A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife

[hardk]

Lurking to Living

After more than 10 years lurking on this forum—reading, absorbing, replaying your stories in my head late at night—I figured it was time I stepped out of the shadows and introduced myself. What started as voyeuristic curiosity has evolved into lived experience. And now, here I am: not just the guy reading the stories, but the one writing his own.

The Woman

My wife and I are in our 30s. We’ve been together for 12 years, married for 8. She’s Korean-American—5’6”, slim, athletic, long dark hair with added subtle highlights. Her ass is perfectly round, tight from years of squats and spin classes, the kind of ass that makes yoga pants feel like an invitation. Her thighs are toned and graceful, strong but soft in just the right places, and when she walks across the room in nothing but her underwear, there’s a feline confidence in her stride. Her waist is narrow, leading to a flat stomach with faint muscle definition—just enough to show off her discipline. And just below that, her hips flare out with a fluid grace that still haunts me in the best way. The way she moves them—those controlled, sensual gyrations when she’s on top—is seared into my memory. It’s the image I replay in the quiet dark when she’s not in bed and away: her pelvis rotating in slow, hypnotic circles, her toned stomach tightening with each roll—one of the most vivid and erotic memories I carry. Her breasts are perky B cups, firm and youthful, with a natural roundness that seems almost sculpted. Her nipples are small, dark, often peeking through her tops and sports bras in a way that always draws my eye. When she stretches or arches her back, the way her chest lifts is subtly erotic, like her body knows exactly how to tease without even trying. The kind of body that turns heads at the gym and makes her yoga pants feel like a tease every time she bends over to tie her shoes. 

Her Early Years and Sexual Frustration

She was born in Korea but moved to the U.S. just before high school. I remember thinking she must’ve been born here—she was that Americanized by the time we met. But she later told me how lost she felt during those early years: nerdy, culture-shocked, invisible. That period she also described as one also marked by a deep sexual frustration. She told me later that she constantly felt pent up, like there was a hunger inside her she didn’t know how to feed because she was shy. She described being surrounded by girls who were dating, experimenting, letting go, she felt paralyzed—watching from the sidelines as others lived freely. Years later, she admitted she regretted not being more adventurous, more daring with her body during that time. She often wondered what it would’ve felt like to let someone explore her. She even described to me, with a mix of nostalgia and regret, how there were several Black guys in her high school classes who made it clear they were interested in her. Bold glances in the hallway, casual flirtation in group projects—attention she remembers vividly. At the time, she said she was too shy, too unsure of herself to respond. But now? She admits she sometimes still fantasizes about what she missed, what it would’ve felt like to say yes to one of them—to be taken, claimed, explored during those formative years.

Her First Experiences in College

At 18, when she started college, everything changed. She lost her virginity to a married white man, ten years older. She said it unlocked something in her—the thrill of the forbidden, the power of seduction, the rush of being desired by someone unavailable. That lasted a few months, but it left its mark.

Then came a more traditional relationship—a Korean guy, her age, for two years. Safe. Predictable. She called it “sexually frustrating.” She told me there was a persistent ache during those two years—like her body was screaming for more than what he could give. She described their sex life as bland, and mechanical. When grad school started, it fizzled out. She craved more. And she found it.

She said the next day after she broke up she seduced the Italian guy who the company sent to set up her internet. She told me about it much later, but when she did, the way she described it was so vivid, it played in my mind like a scene from a movie. She said she was still emotionally raw, freshly out of that long, sexually frustrating relationship, and craving something primal. The Italian guy was casually flirtatious, and as he worked in her apartment, she noticed his eyes drifting—first to her legs, then to the slight outline of her chest. She said just before he arrived, she’d taken a shower. So she slipped into a white halter top, thin and loose, without a bra—just enough fabric to cling to her nipples, which were still slightly damp and already starting to show through. Then she pulled on a pair of tiny shorts—the kind she normally only wore to sleep in, light gray cotton, no panties underneath, hugging the bottom curve of her ass so tightly that one cheek always peeked out. She said she walked around like that on purpose, acting casual as she poured herself water in the kitchen, giving him plenty of time to steal glances. She could feel his eyes on her thighs, her hips, her chest, and it she said she was already wet before anything even happened. 

