Hotwife Encounter

My husband wrote his version of this event a few months ago. I figured I’d write a version from my perspective.

This was a night that we spent in a libertine club in Paris. At the time it was one of the hottest nights of my life.

It started as dirty talk.

Not after. Not before. But during—while his cock was deep inside me, while his hands gripped my hips like reins and his breath warmed my ear in ragged bursts. His voice was calm, but low and dark, heavy with something deeper than lust. “Tell me about the men who used you,” he said. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command.

I clenched around him involuntarily. My breath caught in my throat. I didn’t want to answer—not because I was afraid of what he’d think, but because I was afraid of what it would do to me. What it always did to me. I hated how much I wanted to say the words, to offer up the names, the acts, the raw memories like an offering. I whispered them one by one, describing how they’d taken me, how they’d made me come, how many cocks had filled me, how many hands had pulled my hair, spread my thighs, used me like a slut.

He never stopped thrusting, never broke rhythm, but I felt it in the way his body changed. He fucked deeper. Slower. More deliberate. His cock hardened more inside me, thick with possession, with ownership. It was like every filthy thing I confessed didn’t threaten him—it fed him. That was the beginning. The point where his quiet fantasy, long buried under years of calm control, ignited into something real between us. Something alive. Something dangerous.

He’s 53—older, deliberate, a man who commands not with shouting, but with stillness. He doesn’t raise his voice, because he doesn’t need to. His control is total. When he looks at me, I feel smaller, quieter, exposed. His cock is modest—slightly below average in size—but it never matters. He knows how to use it, knows how to fuck me in ways that make me feel owned. He doesn’t overwhelm with length or girth. He overwhelms with precision, with intent.

I’m 37. Disciplined. Strong from daily Pilates, tight in all the right places, fit and lean. But beneath the toned body and polished looks, I’m submissive. Craving. Not for romance or soft words—but for control, for shame, for the dangerous thrill of being desired by strangers. I like being watched. I like being craved. I like being used. And I hate that I like it.

Designer lingerie is a ritual for me. I’m (or rather my husband is) a sucker for Agent Provocateur, Bordelle or Aubade. Black lace, expensive, delicate. Thongs with intricate embroidery, sheer bras that barely contain me. Garters and stockings clipped beneath my dresses, worn even on the days when no one but him sees. He chooses my wardrobe. I wear what he tells me. I don’t argue. I don’t want to.

That night in Paris, he chose everything. My dress was black and skintight, hugging every curve like it was painted on. The hem hit high on the thigh. I wore my black Louboutin heels. My long dark hair cascaded over my shoulders in soft waves. My makeup was bold—smoky eyes and full, red, wet lips.

We entered the Libertine club. At the bar, I ordered a French 75—gin, lemon, and champagne. A drink that sparkled on my tongue like sex. He ordered beer. We sat close. His hand never left my thigh. Men stared. Not politely. Not subtly. They stared like they were starving, and I was the feast. I pretended not to notice, but he knew better.

“You like them looking at you,” he said, his voice low against my ear. I stiffened slightly, heart racing. I didn’t answer.

His hand slipped under my dress, fingers brushing the bare skin where panties should have been. “Tell me the truth,” he said.

“Yes,” I whispered, shame heating my cheeks.

“You want them to fuck you?”

The question made my stomach twist. I didn’t want to want it—but I did. “Yes,” I breathed, the word like a confession.

In the playroom, the air was thick with sweat and sex. Bodies moved in the shadows. A couple moaned loudly from the large bed in the center, hips slapping in rhythm. Without a word, he pushed me to my knees. Unzipped. Pulled out his cock and fed it to me with deliberate force. I sucked him like I was trained to. Deep. Sloppy. Obedient. My spit coated his shaft, tears smearing my mascara as he held me down and fucked my mouth.

A couple approached. Curious. Hands reached for my back, my ass, my thigh. I panicked, recoiling. It was too much, too fast. He didn’t scold me. Didn’t say a word. He simply pulled me to my feet, kissed my forehead like a master calming a frightened pet, and turned me around. He bent me over, lifted my dress, slid the thin lace aside, and entered me in one long, brutal stroke.

I moaned—loud, filthy, desperate. He fucked me hard. Possessive. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me back onto his cock as if I belonged nowhere else. My breasts bounced in their sheer bra, heels scraping against the floor. The world narrowed to the heat between my legs and the unrelenting rhythm of his thrusts.

Then he appeared.Older. Fat. Ugly.

He had thinning silver hair, a bloated belly, and a red, sweaty face. He looked like someone’s grandfather. His cock was already in his hand—thick, veined, and disgusting. My first instinct was revulsion. But then I felt my husband’s presence behind me, steady, solid.

He looked at the man.Then he looked at me. And he nodded allowing me permission.

I swallowed hard. My heart pounded. My hand reached for the old man’s cock, wrapping around it. It felt wrong. Heavy. Hot. Real. I stroked it slowly, obediently, while my husband fucked me from behind.

The man moaned. His eyes were wild, locked on the spot where my husband’s cock disappeared into me. He reached for my tit. Groping me roughly

It was all getting too much I was losing myself

The man moved my hand away, inching closer to me, before motioning for me to suck his cock. At that point, my husband intervened and waved the man away. He abruptly put a stop to proceedings, whispering to me that the ugly man ‘was not worthy of my mouth.’

“That’s enough,” he said.

The man hesitated, still panting, cock twitching in his hand.

“Go,” my husband added. And the man did. Denied. Ashamed. Still hard.

At that point I do not think I’d ever loved my husband more.

I stood there, legs shaking, panties damp and twisted, breath ragged. My lipstick was smeared, my thighs slick with need. My fingers were still wet from touching another man. But I had never felt more owned.

My husband fixed my dress with care. Smoothed my hair. Kissed my temple softly.

“You enjoy being used,” he murmured.

I didn’t deny it. Because it was true.

Back at the bar, I drank another cocktail. trembling silence. He sipped his beer, calm and composed. His hand found mine, strong and reassuring.

“You’re mine,” he said. “And I’ll share you… only when I say.”

I nodded. Because being his slut—desired, humiliated, controlled, and protected—was exactly what I needed.Even if it shamed me. Especially because it did.