Her husband books the hotel suite, chooses the stranger and takes the armchair by the window. All $name1 has to do is let go and become a hotwife for the very first time, while he watches every second.
The suite was on the ninth floor, and from the window you could see the whole river, black and gold with the city lights. Tom had booked it three weeks ago. He had booked everything three weeks ago.
$name1, 29, stood in the middle of the room in a navy silk slip and felt her pulse in her throat.
“You can still say no,” Tom said. He was 31, in a pressed shirt, sitting in the wide leather armchair he had dragged across the carpet and angled toward the bed. “Right up until the end. You know that.”
“I know.” She looked at the bed. It was enormous. “What if I’m bad at it?”
He laughed, and it loosened something in her. “You’ve never been bad at it in your life.”
They had talked about it for a year. At first it had been a joke in bed, a dirty little what-if whispered while he was inside her. Then it had stopped being a joke. Then there had been rules, and a dating profile, and a dozen coffees with men who were wrong, and finally one who was not.
His name was Elliot. He was 34, a climbing instructor with forearms like rope and a calm, patient voice. At their coffee he had asked $name1 what she liked and actually listened. Then he had turned to Tom and asked, “And where will you be?”
“In the chair,” Tom had said.
Elliot had nodded as if that were the most normal thing in the world.
The knock came at nine exactly.
$name1’s stomach flipped. Tom stood, kissed her on the forehead and went back to his chair without a word. She had to open the door herself. That had been his idea. She had to choose to let him in.
Elliot was in a dark jumper and jeans. He smelled of cold air and cedar. He looked at her in the slip, slowly, all the way down and all the way back up, and said, “Hi, $name1.”
“Hi.”
“You look nervous.”
“I am.”
“Good,” he said gently. “So am I, a bit.” He looked past her to Tom and nodded. “Evening.”
“Evening,” Tom said. His voice was not quite steady.
There was wine. There was a strange, polite ten minutes on the sofa where they talked about nothing, and $name1 was aware every second of Tom’s eyes on her. Of where her knee was. Of Elliot’s arm along the back of the sofa, not quite touching her shoulders.
Then Elliot put his glass down and said, quietly, “Can I kiss you?”
She looked at Tom. She could not help it.
Tom nodded once.
“Don’t look at him,” Elliot said. “Look at me. He’s already said yes. Now you have to.”
She turned back. “Yes.”
His mouth was warm and unhurried. He kissed her like he had all night, which he did, his hand coming up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek. It was nothing like Tom’s kiss. Different rhythm, different taste, different everything, and the strangeness of it went straight to her pussy. She heard herself sigh into his mouth.
Across the room, the leather of the armchair creaked.
Elliot’s hand slid down her throat, over her collarbone, and stopped on the swell of her breast through the silk. He waited. She arched into his palm, and he took that as permission, squeezing gently, rolling her nipple between his finger and thumb until it was hard and aching.
“Take this off for me,” he murmured against her ear.
She stood up. Her legs felt light. She slid the straps off her shoulders and let the slip fall to the carpet, and then she was naked in a hotel room with a man who was not her husband, and her husband was watching from six feet away.
Elliot did not touch her for a moment. He just looked. “Christ,” he said softly. Then, over her shoulder, to Tom: “You’re a lucky man.”
“I know,” Tom said hoarsely.
Elliot took her to the bed. He laid her down on her back near the edge, knelt on the floor between her knees, and kissed his way up the inside of her thigh. Slowly. Too slowly. By the time his breath was on her pussy she was lifting her hips toward him without meaning to.
“Look at him now,” Elliot said.
She turned her head on the pillow. Tom was leaning forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, his face flushed. There was a hard bulge in his trousers and he was not even pretending to hide it.
Elliot licked her.
One long, flat stroke from her hole to her clit, and $name1 cried out. He did it again. Then he settled in, his tongue circling her clit, his lips sealing round it and sucking softly, two fingers sliding inside her and curling up against the spot that made her toes clench. He ate her like it was the only thing he had come to do, steady and filthy and relentless, the wet sounds of it loud in the quiet suite.
She kept her eyes on Tom. She could not stop. Watching him watch her was like a second tongue.
