Best Hot Wife Phone Sex

Let me be very clear about something before I tell you this story. I am not a wife. I do not have a husband, I do not have a mortgage, and I do not fold anybody's laundry. But if you ask me nicely, and I mean really nicely, I will be your hot wife for one night, and I will give you the best hot wife phone sex fantasy you can possibly imagine. That is exactly what happened at a house party last month, and I am still thinking about it.

My boyfriend at the time, and I use that word loosely because I do not do labels well, had been hinting for weeks that he had this fantasy. He wanted to watch me with someone else. Not in a jealous way, in a completely turned-on way. He said the idea of me being wanted by another man, right in front of him, was the hottest thing he could think of. And me being me, I said fine, but we do it my way, and my way meant a plan.

The plan was a party. His friend was throwing one of those packed house parties where the music is too loud and everybody is drinking out of red cups and nobody notices anything. Perfect cover. I wore the tightest black dress I own, the one that makes men forget how to form sentences, and I told my man the rules before we walked in. He was the husband. I was his hot little wife. And I was going to find someone to misbehave with, right under his nose.

He picked the guy, which was part of the fun. Tall friend of a friend, broad shoulders, the kind of easy grin that said he was up for anything. My man introduced us, and I could feel his hand tighten on my waist when I smiled at the new guy, and that tiny jealous squeeze went straight through me. Oh, this was going to be good.

I spent the next hour doing what I do best, which is being completely irresistible on purpose. I danced near the new guy. I laughed at his jokes like they were the funniest things I had ever heard. I let him get me a drink and I drank it slowly while looking at him over the rim of the cup. And the whole time, I knew exactly where my man was, because I could feel him watching me from across the room like I was the only person at the party. Every time I caught his eye I would smile, sweet and innocent, like I had no idea what I was doing to him.

Eventually the new guy suggested we go somewhere quieter, and I let him lead me upstairs to the guest room like the world's worst-behaved wife. He shut the door and he kissed me, and he was good at it, confident hands and a mouth that knew what it was doing, and I let him push me back onto the bed. His hands were under my dress within a minute, and I was arching into him, and that was when the door opened.

My man walked in, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it with his arms crossed. The new guy froze. I just laughed, because this was my favorite part, and I told the poor confused man that it was fine, that my husband liked to watch. And my man, to his eternal credit, just nodded and said he wanted a better view, and pulled up the desk chair.

What happened next is genuinely one of the hottest things I have ever done. The new guy got his confidence back fast, and he stripped my dress off while my man watched from three feet away, and I have never felt more powerful in my life than I did in that moment, naked between two men who both wanted me so badly they could barely breathe. The new guy went down on me first, and I kept my eyes on my man the entire time, watching him watch me, watching his hand move to his own jeans because he could not help himself.

Then my man stood up, and he came to the bed, and he kissed me while the other guy was still between my legs, and the three of us just fell into this rhythm like we had rehearsed it. My man took my mouth and my hands while the new guy took everything else, and I was the center of it, the prize, the reason both of them were there. I came so hard I nearly screamed, and the new guy followed, and then my man sent him out of the room with a look, locked the door, and took me himself, slow and deep and possessive, like he was reminding my body exactly who it belonged to.

Afterward, lying there wrecked and happy, he told me that was the single hottest night of his life. And I just smiled, because I knew something he did not. I had been running the entire evening from the first red cup to the last. I picked the dress. I picked the pace. I picked the moment. He thought he was the director, but baby, I was the director, the star, and the whole damn show.

I wonder sometimes what I would do for an encore. A different party. A different stranger. Or maybe the same game, but this time I do not let him watch at all, and he just has to hear about it after. The possibilities are honestly endless, and I have never been good at resisting a possibility.