Hotwife Phone Sex Stories

I have never actually been anybody's wife, and I am not about to start pretending I have a ring and a mortgage. But roleplay? Roleplay I will do all night long, because the second a man I actually like asks me to play his hotwife, something feral wakes up in me. So when I say these are my hotwife phone sex stories, understand exactly what that means. I was the star. He was the lucky audience. And I ran the whole show.

It started with a guy I had been seeing for a few weeks, the kind of man who looked at me like I was trouble he had already decided to get into. We were at this gorgeous hotel downtown, the kind with a bar that smells like money and bad decisions, and halfway through our second drink he leaned in and said the thing I had been waiting for someone brave enough to say. He wanted me to go be his hotwife for the night. He would stay at the table. I would go to the other end of the bar, and whatever happened next was up to me.

Baby, I have never walked away from a table with more purpose in my life.

I picked a man three stools down who had been watching me since we sat down. Tall, expensive watch, the kind of smile that said he knew exactly how this evening could go. I ordered something pink and ridiculous and let him start talking to me, and within ten minutes his hand was on the small of my back and he was telling me I had the most dangerous laugh he had ever heard. Meanwhile I was texting my man, because that was the game, little updates that I knew were making him lose his mind across the room.

That text made my man order a third drink just to have something to do with his hands.

Back at the bar, the stranger was getting bolder, and honestly so was I. There is something about being watched by a man who wants you that makes you ten times braver. I let the stranger pull me onto the little dance floor when the music shifted, and I danced on him the way I dance when I know exactly who is watching. His hands slid down over my hips and I did not move them. I let him kiss me, slow and deep, right there where my man could see every second of it. And then, because I am a brat and brats do not share the good stuff, I whispered that I had to go back to my husband, and I walked away while he was still reaching for me.

The elevator ride up was the hottest part. My man had his hand up my dress before the doors even closed, and he was not gentle about it, and I loved every filthy second. He pushed me back against the mirrored wall and told me I was going to tell him everything, every detail, while he did exactly what he had been dying to do for the last hour. So I did. I told him about the stranger's hands and the kiss and the way he had looked at me like he wanted to ruin me, and with every sentence my man's breathing got harder and his hands got rougher, until he had me bent over the bed still in that red dress, taking me exactly the way a husband takes a wife who just reminded him what he has.

That was story number one. Story number two happened a week later, and it was even better because this time we skipped the bar entirely and went straight to the confession game. He came over to my place after work, and I met him at the door in nothing but one of his shirts, and I told him I had something to confess. He played along perfectly, sat me down on the couch, and said I had better tell him everything. So I made it all up, right there, the filthiest little story about a delivery guy and an afternoon I supposedly spent very badly behaved, and I watched his eyes go dark while I described things I had absolutely never never done.

He did not let me finish the story. He had me on my knees on the living room rug with his hand in my hair, and he made me keep talking while he used my mouth, and every time I tried to stop he would tell me to keep going, keep confessing. I have never been that turned on by my own imagination in my life. By the time he finally pulled me up and took me on that couch, I was half convinced the story was real, and he was definitely convinced he was going to make sure no delivery guy ever got within a mile of me again.

That is the thing about my hotwife phone sex stories. They are never really about anyone else. They are about me, being the center of the entire universe for one perfect night, with a man who knows exactly what he signed up for. I get to be the bad girl and the prize at the same time. He gets to watch, or hear, or imagine, and then he gets to have me, and I get to watch him fall apart knowing he almost had to share.

I have not decided what the next story is going to be. Maybe a weekend trip. Maybe a party where I disappear for a while and come back with my lipstick smeared and a story he will never fully believe. All I know is that the man who gets the next chapter is going to have to earn it, and I have a feeling he already knows exactly how.