Even after ten years in the hotwife lifestyle, some nights still hit different. Some nights stir up a nervous energy between us that feels brand new, like we’re crossing a fresh line even after a decade of pushing boundaries together. This night was one of those.
She’d only met Rob a couple of times before. There was something raw between them, something unpredictable. So when he asked her to meet him again—and told her to show up wearing nothing but a long coat and lingerie underneath—it lit a fire in both of us. She was nervous, genuinely so. This was more exposed than usual, more daring. But she was also excited. I could see it in her eyes as she tried on different lingerie sets, debating which made her feel the sluttiest in the best way.
We settled on a black set, and her long coat. She looked like pure trouble—and I couldn’t stop touching her as we headed out the door.
I drove her to his house.
The car ride was quiet at first. There was tension in the air—good tension. Her legs were crossed tightly, hands fidgeting in her lap. I reached over and held her thigh, and she gave me that nervous smile. That look that says, “I can’t believe I’m really doing this.” But she was. She was walking into another man’s house practically naked under that coat, ready to let him have her.
“You okay?” I asked.
She nodded, then whispered, “Turned on. Nervous. I feel so exposed.”
“That’s what makes it hot,” I told her.
She leaned over and kissed me softly before getting out. “I’ll message you when I’m ready,” she said. And then she walked down his path to his front door, and disappeared inside.
I drove away, hard as a rock and completely consumed with what was about to happen.
Waiting for her to message felt like torture—in the best possible way. I played out a thousand versions in my head. Him opening the door, pulling her coat open, seeing that little set underneath. Her breath catching as he pressed her into the hallway wall. The way she said he had a habit of being a little rough with her, how she liked that.
When she finally texted, “Can you come get me?” my heart rate jumped.
She slid into the passenger seat looking exhausted in the sexiest way. Hair a mess. Still wearing just that coat.
Neither of us spoke for a few seconds.
Then I asked, “So?”
She looked over at me, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. “That was fucking intense.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Tell me everything.”
So she did.
How he didn’t even let her finish speaking when he opened the door. How he pulled the coat open and just stared for a second before grabbing her and dragging her into the kitchen. He didn’t bother taking her to the bedroom. She told me he took her right there on the kitchen stool, hands on her throat, his breath on her neck. Fast. Hard. Deep. Like he needed to claim her again and again.
She told me there was a moment when her legs nearly gave out—gripping the stool, and the way he was fucking her… it was overwhelming. She felt like her whole body might give in. But instead of stopping, he grabbed her tighter, anchoring her, driving even deeper. When he finally came, he didn’t pull out right away. He stayed buried inside her, breathing hard against her neck, savouring the moment.
That night, as I undressed her again in our own bed, still smelling of him, still shaking from what she’d done, I realised something:
I hadn’t just dropped my wife off to fuck another man.
I’d delivered her to an experience she craved, and I got to be the one who picked up the dripping, glowing, fucked-out version of her afterward—and bring her back home.
To this day, she still can’t stop talking about that night—how every detail plays over and over in her mind like her favorite kind of addiction. The way she describes it, the intensity, the raw heat—it’s like we’re both reliving it again and again. And honestly, hearing her voice get that little husky edge when she tells me what happened turns me on like nothing else.
And thats why I love this lifestyle.