“Tom,” she gasped. “Tom, he’s going to make me come.”
“Let him,” Tom said. He had his cock out now, gripping it in his fist, not stroking, just holding on. “Let him, baby. I want to see it.”
She came with her husband’s name in her mouth and another man’s tongue in her cunt. It ripped through her, her thighs clamping around Elliot’s head, her back bowing off the bed, a long helpless moan pouring out of her. Elliot held her hips down and kept licking through it until she was twitching and pushing at his hair.
He stood up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and pulled his jumper over his head. His body was lean and hard. He unbuckled his jeans and pushed them down, and his cock sprang free, long and thick and curved up toward his stomach, the head swollen and shining.
$name1 stared. So did Tom.
“Come here,” Elliot said.
She crawled to the edge of the bed on her hands and knees and took him in her hand. He was hot and heavy and her fingers did not meet around him. She licked the bead of precum off the tip, tasting salt, then wrapped her lips around the head and sank down as far as she could. Not far. He was too big. She sucked what she could fit, stroking the rest with her fist, spit running down to her knuckles, and Elliot groaned and stroked her hair.
“Turn her so you can see,” Elliot said to Tom, and it took a second for $name1 to realise he meant her. He guided her round on the bed so her profile faced the armchair. So Tom could see every inch of that cock sliding in and out of his wife’s stretched mouth.
Tom made a low, wrecked sound.
When Elliot pulled back, she was panting, lips swollen, chin wet. He rolled on a condom from the nightstand and pushed her down onto her back, hooking her knees over his forearms and spreading her wide.
The head of his cock pressed against her. She was soaked, still pulsing from the first orgasm, and still it was a stretch. He pushed in an inch and stopped. Another inch. She gasped and grabbed his arms.
“Breathe,” he said. “Tell him how it feels.”
“Big,” she moaned, turning her face toward the chair. “Tom, he’s so big. He’s stretching me open. I can feel all of it.”
“More,” Tom whispered.
Elliot gave her more. Slowly, all the way, until his hips were flush against her thighs and he was buried in her to the root, and $name1 lay there with her mouth open and her eyes wide, impaled on him, feeling herself throb around a cock that was not her husband’s for the first time in seven years.
Then he started to fuck her.
Long, slow strokes at first. Pulling almost all the way out so Tom could see the length of him glistening, then sinking back in until she whimpered. The bed rocked. Her tits bounced with each thrust. He angled his hips and found the place deep inside her that made her see white, and he hammered it, again and again, until she was clawing at the sheets and swearing.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck me, oh God, don’t stop.”
He did not stop. He folded her in half, her knees up by her shoulders, and fucked down into her hard and deep, his balls slapping her arse, the wet obscene sound of her pussy taking him filling the room. She came again, suddenly and violently, squirting round his cock and soaking the sheet beneath her, and she screamed it.
In the chair, Tom was stroking himself fast now, his eyes locked on the place where Elliot’s cock disappeared into his wife.
Elliot pulled out, flipped her onto her front, dragged her hips up and slid into her from behind. He fisted her hair and turned her head so she was looking straight at Tom.
“Tell him what you are,” he growled.
She did not even hesitate. “I’m your hotwife,” she gasped at her husband. “I’m your hotwife and he’s fucking me so much better than you. I love it. I love it, Tom.”
Tom came with a groan, spilling over his fist, his whole body shuddering in the chair.
Seeing that pushed her over again. She came a third time, sobbing, and Elliot drove into her hard four more times and held deep, his cock jerking inside her as he filled the condom, grunting into her shoulder.
For a long minute nobody moved.
Then Elliot eased out, kissed the back of her neck and murmured, “Thank you.” He dressed without hurry. At the door he shook Tom’s hand. Tom had to wipe it on his trousers first, and all three of them laughed, a little shakily.
The door clicked shut.
$name1 lay sprawled on the wet sheets, used and glowing, her thighs trembling. Tom crossed the room and climbed onto the bed beside her and just held her.
“Well?” he said into her hair.
She laughed, and then she kissed him, hard, and pulled his hand down between her legs so he could feel how swollen and open another man had left her.
“Same time next month,” she whispered. “And this time you book the chair a little closer.”