My Husband Wants a Hotwife

Is he weird, or am I on to a good thing?

I didn’t even know what a hotwife was.

“Just play along,” my husband had insisted.

It was a Saturday morning and we were naked, in bed, his hand gently caressing my inner thigh. Whispering softly in my ear, he described a scenario where he took me to a hotel and slowly undressed me, down to my sexiest lingerie. Then he bound my hands behind my back, and covered my eyes with a silky blindfold.

By the time his fingers parted my lips, I was soaking wet. Then, through his words, a second man entered the room.

“Wait, stop — what?”

“Don’t break the mood.”

His story continued, with me listening to the sound of a belt being unbuckled, and waiting eagerly on the edge of the bed for the stranger to approach.

“Wait, stop. Stop.” I held his hand firm. “Seriously?”

“Just listen.”

“You want me to believe you’d really let another man — ”

“It’s fantasy.”

I relaxed my grip on his wrist as my husband’s fictional character did what he was inevitably going to do, but as I listened to how much I was apparently enjoying it, I found myself blocking out his voice.

Why would he be saying these things? Why would my husband describe me with another man in such a way? Am I not worth being possessive over? Does he want us to see other people? Does he want to see other people, and this is his way of justifying it?

Has he already been seeing other people?

I faked an orgasm and abruptly got up, making my excuses as I ran to the bathroom.

“Is everything okay? I think we should talk about — ”

“It’s fine. I’ve just got some errands to run. We don’t need to talk about it,” I told him.

The truth was, I didn’t want to talk about it. But for the rest of the morning as I drove around town, I could think of nothing else.

I returned home, put the shopping away, and made myself a coffee. My husband was out with friends, as I knew he would be by this point in the day.

I curled up on the couch in front of the TV, but couldn’t bring myself to switch it on. Too many thoughts swirled around my mind.

Did my husband really mean those things he said? Would he really sit back and watch me with another man? I mean, what would he get out of that? And that word, hotwife — had he made it up himself? I found myself reaching for my phone.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so naïve, but I was shocked to be confronted with all manner of graphic, filthy images. I scrolled a little, but it was too much for me.

I had conducted only the smallest amount of research, but one thing was immediately clear — this was a real fantasy, that real men had. Lots of them, it seemed. But could my husband really want me to do those things? To cheat on him?

I tried to put it in a positive light. One thing that stood out from five minutes of captions and quickly muted audio was the fact these men seemed to get off on their wives’ pleasure, no matter who was giving it them. This, I had to concede, was flattering — in theory.

It was pretty clear that this fantasy didn’t indicate problems with our relationship. If anything, quite the opposite. Maybe my husband felt that I could remain committed to him, no matter who had access to my body?

I wondered if I could ever be as trusting. My initial fears of his adultery had already long evaporated, almost as soon as they appeared. But I don’t think I could ever be comfortable with the idea of seeing him with someone else.

This though, wasn’t what he had been hinting at. Hotwives weren’t swingers, as far as I could tell — not necessarily, anyway. They simply got their cake, and their husbands watched them eat it. Or even just listened to how delicious it had been when they got home from the restaurant.

I imagined this scenario being presented to me back when I was a single woman. Suddenly, it seemed ideal — its only flaw was the fact it was utterly implausible! And yet, here was my husband presenting me with the idea.

The more I thought, the more at ease I felt, and the more relaxed my body became. The images I’d seen returned to mind, and my imagination started to wake up.

I tried to remember my husband’s words, the ones I’d blocked out. He had watched as I’d taken this man’s big, thick cock — his own description — inside my mouth. And he had watched as I had been bent over on the bed, my hands bound behind my back, with this stranger sliding his length deep inside me.

This stranger was thicker and longer than my husband — he had stressed this. At the time I’d found this one of the strangest comments of all, but now.

Now I was imagining two large hands on my hips as a cock parted my lips and pushed its way inside me. Bigger, thicker — like my ex. God. But no, longer still, because he had said this was the deepest any man had ever been inside me.

And all the while I was making eye contact with my husband. When had my blindfold come off? Who had removed it? I hadn’t listened, it didn’t matter. My husband was masturbating at the sight of my pleasure.

This man, who had been tossing me around the bed like a ragdoll, was coming inside me — and this had been the point I’d faked my orgasm. A wasted opportunity, I realised now. Where would things have gone from there? Would my husband have wanted to reclaim me?

God, would he want go down on me?

Would I want that?

I realised my fingers had found their way under my jumper-dress and I was imagining my own juices were those of a stranger as my husband got down between my thighs.

One of my earliest kinks during sex, before I’d even learned how to orgasm, was the sense of satisfaction I got when I felt a man reaching climax inside me. Now, the idea of sharing this feeling with my husband, so intimately, raised a heat within that I hadn’t experienced for years.

I longed for another man’s cum as I convinced myself my fingers were my husband’s tongue, and before I knew it I was home alone, on the couch, screaming in ecstasy.

Some time passed before I even remembered what had happened. The orgasm had been so intense I had no idea how I’d ended up in my position, horizontal and almost falling off the couch. I took a deep breath and calmed myself.

Finally, when I knew I was capable of doing so, I sat up.

I thought for a moment, but no more than a moment — my mind was set. Whether he wanted one for real or not, my husband was getting a hotwife.

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