She said she let it unfold gradually but naturally. As he worked, she stayed on the couch, scrolling her phone but keeping one eye on him. Their small talk turned playful. She told me later that it all unfolded with an ease that surprised even her. When he told her he was finished, she stood—slowly, deliberately, brushing a bit too close as she walked past him. She said she felt unusually bold, like the tension of that two-year spell had finally snapped. She remembered what sex used to feel like—unrestrained, urgent—and she wanted that again, right then and there.

She told me that once she let herself cross the line, it all moved fast. He leaned in after her last teasing comment, and when she didn’t pull away, they kissed—slowly at first, then with more urgency. She said he touched her like she’d wanted to since she broke up with her first partner at 18.

She told me he pulled her close and guided her to the couch. She said the sex wasn’t perfect or romantic—it was fast, rough, necessary. He entered her quickly missionary and they both came fast and few words were exchanged throughout it all. She said she gave him her number but she never returned his messages and they never spoke again.

Soon after this on a backpacking trip in Europe, my wife told me she had a fling with a white guy during her travels. She had gone backpacking with a close female friend who was single. One night, they shared a room in a budget guesthouse, and my wife told me she watched her friend flirt with and then hook up with a guy they met at a bar. My wife listened to them from across the room and felt a raw mix of arousal, envy, and curiosity. She told me that experience unlocked something. She said she was committed to the next time a flirty attractive stranger struck up a conversation with her in a club she wouldn’t hesitate. That first night listening lit a fuse in her. The next evening, the guy her friend had hooked up with introduced them to a friend they were traveling with. The four of them hit it off, and the two men ended up tagging along with my wife and her friend for part of their trip. The friend was apparently a tall, flirtatious Irish guy—he quickly zeroed in on my future wife. One night she told me, she was in the same room where her friend was hooking up again trying to sleep. She said that in the heat of that moment, the closeness, the tension... she gave in. She said she went immediately down stairs and invited the Irish guy up from the hostel common room. She when he got to their room and saw his friend fucking my wife’s friend they were naked with barely talking and moving in sync. She said it was thrilling, almost surreal—being fucked with the sound and sight of her friend moaning just feet away.

From that night on, they continued seeing each other during the trip. She told me they had sex several more times—in sleeper train cabins, in shared hostel bunks, even once in the shower of a cramped guesthouse. She said it felt like a secret life opening up—reckless, untamed, and completely hers.

When she got back, she met a Danish man at a running club, older, freshly separated. She called it a “casual relationship,” but she also said it was the best sex of her life. She told me the attraction with him was physical from the start—he was older, in his 40s, she was in her early 20s. They’d go for long runs together, and afterward, he’d invite her upstairs. 

She said they’d barely make it through the door before he pulled her against the wall, peeling her out of her damp clothes. She said he’d go down on her while she was still dripping with sweat, licking her thighs and pussy until she was moaning into his shoulder. He’d fuck her on the floor, on the kitchen counter, on the couch—wherever he could take her. She said he was rough, vocal, dominant in a way that made her feel completely wanted and utterly undone.

I still remember her looking me in the eye and saying, “No one ever made me come like he did.” Even today she still stands by this. 

The Beginning of Us

She met me while she was still seeing him. I’m also a white guy but only two years older than her. I was in a long-term relationship at the time. She seduced me out of it. We were married four years later.

I had this kink before her—always did. We talked about it early on, folded it into our sex life. It waxed and waned, like it does for most of us. But over time, fantasy wanted form. I brought up the idea of her dating again. She was hesitant to move to reality. During that period, our sex life was still very much alive—Occasionally, she’d initiate, introduce the hotwife fantasy and those nights could be amazing—but most of the time, it felt like she was holding back, like a part of her was inaccessible. She would ask for more foreplay in quiet, measured ways—mentioning how the Danish guy used to go down on her for what felt like forever, how he took his time with his fingers until she was trembling. She told me how he’d explore her slowly, confidently, reading her body like a map. There were nights when she’d lie back with me and whisper, almost shyly, "Use your fingers like he did... slower, deeper," or gently guide my head lower, urging me to go down on her longer. Sometimes she’d close her eyes and breathe differently when I tried—like she was chasing a memory I hadn’t created. I always tried to follow her lead, but I could feel the comparison hanging in the room. Her body remembered things mine had never learned.

