How a Pair of Expensive Heels Led to the Best Cheating I've Ever Done
I'm Sage, and I don't believe in panties. Well, that's not entirely true—I believe in putting them on so I can soak them through and watch a man's eyes go dark when he realizes what a mess I've made of myself.

That's exactly how it started. Nordstrom. Saturday afternoon. I was trying on these ridiculous red-bottomed heels that cost more than my rent, bending over to adjust the strap, when I felt it—that prickling sensation on the back of my thighs that tells me someone's watching.

I looked up into the mirror and there he was. Silver hair, expensive watch, the kind of weathered hands that looked like they knew how to break a girl in half and make her say thank you. Older. Forty-five, maybe fifty. The kind of man who doesn't ask permission because he's never had to.

He was holding a shopping bag for his wife, probably, but his eyes were locked on my ass. I stayed bent over a second longer than necessary. Let him look.

I bought the shoes. Of course I did. And when I walked past him at the exit, I made sure to brush against his arm. "Worth every penny, don't you think?" I asked, my voice honey-sweet and filthy all at once.

He smiled, slow and dangerous. "Let me buy you lunch. Tell me what else you're buying today."

I should have said no. I had a boyfriend waiting at home—boring, safe, average in every way that matters. But my pussy was already throbbing, already slick, already making that wet spot against my lace thong that I knew he'd love to find.

"Okay," I said. "But I pick the place."

I picked the busiest, most crowded restaurant in the mall. The Cheesecake Factory. Packed with families and tourists and waiters who wouldn't notice if the sky fell down.

What He Didn't Know Was Dripping Down My Thighs
We got a booth in the back, tucked into a corner where the lighting was dim and the tablecloth hung low. Perfect for secrets. He ordered wine I was too young to drink legally, and I ordered water with lemon, and we made small talk about the weather and the stock market and all the things that don't matter when you're sitting across from someone you want to fuck.

Every time he leaned forward, I caught his scent—something expensive and woody, mixed with the faint smell of cigarettes. It made my clit ache. Made me squeeze my thighs together under the table and feel how slippery I was getting.

By the time our appetizers arrived, I was soaked. Not just damp—soaked. My thong was clinging to my lips, and I could feel my own arousal coating my inner thighs. He was telling some story about a conference in Dubai, and I was nodding along, smiling, being a good girl.

But I wasn't a good girl. I never am.

I slipped my hand under the table. Slowly, carefully, so he wouldn't notice. I spread my legs under that white tablecloth and ran my fingers up the inside of my thigh, gathering the wetness there. I was drenched. Absolutely fucking drenched.

I found my clit and circled it once, biting my lip to keep my expression neutral while he talked about quarterly earnings. The waiter walked by with a tray of drinks. A kid at the next booth started crying. And I was rubbing my clit under the table, slow, torturous circles, feeling my pussy clench around nothing, wanting to be filled so badly I could scream.

I kept my eyes locked on his the whole time. Watching him talk, watching his mouth move, imagining it between my legs. I increased the pressure, rubbing faster, my hips shifting almost imperceptibly in the booth seat. I was going to cum. Right here. In public. With a stranger who had no idea I was fingering myself while he explained something boring about mergers.

My orgasm hit me like a wave—sudden, intense, my pussy contracting around my fingers as I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. My legs stiffened. My eyes probably rolled back for a second. I made a small sound—not quite a moan, more like a gasp.

He stopped talking. Looked at me funny. "You okay?"

I didn't answer. I just pulled my hand out from under the table—my fingers glistening, shiny with my own cum—and held them up between us. Then, slowly, deliberately, I reached across the table and pressed them under his nose.

His eyes went wide. Then dark. So fucking dark.

He inhaled. Deeply. His jaw tightened. I saw his cock twitch against his dress pants.

"You little fucking slut," he breathed, his voice rough with shock and lust.

I pulled my fingers back and sucked them clean, right there where anyone could see, tasting myself—sweet and musky and shameless. "Take me somewhere," I said. "Now."

