Mike and I had always been good together—loyal, sweet, domestic in that cozy way that happens after a few years of marriage. But sexually? Something had shifted. Or maybe something had finally awakened. The jokes started innocently enough—me teasing him about his size, him getting red-faced and flustered in that frustrated, adorable, submissive way he does. Then the jokes turned into late-night pillow talk. And the pillow talk turned into fantasies. Then… silence.

Not awkward silence. Just the kind that lingers when you both know what’s being said without saying it.

One night, while he was kneeling between my thighs with his little cock in its stainless steel cage—licking me with that eager, tongue-only worship—I said it out loud for the first time.

“I want more.”

He looked up, eyes wide, lips glossy. “More?”

“I want to feel stretched. Filled. Taken by a man who can give me what you can’t.”…

The front door clicked shut behind me, and I said it the same way I always did, playful and sing-song, my voice laced with excitement and mischief.

“Honey, I’m home… and I brought a present for you.”

I heard the rustle of the couch and Adam’s eager footsteps just as I was kicking off my heels. My dress was still clinging to my thighs, the scent of sweat and sex heavy in the air around me. My panties? Long gone—somewhere on the floor of a Tinder guy’s car.

Adam’s face appeared around the corner, his expression as sweet and hungry as ever. I didn’t even give him a moment to ask how it went. I just smiled, grabbed his hand, and guided him toward the bedroom like I was unwrapping a surprise.

“I want you to clean me,” I whispered, tugging him close once the bedroom door closed behind us. “Clean my dirty pussy.”

That same phrase, over and over, date after date—it had become our ritual. My favorite part, if I’m being honest. Better than the drinks, better than the dick, even better than the orgasm the other guy gave me. Coming home to Adam? That’s where the real magic lives.…

It started like a thousand other nights where we flirted with the idea of more.
David and I had talked about it — the fantasy of seeing me flirt, seeing another man want me, the rush of feeling wanted and watched at the same time. But talk is just talk until you’re sitting at the dimly lit hotel bar, your hand lazily stirring a cocktail while your husband watches you openly seduce another man. Hell, I didn't even know if I could anymore. Was I even sexy? But then it happened...

The guy was gorgeous. Tall, tan, confident but not cocky. He caught my eye immediately.
David saw it too. He smiled that little knowing smile of his — the one that said go get him, baby.
And so I did.

I leaned into the stranger’s space, laughing a little louder, touching his forearm as I made some ridiculous joke. I was shamelessly flirty in a way I never allowed myself to be before.
David watched — quiet, calm, and god, if I didn't see a spark of something raw flicker behind those strong blue eyes. A mix of jealousy, lust, and pure adrenaline.

I didn’t have to drag the stranger along. When I suggested we go somewhere “a little more private,” he practically leapt off his barstool.
His hotel room was just a few floors up — same building, just a short elevator ride away.

As we piled into the elevator, there was this electric tension.
I teased David: "You sure you want to come with us, honey? We could leave you at the bar…"

But he shook his head, a little breathless.
"No. I want to watch."…