Desire Turns to Hesitation

The more we fantasized, the more I wanted the fantasy to be real. More and more with both initiated this fantasy until most times we had sex it was part of it. The desire to escalate things started to take over, slowly at first, then with increasing intensity. Eventually, I brought up the idea of letting her try dating again—this time, for real online. 

She was hesitant. She said she wasn't sure how she'd feel about being watched, about doing something so intimate under the weight of expectation. But over time, the idea kept resurfacing in our pillow talk, in our late-night whispers, in the tension between us. Finally, I introduced the idea of dating apps. I told her there was no pressure, that we could explore it together. Around this time, she started to turn it back on me. She’d say things like, “If you want this so badly, why don’t you make it happen?” Her tone wasn’t dismissive—it was challenging. She wanted to know if I had the nerve to follow through. More than once, she looked me dead in the eye and said, “You keep saying you want this… so do it. Set it up.”

But every time I got close—whether it was pushing her to meet someone or messaging on her behalf—I’d hesitate. I’d backpedal, unsure if I could handle the reality of it. And she saw it. She grew frustrated. There was one night, after we talked about a message she’d received from a guy, when she just rolled her eyes and said, “You’re all talk. A big tease.” It stung—but she wasn’t wrong.

The fantasy had turned into a kind of game between us, but she needed more than words. She needed me to either own it or let it go. And at that point, I was still stuck somewhere in between—too turned on to walk away, too scared to push her forward. So for a while, we hovered there. Halfway in, halfway out.

One evening around this time we sat together on the couch and I suggested the app, she looked at me like, “oh really?”. I nodded and told her to just do it. I remember how she shifted uncomfortably at first, second-guessing her pictures, wondering what to write in her bio. But once the messages started coming in, something changed. She giggled at the flood of attention, read a few messages out loud, rolled her eyes at the cheesy ones, and smirked at the bolder ones. She was nervous, yes—but also curious. I saw the flicker in her eyes. The idea had shifted from hypothetical to possible. From possible to real. At first, she didn’t seem particularly impressed with the app. She opened it a few times, scrolled through some profiles, replied here and there—but it all felt casual, disconnected. She’d laugh at the absurd messages, sometimes show me the worst ones, but nothing seemed to click. There was no real energy behind it. She used it now and then, mostly when I asked, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. After a few weeks, the novelty wore off. She stopped checking the app altogether. It fizzled out like a half-hearted experiment, and for a little while, it seemed like the fantasy might stay just that—a fantasy.

The Subtle Changes Begin

Except her habits began to change—and it wasn’t all at once. It started small. She was on her phone more in the evenings, saying she was answering work emails or catching up on messages. Then it became part of her morning routine too—scrolling in bed before getting up, screen tilted away from me. Her laugh started sounding different when she read something, and sometimes she’d smile to herself quietly and then tuck the phone away.

Her wardrobe slowly shifted too. The leggings got tighter. The necklines a little lower. More time spent getting ready to “run errands.” More lip gloss. Lingerie I hadn’t seen before would quietly appear in our laundry. When we’d go out, she’d pause longer in front of the mirror, turning sideways to look at herself with a kind of private smile.

I noticed her confidence building—not the professional, polished kind she’d always had, but something more primal. She walked differently. She held eye contact with men longer in conversation. Her laugh carried a flirtatious edge.  I saw all of it but didn’t suspect anything. I also began to notice how she became more casually touchy with men when we were out. A light hand on a coworker's arm during a laugh, a playful shove during conversation, or leaning in a little closer than necessary to hear someone better. It wasn’t overtly sexual, not at first—it was subtle, just enough to register. But I knew her baseline, and this was different in hindsight. But I kept telling myself she was just thriving, just rediscovering herself, gaining more confidence due to success at work. That it was harmless. That it was still ours.

But deep down, I think I already knew: something was waking up inside her. And she wasn’t showing it to me.

The Confession

Two years later, it came out during a quiet, almost uneventful evening. We had just finished dinner, and I noticed she seemed distracted—distant in that way I’d grown familiar with but never fully understood. I asked if everything was okay, expecting her to brush it off as work stress. Instead, she hesitated, looked down, and said, “There’s something I need to tell you.”

