, toss the napkin aside, say something possessive and final. But that part was outnumbered by something else. Something deeper. Older. That quiet ache I’d come to know ever since I first encouraged her to install those apps. The same ache I felt when she dressed up for them, came home from them, whispered things in my ear that no longer belonged entirely to me.

And now? I could feel it rising again. That low, helpless arousal that came not from owning her—but from witnessing her. The tightness in my bibs hadn’t gone away. It had only sharpened.
I shifted in my seat, legs pressed slightly together, body warm, tight. My voice felt distant when I finally spoke.

“So what now?” I asked, not trying to hide the tension in my tone. “You took the note. You have his number. You gave him a version of yourself he might chase. What… are you going to do?”

She tilted her head just slightly, then pulled off her sunglasses.
Her eyes met mine—steady, open, knowing. There was no gloating in them. Just clarity.

“I don’t know yet,” she said softly. “I liked how it felt. How you looked watching me. How he looked watching me.”
She reached across the table and laid her fingers lightly over my hand. “But if anything happens… it’ll be because we want it. Both of us. That’s how it works now.”

She squeezed my hand once, then pulled away and stood slowly, stretching slightly, her bib shorts tightening over every curve.

“Come on,” she said, her voice light again, “let’s ride.”
And just like that, she clipped in, swung her leg over the saddle, and pushed off—leaving me sitting there, heart hammering, hard as hell, watching the woman I married pedal away like she hadn’t just turned my world upside down with a smile and a folded napkin in her pocket.

And I followed. Like I always do. Submissive not in posture, but in energy. In want.

Today all I can think about now is her—on that bike, playing the part of someone else. Not my wife. Not the hotwife with two older, married bulls. But a younger version of herself. The single, flirty cyclist chatting with a 22-year-old pro rider who she didn’t just flirt with—but admired.

That’s what’s getting to me.

This isn’t just about sex. It’s not some older guy with a different body or energy. This one? She respected him. She listened to him talk cycling. She probably liked that he could ride harder, longer. That he spoke her athletic language. It wasn’t just attraction—it was admiration. And that stings in a new way.

It feels like she’s chasing something more this time. Not just pleasure. But youth. Rewind from her mid 30s. A second chance at something she missed in her early 20s—being that bold, flirty girl she never let herself become.

And I feel… left behind.

What won’t leave me is the image: her in some spartan rental apartment, the kind with a floor fan humming in the corner and his gear tossed carelessly in the entryway. She’s still in her kit, sweaty and glowing, when he grabs her by the hips and lifts her onto the bed—no foreplay, no questions, just that raw hunger between two athletic bodies that know exactly what they want. Her lean frame coiling against his, legs wrapped tight around his waist, her cycling shoes still on, cleats tapping rhythm against the sheets as he fucks her hard—fast, like he rides. Her breathless moans echoing off the bare walls, as she’s becoming someone else, blending her real identity with that carefree cyclist Jennie who she invented.

And I’m sitting here, in the afterglow of something that hasn’t even happened yet, already aching.

Advice or insights are welcome.

Thanks for reading.

[subtoall]

a hotwife in the wild...a blisteringly hot encounter and follow up conversation. Clip in yourself; it's going to be a thrilling descent. I hope you can keep up.

[venus-can99]

What a wonderful retelling of a hot encounter of your lovely wife with a young man who clearly desires her for more than just sex but some fun as well. I think she has her friend beat in every way.

[David52]

Any insight I might have comes from your detailed descriptions of Jennie’s (OK to use this name?) and your experience. I am uncertain of the role of responders to posts on OHW. I try to be a little provocative while always respectful. But I also try to remain aware that I don’t know anything except what I read.

Jennie broke a significant, primary trust with you by seeing two lovers and developing long term relationships with them without disclosure. When you brought up the hotwife idea years ago, you backed down. Do you think you would ever have given her a green light? It seems to me Jennie did not think you would ever agree, so she made it happen without you, cheating, and you have described the intense work done by you both to get to recover after she came clean. Has she fully regained your trust?

Perhaps Jennie thinks (hopes) she has or is at least making real progress. I suspected that after your discussions and new agreements she has become more confident and wants to explore (more openly?) learning that she has a devoted husband who will remain faithful to her and your children.

