Erica can't understand why her
husband looks at erotic websites. Why does he ogle other naked women when he
can look at her? He's particularly fascinated with hotwife movies, and he won't
stop pushing until he can watch her having screaming-hot sex with a massive BBC
bull! Will she give in to his perverse desire? Does she really have any choice?
~~~~~
Excerpt ~~~~~
Butterflies
were beating their wings in my stomach. Peter wasn’t the only one excited; I
was being given permission to flirt with another man, something I hadn’t done
in years. Not only flirt, but do it in front of my husband, who would be
getting more and more excited the longer I flirted. In the end, I’d get a
beautiful dinner and a night at an exclusive hotel. I felt so excited it had to
be wrong; I shouldn’t be excited about talking to another man, promising him
sexual favors he’d never have. Yet, that’s what my husband wanted more than
anything, and I knew how excited it made him, and what I’d get out of it, in
the end.
I
giggled to myself, “in the end.” That’s where I’d get it, too. I started hoping
that some impossibly beautiful businessman would try to pick me up while Peter
watched. Maybe my husband would get so excited we wouldn’t even make it to the
restaurant, he’d just take me right up to the room.
I
started preparing with a long, hot bath. I already knew what I was going to
wear: a dress designed to excite my husband. On a whim, I also decided to shave
myself. I’d already done my legs and, with the help of a pair of scissors, a
small mirror, and a fresh blade, I removed all my pubic hair. I thought I’d
look like a little girl but when I gazed in the mirror I saw that I looked very
much like a grown woman’s. Not only a grown woman, but a sexually aroused one.
As
I dried off, it became obvious how aroused I was. The whole of idea of flirting
with some handsome businessman and then making love with my husband got to me.
I was physically ready for Peter right then.
I
did something I hadn’t done since we married. Rooting around in my bottom drawer,
I found my old trusty vibrator. It hadn’t been used in years and I was sure the
batteries would be dead, but it sprang to life, and just the feel of those
vibrations against my hand brought back memories of secret release I’d enjoyed
when I had no other outlet.
After
wiping it clean with a wet nap and quickly patting it dry, I ran the machine
against my freshly shaven mound. The lack of hair increased my sensitivity in
ways I hadn’t foreseen, and the vibrations felt wonderful as they touched me. I
was hoping for some relief; I was hoping the vibrator would “take the edge
off,” so to speak. It didn’t. All I did was excite myself even further, causing
a throbbing sensation that would not go away. In fact, it didn’t go away for
hours. All that time, I was acutely aware of my own genitals.