She told me she’d never stopped using the apps. Not only that—she had met a man in person just a few months after we started the experiment. Then another. She'd been seeing both of them for over a year by that point. The words hit like a slow, heavy wave. I remember sitting there, frozen, my fork still in my hand, my chest tightening with confusion, jealousy, disbelief—and arousal. She kept talking, calmly, like she’d rehearsed it.

One was a divorced firefighter in his forties. The other was a businessman, older in his early 50s, married, who traveled frequently to our city. She was in her early 30s by this time. She spoke plainly, almost clinically, as though laying out facts, but every detail pulled at something deep in me. The woman I slept beside each night had been living another life, and I hadn’t known. Not really. Not until then.

It wasn’t fantasy anymore. It was reality. And I had no say in how it played out. She created the rules. She crossed the line alone.

I won’t pretend I took it well. I was devastated. Aroused. Humiliated. Turned on. All at once. She’d done what I’d fantasized about—just without me. But in time, we talked. We fought. We cried. We had nights where I felt like a stranger in my own marriage and mornings where I watched her move around the kitchen and couldn’t believe I still loved her this much. After she confessed everything, we agreed to pause it all. She stopped seeing the men. No apps, no messages, no meetups—nothing. At first, I thought it would help, that removing the source of tension would bring us back together. But it didn’t. If anything, it made things worse.

She became more irritable, more restless. The calm. She seemed frustrated but stoic in a way that simmered beneath the surface—snapping at small things. And I wasn’t much better. I thought I’d feel relieved, more secure—but instead, I felt cold. Flat. I didn’t want to touch her. I didn’t want to initiate. The fantasy that once turned me on now made me feel anxious, conflicted. When we did try to have sex, it felt hollow—like we were going through the motions for the sake of normalcy. I couldn’t stop thinking about what she was missing… and how I had asked for all of this.

We were stuck. She resented the loss of what had awakened her, and I resented that I wasn’t enough. The distance between us grew in silence, compounding the very thing we were trying to fix. The pain was real—so was the heat. 

The Honest Conversation

But little by little, honesty carved a new space, and in that raw exposure, we began to speak more openly about everything—her desires, my fears, our shared curiosity. The more we talked, the more clear it became: what she had done in secret was unsustainable, but what we were building now could be something entirely different. Not hidden. Not shameful. Not chaotic. Just real.

We started talking about what it would mean for her to explore again, but with permission—with structure, honesty, and shared understanding. It was difficult. At first, I flinched at the thought of opening that door again, of letting her step back into that world. But over 2 months, I realized the only thing more painful than her being with other men… was continuing as if we were unchanged when we were changed. 

Eventually, we agreed—but not before a long, vulnerable, and brutally honest conversation. It started in bed, late at night, both of us staring at the ceiling, silent. I asked her if she missed it—really missed it. She didn’t answer right away. But when she turned to me, her voice was low, steady.

"Yes," she said. "I miss how I felt. I miss feeling primal, unfiltered. I miss the sex—not just the act, but the freedom in it."

I was quiet for a while. My chest tightened, but I knew I couldn’t deny what had already changed between us. "Would you do it again? If I said it was okay?" I asked.

She looked at me carefully. "Only if it was real. If it wasn’t a game or a trap or some test. If it wasn’t for you—but with you for us. I need it for me as well. I don’t want to perform.”

That line hit me hard. Because I knew it was true. What she did in secret had fractured our trust, but also exposed something undeniable: she needed this. And part of me did too. She told me that one of the reasons she kept it from me was because she didn’t know how to reconcile who she was becoming with who she was supposed to be. She felt split—caught between being my wife, the woman who slept beside me each night, and the woman who wanted to give herself completely to someone else for a night. She said the moment I was aware of her encounters, it felt like she had to perform, like she was being watched, graded, expected to be a fantasy rather than a woman following her desire. That fear made secrecy feel safer, more authentic in the moment. She didn’t have to live up to anything. She could just *be*. But eventually, even that fractured her inside. And she realized that to truly own it, she needed to find a way to be both.

We talked until sunrise. We laid everything bare—what scared us, what excited us, what boundaries would make it feel safe. She asked for clarity. I asked for honesty. There were tears, long pauses, flashes of arousal even in the middle of the fear. But something beautiful happened in that space: we decided. Together.

Not as a concession. Not as a game. But as a new reality.

She could be a hotwife—openly. Fully. Authentically. Not in secret. Not in shame. And for the first time, we weren’t just reacting to the fallout. We were creating the foundation together. We both knew: the door had already been opened. But now, she wasn’t walking through it alone.