You describe more chemistry with the businessman than the firefighter making me wonder if the firefighter might be expendable. I know the effort and time multiple relationships take. She must make choices.

So, that was my thinking behind my post. Thank you again for sharing such personal insights with us. I can’t wait to learn if she contacts Andre. I’m guessing she will. David

[a51anh0tw1fe]

Coincidentally I had a similar discussion with the wife too.

She also felt the need to rediscover her youth and lost self that seems to have been buried by layers of life. She seeks attention and external validation as she felt that she was never the prettiest or hottest girl back then. But she was envious of those who got the male attention back then.

So now, she wants to make up for lost opportunities by being flirty and seductive to guys she thinks are hot and who thinks she's hot. Before it is too late.

[sixpack]

Don’t spare any details ! You’ve got a gift for retelling your experiences

[hardk]

I pulled into the driveway after another long day at work, the routine so ingrained I barely registered the motions—keys out, door unlocked, briefcase grabbed from the passenger seat. Just as I was stepping onto the porch, I heard her car approach, tires crunching softly over the driveway gravel.

She'd mentioned earlier that afternoon she'd hit the gym, an innocent enough statement. But the way she'd said it—voice playful, just enough teasing to plant a seed of curiosity—had stuck in my mind. As her car door swung open, she emerged looking flushed, a little winded, clearly fresh from a vigorous workout.

"Perfect timing," she said brightly, her smile warm as she approached. Her leggings hugged her hips, thighs, and ass perfectly, accentuating every toned muscle she'd sculpted in her sessions. Her tank top was slightly damp, clinging to her skin, her collarbone gleaming faintly from sweat. My eyes lingered longer than they should have.

“Did you see the photos I texted you?” my wife asked casually, her tone light yet carrying an unmistakable edge of anticipation.

I shook my head slightly, curiosity piqued, reaching quickly into my pocket to retrieve my phone. As I unlocked it and opened our messages, my breath caught sharply at the images waiting for me.

The first photo immediately drew me in—a provocative photo from the locker room. She stood confidently, lifting the edge of her tight sports bra, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her smooth, toned abdomen. Her leggings hugged her sculpted thighs and hips perfectly, emphasizing the curves I’d come to crave. Her dark hair cascaded loosely around her shoulders, framing her flushed face in soft, enticing waves. Her eyes were lowered, demure yet deeply seductive, the image radiating quiet, unapologetic sensuality.

https://i.postimg.cc/0ygZ3QqB/IMG-2401.jpg

My thumb scrolled instinctively to the next image, and the impact was just as potent. This selfie was closer, taken from above, capturing her gaze—direct, confident, playfully daring. Her chest glistened lightly with sweat, highlighting the graceful curve of her collarbone and the gentle rise of her cleavage beneath the snug white sports bra. Her face held a mischievous, inviting expression, her lips parted slightly as if caught in a private, intimate thought.

https://i.postimg.cc/MGgG0hBV/IMG-2403.jpg

Inside, the house the contrast was striking. She seamlessly transitioned into the classic Asian housewife role she played every day—preparing dinner, guiding the kids through their homework, tidying the kitchen afterward. Watching her move about in such a composed, modest way made the earlier provocative image she’d shared with me on her phone seem surreal, like a hidden part of her life I rarely glimpsed.

After the kids were finally asleep, we sat quietly together on the couch. Just before bed, she hesitated, biting her lip nervously. "Would you mind if I sent those photos to someone?" she asked softly, eyes fixed on the carpet.

"Who?" I asked, instantly feeling the sharp pang of jealousy rise.

"Just someone," she murmured vaguely, avoiding my gaze.

Her reluctance only intensified my curiosity, and also annoyed me, my heart pounding as my mind raced through possibilities. "Come on, you can't just leave it like that," I pressed obviously bothered, my voice edged with restrained tension. "Who is it?"

She hesitated again, eyes still lowered, looking at the phone, clearly uncomfortable yet unwilling to share more. "It's just..," she repeated softly, her tone making it clear she wanted to keep this private.

"Is it one of them (bulls)?" I persisted, needing confirmation even as jealousy twisted tighter within me.