The Soaked Panties That Told Him Everything
There was a Marriott three blocks away. We didn't speak on the walk there. Just his hand on the small of my back, guiding me, his thumb brushing the spot where my spine ended and my ass began. I was trembling. Not from cold. From need. From knowing that I was about to take a cock that wasn't my boyfriend's and love every filthy second of it.

The elevator ride was torture. He pinned me against the mirrored wall the second the doors closed, his mouth crushing mine, his hand sliding up my skirt to find what he already knew was there. His fingers brushed my soaked thong and he groaned into my mouth.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "You're dripping."

"Take them off and see," I challenged.

We stumbled into the room—some generic king suite with a view of a parking lot. I didn't care about the view. I kicked off my new heels and stood in the center of the room while he locked the door, turned back to me, and said, "Strip."

I did it slowly. Teasing. Pulling my dress over my head, letting my tits bounce free—no bra, because why bother? I turned around and bent over, sliding my skirt down, giving him a view of my ass in that lace thong.

When I turned back around, his eyes dropped to my crotch. The thong was ruined. Dark with wetness, clinging to my lips, a visible wet spot that had spread across the front.

"Jesus," he said, stepping closer. He reached out and hooked a finger in the waistband, pulling it away from my skin to look at the damage. "You really were fingering yourself hard at the table, weren't you?"

"Yeah," I whispered, my voice shaking with how turned on I was. "Want to see how wet I can get?"

I didn't wait for an answer. I pushed my hand back into my panties and started fucking myself with two fingers, right there in front of him, my hips rocking, my eyes locked on his. "Watch me," I begged. "Watch what you do to me."

He crossed the room in two strides, grabbed my wrist to pull my hand free, and then he was pushing me backward onto the bed. I fell back and he was on me—kissing up my thighs, biting the sensitive skin there, leaving marks. He ripped my thong off—actually tore it, the lace snapping like a gunshot—and then his mouth was on me.

Fuck.

His tongue was hot and skilled, circling my clit, dipping inside my hole, lapping up everything I'd made for him. I grabbed his silver hair and held on for dear life, grinding against his face, shameless and loud because hotel walls are thick and I didn't care who heard.

He pushed two fingers into me while he sucked my clit, curling them up, finding that spot that made my back arch off the mattress. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, right there, don't stop—"

He didn't stop. He kept eating me, fingering me, stretching me open. I felt myself getting looser, wetter, opening up for him like a flower. I looked down and saw myself—legs spread wide, his face buried between them, my pussy pink and swollen and glistening, clenching around his thick fingers.

"Please," I whimpered. "Please fuck me. I need to feel you inside me."

The Stretch That Ruined Me for My Boyfriend Forever
He crawled up my body, kissing my stomach, my tits, my neck. He was still fully dressed while I was naked and spread beneath him, and that power difference made me even wetter. He stood up at the edge of the bed and unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his cock.

I actually gasped.

He was huge. Thick and long and veiny, the head swollen and dark, already leaking precum. He was easily twice the size of my boyfriend—maybe more. I'd never seen anything like it in real life. Just looking at it made my pussy clench with anticipation and fear.

"You're going to feel this for days," he promised, stroking himself, looking down at me with those predatory eyes. "Every time your boring little boyfriend fucks you, you're going to think about me."

"Yes," I breathed. "Please. I want to feel it."

He grabbed my ankles and lifted my legs, pushing them back toward my head, folding me in half. I was completely exposed—my ass lifted off the bed, my pussy spread open and vulnerable, glistening and ready. He could see everything. He stared down at me for a moment, just admiring the view, his cock twitching in his hand.

Then he pressed the head against my entrance.

I felt it immediately—that hot, thick pressure, the stretch as he started to push inside. My boyfriend had never made me feel stretched. This was different. This was my body being forced to accommodate something it wasn't sure it could take.

"Relax," he commanded. "Take it, Sage. Take all of it."