She prefers long-term partners. Two, steady. Familiar bulls. After the two-month hiatus, she didn’t immediately go looking again. But one quiet evening, she casually mentioned that both of her previous bulls had reached out—checking in, saying they missed her, curious if things had changed. She didn’t commit at first, but when she finally decided to see them again, it was deliberate and open.

Watching Her Get Ready

I watched from the doorway, pretending to scroll my phone while my eyes traced every move as she got ready. She laid her outfit out with quiet purpose: a lacy black balconette bra that lifted her perky B-cup breasts subtly under a fitted sky blue-colored blouse—elegant, but with just enough plunge to hint at what lay underneath. She paired it with high-waisted dark jeans that hugged her hips and flared slightly at the ankle, along with low leather heels. The kind of outfit that said confident, sexy, and unmistakably available. I watched as she slid it up her thighs, adjusted it once, then stood back to admire herself in the mirror. I noticed she wore her wedding ring. She always has. 

She checked her face once, then again, and smiled—not at me, but at herself. There was something electric about her in those moments—calm, confident. It was intoxicating to witness. I remember coming up behind her, hugging her and telling her to enjoy her “hall pass” openly. 

By the time she slipped on her heels and turned to leave, my mouth was dry and my cock was hard. 

The first night she reconnected with the firefighter, she came home late and wordless, her body radiating something I hadn’t seen openly before. What I noticed first was that her hair had been worn down and perfectly styled when she left—soft waves cascading over her shoulders. But when she came home, it was swept up into a quick, messy bun, like it had been gathered in a hurry. Loose strands clung to her flushed cheeks. Her lipstick was faintly smudged, and her blouse— untucked. I caught the faintest scent of sweat, perfume, and something unmistakably male lingering around her. She didn’t speak at first, just smiled sheepishly and walked past me with a slow, relaxed stride, her lips curved into a quiet, knowing smile. There was a slyness to it—a teasing glint in her eyes, like she knew exactly what I was thinking. She didn’t need to say anything. Her body, her scent, her grin—they told the whole story. And I stood there, stunned, breath caught in my throat, both hollowed out and impossibly aroused.

The next weekend, it was the married businessman.

From that point on, about one year ago now, she resumed seeing both.

Letting Me Listen

On more than one occasion, she’s called me mid-session—just let me listen. Her voice, raw and breathless, moaning in ways I never hear when she’s with me. I’ve heard the rhythmic creak of the bed beneath her, the wet slap of skin against skin, her gasps cutting through the air like sharp intakes of heat. There were moments she growled low in her throat, others when her moans rose in pitch, tumbling into choked cries of "yes" or breathy, desperate pleads. I’ve heard her beg him not to stop, her voice shaking, her words slurred from pleasure—whimpering one second, then shrieking the next. And I’ve sat with this: both turned on and left out.

Anal: A new threshold

When she first told me of the affair, she also told me the businessman took her anally. Her first time. Not me. She said she didn’t plan it—it just happened. Her body gave in. Now, that’s a part of herself she gives to him alone. She’ll wear a plug for me sometimes which is new. 

What Sex is Like Now

These days, she sees the business man once or twice a month, and nearly every other visit includes anal. It’s become part of their rhythm, something she looks forward to in a way that still makes my stomach twist and my cock ache at the same time. She told me that with him, it feels natural now—that her body almost craves that type of fullness and surrender.

After these dates she comes home glowing. Hair messy. Cheeks flushed. Panties damp, stretched. I know what she’s done. She doesn’t try to hide it anymore. She’ll drop her clothes by the bed, crawl in next to me, kiss me softly. I can smell him on her. And I can’t help but get hard.

Other times, she’ll shut down. She’ll say, “I’m all fucked out,” and roll away. Those nights hurt. But they’re real. And they’re part of this.

Our sex life has changed. She teaches me now. Tells me how they do it. Sometimes she closes her eyes when I’m inside her and whispers, “Do it like he does.” And I try. God, I try.

Despite all of it, we are still deeply connected. She still loves me. We raise our kids, build our life, share everything. She just happens to have sex with other men. And somehow, even in the confusion and pain and twisted arousal, that truth doesn’t feel like betrayal anymore. It just feels like who we’ve become.

