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I remember the way the lace felt against my skin, teasing me with the promise of what was to come. I had told myself nothing would happen, but the way I dressed, the way I pulled my shorts down just enough to show off the pink lace thong, it was all a lie. I wanted it to happen. I wanted to be caught, to be desired, to be taken. The memory of my husband’s eyes on me, the way his breath hitched as he saw the trimmed pussy peeking out from under the lace, it still makes me wet. I was his hotwife, his little slut, and I loved every second of it. The way I pulled the thong to the side, exposing myself to him, it was an invitation, a challenge. I wanted to see the hunger in his eyes, to feel his hands on me, to be used and pleasured. And oh, how he did. The way he took me, the way he made me beg, it was everything I had dreamed of and more. I was his, completely and utterly, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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