She sighed softly, finally meeting my eyes with a hesitant vulnerability that pierced through my defenses. "You know who," she admitted cautiously, her voice barely a whisper. "The businessman, maybe… I haven't decided exactly. I mean if not them maybe the cyclist?" She watched my reaction carefully, still uncertain, clearly aware of how her words affected me. After a long pause, I nodded slowly, forcing calmness into my voice despite the turmoil inside. "Alright," I conceded quietly. "Go ahead."

She nodded slightly, still seeming uncertain, then quietly picked up her phone, tapping softly for a moment before placing it face-down on the side table. Watching her, a mix of curiosity, jealousy, and anticipation churned inside me, leaving me unsettled yet undeniably intrigued. Once again, it hit me sharply—the realization that my wife’s exposed breasts, her body, were no longer mine alone, and hadn’t been for three years now. The knowledge that other men saw her like this, touched her, experienced intimate moments with her, stirred powerful and conflicting emotions. Jealousy tightened in my chest, yet mingled confusingly with a strange excitement and deep arousal, leaving me both tormented and profoundly drawn to her. This turbulent mix of feelings was always present, lurking beneath our interactions, intensifying moments like these to nearly unbearable levels.

As I sat there, still processing her subtle yet provocative admission, my mind wandered involuntarily to how much her body had changed since she’d begun sleeping with other men. About sixteen months after she started regularly seeing her two bulls, before I knew this fact, she’d undergone a moderate breast enhancement. At the time, she’d asked my opinion, but I’d felt ambivalent, I didn’t mind what she had at all. Ultimately, she went ahead with the procedure. In the weeks leading up to it, she had playfully teased me, mentioning how her girlfriends’ husbands had typically funded such surgeries, emphasizing with subtle amusement how she was independently choosing and paying for her own. That entire conversation had felt oddly unsettling, but I couldn’t quite place why—at least not until about ten months later. Only then did I learn the truth: the businessman had funded not only her breast enhancement but also her laser hair removal treatments, completely removing her pubic hair. She insisted she’d wanted these changes for a long time, for herself, but I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable awareness that this man, this bull, had literally reshaped and modified the body of my wife to his own desires. The realization left me conflicted, deeply unsettled, yet undeniably aroused.

We lay in bed later, silence heavy between us. It had been over a week since we'd last been intimate—the previous time my wife had sex was exactly 10 days ago, after she'd returned from an intense evening with the businessman. That night he'd taken her multiple times, leaving her thoroughly satisfied and physically spent, including a session where he'd taken her ass. She didn’t seem interested in sex after this for the remainder of the week. Which is pretty normal.

The vivid images of her experience haunted me, both arousing and tormenting me. Unable to resist the mounting tension now, I reached for her in bed. She responded eagerly, her body pressing urgently against mine, skin warm and slick from our combined heat.

I took my wife missionary, her legs wrapped around me tightly, hips rising to meet each thrust with a rhythmic hunger that left me breathless. Her nails grazed lightly down my back, the delicate sting adding to my desperation as I sank deeper into her, feeling the tension I’ve held all week finally beginning to unravel beneath me. The intensity heightened with each movement, our breaths mingling hot and ragged. Lost in our mutual urgency, she finally whispered breathlessly into my ear.

"Slow down," she breathed urgently, guiding my movements with her hands on my hips. "I want to feel every inch. Take your time." Her eyes locked onto mine, filled with both tenderness and sensual command. "I love being your Madonna-Whore," she whispered, her voice thick with desire. "Innocent and filthy just for you." I obeyed her instructions, slowing my thrusts, sinking into her deliberately, savoring each intimate moment. The tension grew sharper, more exquisite, as she pulled my ear to her lips and finally confessed softly, her voice trembling, "It was him—the businessman. He got my photo."
The revelation sent an intense wave of jealousy and excitement through me, heightening every sensation.

Her eyes sparkled with lust and mischief as she pulled me closer, whispering softly and vulnerably into my ear, "Sometimes, when I'm playing that perfect wife and mom—cooking dinner, helping out, chatting with other moms—I catch myself imagining him watching me. Imagining how much he'd enjoy seeing me so proper, so reserved, knowing exactly how wild and uninhibited I become for him later. It turns me on so much, being your Madonna-Whore and his secret fantasy at the same time."

