The fabric of this blouse is so damn tight, it’s like a second skin, hugging every curve of my tits. I can feel the seams digging into my flesh, reminding me of how exposed I am. My husband’s hands are all over me, adjusting the neckline to make sure my cleavage is on full display. ‘Perfect,’ he murmurs, his fingers lingering on my nipples, making them harden beneath the thin material. I know exactly what he’s thinking—he wants everyone at the party to see what a slutty hotwife he has. The thought sends a thrill through me, a mix of excitement and humiliation. I’m his trophy, his plaything, and he wants to show me off. As I step out of the car, I can feel the eyes on me, the whispers, the stares. It’s a rush, knowing that every man there is imagining what’s underneath this blouse, what they’d do to me if they could. And that’s exactly what my husband wants—me to be the center of attention, the object of desire. I’m his hotwife, and tonight, I’m going to be the star of the show.
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