Slut Wife Phone Sex Fantasy

It was his idea, originally. We were lying in bed one Sunday morning, lazy and tangled, and he confessed that he'd been thinking about it for weeks. The fantasy where I'm his wife. Not just his girlfriend, but his wife, his perfect little homemaker wife who spends all day being sweet and proper, and then the second the front door closes, turns into the filthiest thing he's ever touched.

I'll be your slutty wife for the night, I whispered, and I felt his whole body go still against mine. That was two weeks ago. Last Friday, I finally gave it to him.

I spent the whole day preparing. I cleaned the apartment until it sparkled, because if I was going to play the perfect wife, I was going to commit. I baked, actual baking, a chocolate cake with too much frosting, and I licked the spoon clean standing right there in the kitchen, already getting wet thinking about what was coming. Then I showered, did my hair the way he likes it, and put on the outfit: a tiny frilly apron I'd ordered specially, and underneath it, nothing but a lace thong and a matching bra that barely deserved the name.

Then I waited by the door like the good little wife I was pretending to be.

When I heard his key in the lock, my heart started hammering so hard I thought he'd hear it through the door. He stepped inside, saw me standing there in the apron with the cake on the counter behind me, and just stopped. His eyes went from my face to my bare legs to the apron strings tied in a bow at the back of my neck, and I watched his throat move as he swallowed.

I did the whole thing. I took his jacket. I asked about his day in my sweetest voice. I told him I'd made his favorite cake and that he should sit down and let his wife take care of him. He sat. I could see exactly what the sight of me was doing to him, the way his hands gripped his own knees, and I bent over right in front of him to cut him a slice of cake, the apron flipping up to show him everything underneath.

He didn't touch the cake.

What happened next is the reason this is my favorite fantasy now, the one I replay when I'm alone. He stood up, turned me around, and bent me right over the kitchen counter, the marble cold against my stomach, the cake sitting there forgotten two feet from my face. He untied the apron strings slowly, so slowly, letting the fabric fall away until I was just his wife in lace, bent over and waiting. Then he took a dollop of frosting on his finger and I felt it, cold and sweet, traced right where I was already dripping for him.

He didn't use his hands after that. He used his mouth. He knelt behind me right there in our kitchen and tasted frosting and me together, his tongue working me open, licking me clean and then making me dirty all over again. I was gripping the edge of the counter, moaning into the kitchen we'd just cleaned, my legs shaking so hard I could barely stand. When he finally stood up and pushed into me, deep and hard, the counter rattling with every thrust, I came so fast it shocked both of us, crying out his name into the smell of chocolate.

We didn't stop there. He carried me to the bedroom, still in the ruined lace, and took me again slower this time, looking into my eyes while he moved inside me, telling me what a good wife I was, what a perfect, filthy, wonderful wife. I came twice more, the last one with his hand over my mouth because I was screaming, and afterward we lay there sticky and wrecked and he fed me cake off his fingers.

What I didn't expect was how much I loved being her. Not just the filthy parts, though those were spectacular, but the whole of it. Taking care of him. Making his home beautiful. Being the sweet wife at the door and the wicked one in the kitchen. It scratched some deep itch in me I didn't know I had, this need to be both the good girl and the bad one, to belong to him so completely that I could be everything he fantasized about in a single night.

The apron is hanging on the back of the kitchen door now. He sees it every morning when he gets his coffee. And every time he looks at it, he looks at me, and I can see him remembering. I can see him deciding when he wants his slutty wife again.

I hope it's soon. The cake was delicious, but I have a feeling the frosting tastes even better the second time.