Her intimate confession sent a potent rush of jealousy and fierce arousal through me, igniting a primal possessiveness. Driven by her revelation, I moved with renewed intensity. I asked, my voice raw with vulnerability, "Why do you like this so much? What exactly do you want?"

Her breathing hitched, eyes widening slightly with arousal and honesty. She whispered back without hesitation, her inhibitions gone in the heat of the moment, "It makes me feel completely primal, raw. When I'm with him, I'm not a mom or your wife—I'm a woman driven purely by herself, nothing else matters. It’s like my body just gets what it wants without needing justification. I crave the way he dominates me, takes control of my body, pushing me beyond limits I never knew I had. Knowing you're aware of it just intensifies everything; I want you to know exactly how primal and insatiable it makes me feel."

“So tell me,” I urged softly, continuing to thrust into my Asian wife, my voice tight with anticipation and conflicting feelings. "Exactly what goes through your mind when you're with him?"

She didn't hesitate, her breath warm and heavy against my skin as she began to speak, her voice low and raw, utterly unfiltered. Her almond eyes closed in passion, "When he's inside me, the physical intensity reminds me of being younger, when my dad’s friends used to look at me, subtly flirt, and make me feel exposed in a thrilling, forbidden way. With him, it’s raw, physical, primal—he takes me exactly how I secretly wanted those men back then. I love your cock, the way you fuck me. But with him, it's different. And knowing he's married and choosing to secretly fuck my Asian pussy and ass instead of going home to his wife makes me feel incredibly desirable and powerful."  

At this comment she gripped my hips, pulling me in deeper, her voice urgent and breathless. "Fuck me harder—just like he does," she instructed explicitly, her words fueling both my jealousy and desire. "I want to cum with you inside me, filling me, knowing how much it turns you on to imagine him taking me just as intensely and doing the same." Her hips rose insistently, guiding me to thrust at the perfect angle, driving her closer to the edge. Her eyes locked on mine, wild and uninhibited, as her fingers dug into my back, urging me relentlessly. "Make me yours right now," she gasped, "but remember exactly how he claims me when you're not here." Her explicit honesty and vivid instruction sent a surge of primal lust through me, pushing us both beyond control.

“I’m your wife and your whore,” she breathed into my ear, her voice shaking with raw honesty. “I've always been a whore," she whispered urgently, her voice trembling with arousal and raw honesty. "Even back then, I wanted to fuck my dad’s friends—they would’ve taken me if he wasn't around. My first time was with an older white guy already in a relationship. I tried dating a nice Korean guy my age, but it wasn't enough—I needed more. I fucked random guys who came to my house. I fucked an older guy going through a divorce. And then I met you—exactly the type I lusted after physically. White, athletic, fair hair, fair eyes—I fucked you every chance I got, and you gave me multiple kids. But babe, as much as I love you, I’m still a whore. You fucking me wasn’t enough. Your cock feels amazing and I love it, my mind is happy, but my body always wanted more. I crave different types—bigger guys, rougher guys, less polished guys. I need all of them too.
As her confession poured out, her body trembled beneath me, hips bucking wildly to match the raw intensity of her words. Her fingers gripped my back possessively, urging me deeper, harder, matching the primal hunger she'd confessed and she moaned unashamedly, eyes half-lidded with lust. She had never been so direct.

Her voice grew breathless, her muscles tightening around me, signaling how close she was to climaxing. 

She then locked eyes with me, sweat dampening her brow, resembling the photos she sent me and now others earlier, her face a mirror of both lust and maybe now slight guilt.

Her voice came in ragged surges, like the truth is erupting beyond her control. “I’ve wanted this, craved this,” she gasps, “long before we ever said ‘I do.’ Even back then, while dating, I’d catch myself staring too long at guys—wondering what it’d feel like if they took me and just fucked me. I tried to hide it. Tried to pretend I was just a normal wife. But I never was inside even when I played the part.

Then she said something that really stood out. She said, “Don’t feel bad about it. You didn’t cause this. You simply opened the door to me being honest with myself, which gave me permission to be honest with you.”

Her grip then tightened around my shoulders, as she pushed her hips up into mine, a soft, trembling moan escaping her lips. “I put on that wife mask—but under all that…” She shuddered, eyes rolling back at the intensity surging through her. “God, it was easier to keep it hidden before...”

