Betrayed by Her Touch: My Wife's Thighs on His Lap

So there I am, straddling his lap, my black dress riding up as I shift, feeling his hardness press against me. His hand, rough and demanding, grips my thigh, fingers digging in like he owns me. I can almost hear his thoughts, ‘She’s mine tonight, my little slut.’ The room is thick with tension, the air heavy with unspoken promises. His other hand, I know, is probably already imagining what it’ll feel like to spank my ass, to claim me fully. I’m a hotwife, his for the taking, and he knows it. The way his eyes bore into me, even though I can’t see them, I can feel them. He’s undressing me with his gaze, imagining all the filthy things he’s going to do to me. And I’m here for it, my body already aching with anticipation. This is what I live for, the thrill of being his, of being used, of being his little whore. The jeans are tight, constricting, but I can feel the heat, the promise of what’s to come. He’s a bull, a real man, and I’m his plaything. I can almost taste the whiskey on his breath, the scent of his cologne, the raw, primal need that radiates from him. I’m his, and he’s going to take me, hard and rough, just the way I like it. The room spins, the world narrows to just us, and I know, without a doubt, that tonight, I’m his to command.