He pushed forward, slow but relentless, and I felt myself expanding around him—my pussy lips stretching wide, my walls yielding to his thickness. It burned in the best way, a delicious ache that made my toes curl. I looked down and watched him disappear inside me, inch by thick inch, my body somehow taking him, my wetness making it possible.

"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back. "You're so fucking tight. So wet. Goddamn."

When he was fully seated—balls deep, his hips pressed against my ass—he paused, letting me feel it. I was stuffed. Completely, utterly stuffed. I could feel my heartbeat in my clit, feel every throb of his cock inside me. He was hitting places I didn't know existed, pressing against my cervix in a way that should have hurt but somehow felt perfect.

"Move," I begged. "Please, fuck me. I need it."

He started slow—long, deep strokes that dragged his thick ridge against my g-spot with every thrust. I could feel my pussy gripping him, trying to hold him inside, fluttering around his shaft. The wet sounds were obscene—squelching, slapping noises that filled the room, mixed with my moans and his grunts.

"Touch yourself," he ordered. "I want to feel you cum on my cock."

I reached down and found my clit, swollen and sensitive, and started rubbing tight circles. The combination—his huge cock filling me, stretching me, hitting deep, plus my own fingers on my clit—was too much. I started cumming almost immediately, my pussy clamping down on him like a vice, my back arching, my scream tearing out of my throat.

"That's it," he grunted, picking up speed, fucking me harder through my orgasm. "Cum on my cock, you dirty little slut. Milk me. Make me fill you up."

He flipped me over then, pulling out and spinning me like a doll, putting me on my knees and shoving back into me from behind. The angle was different—deeper, harder, hitting that spot that made me see stars. He grabbed my hair and pulled my head back, using it as leverage to pound into me, his hips slapping against my ass, his balls swinging against my clit.

"Who's fucking you?" he demanded. "Say it."

"You are!" I screamed. "You're fucking me! You're so much bigger than him, oh god, please don't stop—"

He growled and fucked me harder, the bed slamming against the wall, my tits bouncing painfully with every thrust. I could feel another orgasm building, deeper this time, more intense. His hand snaked around my throat—not choking, just holding, claiming—and that was it. I came again, harder than before, my vision going white at the edges, my pussy spasming so hard I thought I might push him out.

He roared and slammed into me one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and I felt it—hot, thick spurts of cum flooding my pussy, filling me up, marking me as his. He kept thrusting, milking himself inside me, his cock pulsing with every spurt until he was empty and I was overflowing, his seed dripping down my thighs, mixing with my own wetness.

We collapsed onto the bed, both of us shaking, sweating, ruined.

The Secret I Wear Home
We didn't talk much after. He pulled out and I felt the gush—his cum and mine, running out of me, making a mess on the hotel sheets. I didn't care. I lay there with my legs spread, feeling empty and sore and perfect, watching him get dressed with shaking hands.

"Your boyfriend's a lucky man," he said, adjusting his tie in the mirror. "He just doesn't know it."

I smiled, lazy and satisfied, my fingers trailing through the wet spot beneath me. "He thinks I'm at the mall," I said. "He has no idea I'm full of another man's cum."

He laughed, low and dark, and dropped a business card on the nightstand. "Next time you're shopping," he said, "call me first."

I took the card. I still have it. I've called him three times since.

My boyfriend has no idea why I walk funny after my "shopping trips." No idea why I come home flushed and happy, why I'm suddenly so much tighter when he fucks me, why I close my eyes and cum so much harder than I used to.

I'm thinking about him right now. About that stretch. About being filled and used and owned for an afternoon.

Want to be the reason I have to change my panties twice in one day?

I love making a mess of myself. Love getting so wet I can't think straight, love being stretched and filled and marked by a man who knows what he's doing. If this story made you hard, if you're sitting there aching and imagining how tight I'd feel around you—do something about it.

I'm Sage, and I answer my phone with my hand already down my skirt. Come tell me what you'd do to me in that hotel room. I promise I'll be dripping before you finish your first sentence.

— Sage