I notice her cheeks burn with something beyond arousal—almost like shame she’s deliberately shedding in front of me in the throes of passion.  “I love you, I do. But I still want… I need that…,” she confesses, voice cracking. “I need more. It doesn’t stop just because I’m wearing a wedding ring. I catch myself all the time flirting a little too long, encouraging a gaze lingering on my body. I’m wet just thinking about how easy it is  to let them have me.”

She exhales roughly, I notice tears gathering at the edges of her eyes even as the pleasure mounts. I can’t stop thrusting, but I’m also confused and transfixed. She continues, “I’m sorry but it’s always there, babe. And when I think about how good it feels to just give in, and the more I do it, the more I want to give in.” She clutches my arms as her body tenses, that final moment cresting. “I don’t want to hide it anymore. I can’t. I want to...”
I vividly recall how she never finished that thought. Her words vanish into a ragged moan, and she clings to me as her trembling climax rips through her, the weight of her confession still hanging heavy between us.

Her shocking honesty and vivid confession drove me wild, pushing us both over the edge until I climaxed seconds later inside my wife, tangled in raw, complicated emotion.

But afterward, as our breathing slowly steadied, uncertainty and guilt crept into my thoughts. We were quiet and lay there just breathing. 

Just then, her phone lit up on the nightstand, its screen illuminating briefly. A response to her photos? She reached over, picked it up, and typed a message, her expression unreadable in the dim light. I felt another sharp twinge of uncertainty, mingled with a restless ache, as she put the phone down, rolled over, and drifted silently into sleep beside me.

But afterward, as my own breathing slowly steadied, uncertainty and guilt crept into my thoughts. Lying there, I felt deeply conflicted—exhilarated by her honesty, yet troubled by how far we’d ventured. How could something that felt so incredibly intimate also leave me feeling so exposed and uncertain?

Is there a way to embrace both the excitement and the lingering doubts without losing balance? I do fear what my wife is evolving into. I’m fascinated by it, and also terrified of it. I feel like I’m just this small bystander watching this flourishing sexuality that is growing and will grow with or without me. Not an easy realization. Humbling.

[Amayzed]

Love your writing, your expression, your honesty. Keep it up.

So, as I was reading, before I got to your questions at the end, I was thinking "Wow, what a relief that must be. That it's just deeply a part of her to want other guys. Because it's not driven at all by a sense of lack with you. She's just a little whore - bless her heart." And the fact that you fully allow her to be that part of herself makes you relationship all the more special and irreplaceable.

Reading your other posts where you are excited but hold on tightly I'd been thinking maybe the next step in your journey is surrender. Surrender to her in that the circumstances of your lives which you are both so wonderfully honest about give her the upper hand in a way. Is that perhaps the next step in honesty, acknowledgement, openness? Only you can say.

[Restarting]

Not an easy realization. Humbling.

Hi hardk,

You know how it feels when you finally understand a woman, right?




Yeah, me neither. Just when you think you know everything about your wife…boom! Nope.

But for me, it's not a matter of losing something about my wife that was never really there. It's discovering her real self, and that understanding is revitalizing. The insights drawn in moments like yours are a reminder that not everything we perceive is real. Startling revelations can jolt you into a new reality, one that is more satisfying than some Matrix existence.

You have what I believe is the key to a successful marriage: Trust and Communication.

I am grateful for having earned the trust of my wife for her to share her inner feelings (once she clarified those herself).
I'm happy you seem to have achieved that as well. Bravo!

Once you've digested your newly gained information, I'd encourage you to extend a similar level of trust by sharing your true reaction to it with her. I'd like to think she would appreciate it. Leaning into the trust and communication can produce closeness that can spiral to unimaginable heights.

Please keep your reports coming. I'm enthralled.

T

[hardk]

Love your writing, your expression, your honesty. Keep it up.

So, as I was reading, before I got to your questions at the end, I was thinking "Wow, what a relief that must be. That it's just deeply a part of her to want other guys. Because it's not driven at all by a sense of lack with you. She's just a little whore - bless her heart." And the fact that you fully allow her to be that part of herself makes you relationship all the more special and irreplaceable.

Reading your other posts where you are excited but hold on tightly I'd been thinking maybe the next step in your journey is surrender. Surrender to her in that the circumstances of your lives which you are both so wonderfully honest about give her the upper hand in a way. Is that perhaps the next step in honesty, acknowledgement, openness? Only you can say.

