My First Time as a Hotwife

Every girl has a first time for everything, and this is my hotwife first time story, the night I found out that pretending to belong to someone else might be the hottest game ever invented. I had never done it before. I had heard about it, obviously, girls talk, but I had always figured it was one of those things that sounded better in theory. I was wrong. I was so wrong that I am still a little mad at myself for waiting.

It was a date night, nothing special planned, just dinner and drinks with a man I had been seeing who had this way of looking at me like he was already imagining the worst version of me. We ended up on a rooftop bar after dinner, the kind of place with string lights and a view of the whole city, and he was on his second whiskey when he brought it up. He said he had a game he wanted to play. He said he wanted me to be his hotwife for the rest of the night. He would be the husband, sitting right there, and I would be the wife who could not behave herself.

I said yes before he finished the sentence, because I am not an idiot.

The rules were simple. I could flirt with anyone. I could let anyone buy me a drink. The only rule was that I had to come back to him, and I had to tell him everything. So I did what any self-respecting brat would do. I went to the bar alone to get us another round, and I made sure to take my time.

The bartender was cute in that tired, tattooed way, and he was flirting with me before I even ordered. I leaned on the bar, I laughed at everything he said, I let him call me beautiful like he meant it. And then I did something I had never done before in my life. I told him I was married. I said the word husband out loud to a strange man while my actual date sat twenty feet away watching, and the thrill that went through me was so intense I had to grip the edge of the bar. The bartender just grinned and said his shift ended at midnight, and I grinned back and said what a shame, my husband was right over there.

I brought the drinks back to the table, and my man was staring at me like he wanted to throw me over the railing. He asked what the bartender said. I told him. Every word. I told him about the midnight comment and the way the bartender had looked at my mouth, and I watched my man's knuckles go white around his glass. He said we were leaving. I said I thought that was the idea.

We barely made it to his car. He had me pressed up against the passenger door in the parking garage, his mouth on my neck, his hand sliding up under my dress, and he was not asking permission for anything. He told me he had watched me flirt with another man for twenty minutes and he had never wanted to ruin me so badly in his life. I told him that was the whole point, and then I could not talk anymore because his fingers found exactly where they needed to be and my knees nearly gave out right there between the parked cars.

He drove us back to his place with one hand on the wheel and the other hand firmly between my legs, and I spent the whole ride squirming and begging and trying not to come because he told me I was not allowed to, not until he said so. That is a special kind of torture that I would not wish on anyone and also would absolutely do again tonight.

At his place, the game kept going. He sat me on his couch and said he wanted the full confession, everything I had done and everything I had thought about doing, and I was not allowed to leave anything out. So I did. I told him. I told him about the bartender's hands and his mouth and the midnight thing, and I embellished, because I am a storyteller and he was paying very close attention. With every detail, he got harder and more possessive, until finally he pulled me down to my knees in front of him and told me to show him how sorry I was for being such a bad wife.

I was not sorry at all, but I showed him anyway. I took him deep and slow while he held my hair and told me exactly what kind of girl flirts with bartenders while her husband watches, and I moaned around him because he was right about all of it. When he finally pulled me up and bent me over the arm of that couch, he took me like a man reclaiming something, and I came harder than I had in months, screaming into the cushions while he groaned my name like a prayer and a curse at the same time.

That was my first time playing the hotwife. I walked out of his apartment the next morning with my dress from the night before and a completely new understanding of myself. I like being wanted. I like being watched being wanted. And I really, really like the part where he gets me home and makes me pay for every second of it.

I have played the game a few times since, and it keeps getting better, because I keep getting bolder. Next time I might not come back to the table so fast. Next time I might make him wait a little longer, wonder a little harder. A good wife would never do that. Lucky for him, I was never a good wife.