Hey Amayzed,

When I met my wife, we were classmates in grad school. There were rumors she was a bit of a slut—most of them exaggerated, as rumors tend to be. But the seed was planted. At the time I was in a long-distance relationship and already carrying the early shape of this kink, blurry but persistent. So the idea that this beautiful, quiet Korean-American girl had this rumor following her? That stirred something deep. It wasn’t shame—it was intrigue. I think part of me hoped it was true.

Fast forward to her confession: two bulls, two years, all behind my back. That broke me open in ways I never expected—but what stuck wasn’t just the betrayal. It was how clear she was about why. She said she acted not out of emptiness between us, but because my fantasies had helped open a door she’d been knocking on silently for years. She didn’t cheat to escape me—she fucked them to meet herself. And that’s what hit hardest: that this wasn’t about lack, it was about essence

The way she described it this past week—with that raw honesty, that “truth serum” voice she only seems to find in the heat of being taken—was new. Even she seemed surprised by her own clarity. And now, a few days later, she’s back to being slightly shy about having said it out loud. But I can’t stop replaying it. I think it was one of the most honest things she’s ever said.

As for surrender… yeah. I know that word. Intimately. When she first confessed, I raged. I recoiled. But the more we peeled back the layers, the more I realized: I’d already surrendered years earlier—I just hadn’t known what I was giving up. Suggesting the dating apps three years ago was the moment I handed over the reins. It wasn’t obvious at the time. But looking back, that’s where the power shift began.

And it’s not that I’m some willing cuckold—far from it. I hate the performative humiliation stuff. But I also know, in the bedroom now… I’m not the one in control. I don’t sleep with other women. She sleeps with two men. Regularly. And I’ve noticed how that dynamic bleeds into everything else. The balance of power in a marriage doesn’t remain untouched when one partner becomes sexually non-monogamous and the other doesn’t. It seeps into the margins of things—how you move, what you allow, how you process jealousy.

Truth is, resisting it now feels more artificial than letting it happen. But that surrender? It comes with a cost. I’ve had to grieve an identity—the man who once believed he was the only one. The only one who touched her, saw her climax, came inside her. That man is gone. And I miss him, even as I grow into the one I’ve become.

And yeah, her sexuality does have the upper hand. That’s not a complaint. It’s just a fact. She’s always been sexually intense, but this last year—this shift into owning it out loud, owning it even with me right beside her—it’s different. I still feel like I’m catching up. She sends photos now. She whispers filthy things during sex. She talks openly about coming hard with another man in her ass while I’m inside her. This is a woman who, a few years ago, would’ve blushed at the idea of a sexy selfie. Now she’s texting photos to a man she lets cum in her monthly. While lying next to me. That’s not just her becoming bolder. That’s evolution.

And somewhere along the way, I realized something I hadn’t wanted to name.

I’ve become… submissive. And out in the world, in the last guy anyone would call submissive. Contrary to the impression I give here…

When I say I’ve notice a submissive tendency, I don’t mean in the traditional sense. I don’t crave being degraded. I don’t want to be caged, or made to wear something ridiculous, or to be “put in my place.” But I’ve come to realize that emotionally, sexually, energetically—I’ve given her the upper hand, and I’ve done so willingly. Because I want her. I want what she brings back. I want her to go, to come home fucked raw and radiant, and to choose me again. That choosing—it’s the closest I’ve come to feeling sacred in this arrangement.

But to want that, to crave it, means I’m not the one steering. It’s submission of a different sort. Not enacted through ritual, but lived through vulnerability. I get aroused imagining her with them. I get turned on knowing I’m not enough—not in the sense of lack, but in the sense of completion. I’m part of what makes her whole. Not all of it. And that’s humbling. Sometimes exhilarating. Sometimes devastating.

A few weeks ago, I brought this up to her. I told her I thought I was occupying a more submissive posture. She barely blinked. Just smiled and said, “I know. And I like the more dominant role I hold.”

That response gutted me—in the best way. Because she saw it. And she liked it. And I felt both owned and safe.

And yet, I know she’s still sexually submissive with her bulls. She likes to be dominated in bed. So now I’m left in this strange, liminal space: the husband who’s emotionally submissive, while the other men she fucks take the physical lead. What I worry about—what I think about constantly—is whether that contrast will kill her desire for me. Whether leaning into this more will tip the scale too far and make me less of a man in her eyes. That’s the razor’s edge I walk daily.

So do I want to deepen the surrender? Sometimes, yes. But I also fear what that looks like. I’m playing with fire. Because the more I surrender, the more I need her to wield that power with care. I need her to protect me in that space, not because I’m weak—but because I’m open. That openness? That’s where my submission lives now.

Thank you again for putting your finger on something I’m just starting to name out loud. You didn’t just comment—you held up a mirror.

[subtoall]

Your ability to articulate your thoughts and feelings with such nuance is so refreshing. Please keep posting. Amazing.

What I worry about—what I think about constantly—is whether that contrast will kill her desire for me. Whether leaning into this more will tip the scale too far and make me less of a man in her eyes. That’s the razor’s edge I walk daily.

So do I want to deepen the surrender? Sometimes, yes. But I also fear what that looks like. I’m playing with fire. Because the more I surrender, the more I need her to wield that power with care. I need her to protect me in that space, not because I’m weak—but because I’m open. That openness? That’s where my submission lives now.

I think a serious conversation with your wife about these fears is warranted. You deserve some peace of mind around this. I hope she can be truly honest about herself vis a vis your fears. To be able to lean into this with authentic reassurance that you're safe in doing so would be exquisite... that is if such safety ever truly exists.

[mrglad2cu2]

Hi hardly
Congratulations on a very well written explanation of your relationship. It is like being there. It is going to be interesting in how long it will take you to go down on her after her bulls have finished with her. It seems like that is your final step of surrender. Also a great final orgasm for her. The ultimate quest to have a wife who is such a great communicator like you are. A soulmates journey.
Good luck with your futures together.

[safado]

I've read it all. A very good recounting. You really explore the dominance and submission side of it.
My ex didn't do near the things your wife is doing, only two men, one was a one-night stand, the other an affair that lasted four years.
Like your wife, she embraced the domination aspect of it, and in particular used it to suppress the cheating I had done in the past. It worked! I had no desire to cheat while my ex was fucking another man and telling me all about it.

I am concerned that it seems a little bit "out of control" but you be the judge of that.

[venus-can99]

hardk such a nuanced and reflective post laying bare the layers and the emotional roller-coaster that you are on after your wife visits her bull. One thing is clear though that you make her whole. With you there is no pretense unlike what she does with her 2 bulls.
As far as you surrendering power, you put it very well, the power dynamic has shifted.

In spite of her confidence and the liberation she feels, IMO she is still very much shackled to the way men have defined a woman's sexual desires as being a "whore".

I was hoping that she might send the gym pic to the cyclist

[54321]

This is an amazing thread. So honest and open. Thank you.

54321

[BallSpanking]

Lucky man, she is beautiful!
You write well.
I can understand the knot in your stomach when you know she is giving herself to her bulls.
It would seem to me creampies would be a natural and intimate progression in the reclaiming.

Hey BallSpanking, thanks for chiming in and for the kind words. My wife really is beautiful—and your inquiry on creampies has definitely got me thinking about how it all fits into what we do.

I’ll admit, it’s a head-spinning mix of arousal and inner turmoil. On one hand, imagining—or knowing—another man’s cum is still inside my wife makes my mind reel with a thousand erotic images. It’s unbelievably hot, but also a jab to the gut at times, because it’s raw and real. I really do feel a lot of jealousy around this at times. 

I had a vasectomy some time ago, while all of this was still fantasy, so there was no risk for us in our own bedroom, which meant condoms weren’t a concern for us personally. In fact we rarely used them while dating and even married. All our kids were essentially spontaneous because of this. 

Considering your ongoing description of the sexual dynamic in your marriage ... I wonder how you've been able to hold back from reclaiming her orally. It seems like a very natural progression to her growing identity as an increasingly confident Madonna/Whore HotWife.
Once it happens, I think it will open a whole new level of intimacy between you, and my hunch is that, especially she, will come to love/crave that dynamic.

[Angsty Cuck]

Does she know how jealous it makes you?

[David52]

Perhaps the computer generated images are discretionary? The story seems real to me