Why I’m Sharing This

So that’s us. A cognitive voyeur who became a husband. A husband who became a witness. And a witness still trying to make sense of the fire he helped light.

I’m not here to pretend it’s perfect. Or to pretend it’s not hard. I’m here because I know some of you have lived this too—or you’re about to. And maybe my story will help you feel a little less alone.

If you have questions I’m an open book. I will post updates here periodically.

PHOTOS:
College days: https://i.postimg.cc/906rCxZ6/IMG-1856.jpg
July 2024 bull date night: https://i.postimg.cc/RCG0dLhC/IMG-1857.jpg
January 2025 bull date night: https://i.postimg.cc/sxf78f5M/IMG-1858.jpg
March 2025 bull date night: https://i.postimg.cc/sgk1kf5T/IMG-1851.jpg

[midnightoh]

Incredible story, thanks for sharing Hardk! And she looks amazing, you are a lucky man!

[Her number1]

I have lived and written your ( my and Farmgirl's) story. Practically all you said. It works out to be a great life!

Please continue.

[phelly]

Thank you for sharing it with us. Looking forward for the updates. Also, appreciate the photos, gorgeous indeed. Do you think you'll get to watch some day?

[hardk]

Thank you for sharing it with us. Looking forward for the updates. Also, appreciate the photos, gorgeous indeed. Do you think you'll get to watch some day?

Thanks, Phelly—I really appreciate that. It’s been a long, winding journey to get here, and that post took more reflection than I expected. Writing it forced me to look back with brutal honesty—not just at her choices, but at mine too. I’m glad to finally share it with others who understand the nuance.

As for watching… I won’t say it’s impossible. Three years ago, I honestly believed this would always stay fantasy—that it would be something we whispered about in bed but never acted on. Back then, the idea of her actually sleeping with another man seemed both intoxicating and unreachable. So to even be discussing the possibility of watching now, in any form, feels surreal. But honestly, I don’t think it’s in the cards anytime soon. She’s incredibly private when it comes to those moments—it’s how she stays fully present and uninhibited. She’s told me that the second she feels observed, even if it’s by me, a part of her pulls back. It becomes performative instead of instinctive. For her, the sex is not just physical—it’s a space where she lets go completely, and knowing someone is watching, even someone she loves, makes her overly self aware. That loss of spontaneity dulls the intensity for her. It’s a big enough deal for her that it led to the whole initial dishonesty. So I’ve learned not to disrupt that space, because for her, privacy is the gateway to total surrender. In some ways, I think that distance is part of what gives it its charge—for her and, strangely, for me too.

That said, our dynamic has never been static. It keeps evolving in ways neither of us fully anticipate. Just last week, she hinted at wanting to try something new on her next date—something a little bolder, something she and her business man bull had briefly discussed. She didn’t elaborate, just gave me a smirk and said, “I think I want to try something different next time.” I didn’t press. Maybe she knew I wouldn’t. So while I’m not holding my breath, I’ve also stopped trying to predict where it all leads.

In the meantime, the way she shares afterward—the way she recounts the details, the little smirks, the shifting energy between us—it’s vivid. There’s a lightness in her voice in the days after, a softness in how she carries herself. Her eyes seem brighter, her skin flushed with a natural glow that lingers into the next day. She hums while making coffee, sways her hips a little more as she moves through the house, and makes more eye contact, like she’s grounded in her body in a different way. 

That glow—it’s unmistakable. After her last date with the firefighter nearly two weeks ago, it was especially intense. She came home late, her hair tousled and cheeks flushed, her body moving with that lazy, post-orgasm confidence. The next morning, she floated around the kitchen in one of my t-shirts, humming. She was extra affectionate, more playful, and fully relaxed. That glow lingered for days—through breakfasts, lazy evenings, even casual errands. But now, nearly two weeks later, I can see it fading. Her movements are a little more restless, her eyes occasionally distant. Her next date is in a few days, and it's like her body already knows. There's a low, simmering tension in her, like an animal pacing just beneath the surface. It's erotic in its own way—watching her hunger build, knowing what’s coming, and knowing I’ll only see the afterglow again, not the act itself. But even that has a power all its own. Sometimes it’s enough. Sometimes it leaves me aching. But it’s honest. And that means more than I ever thought it would.

More updates to come. Thanks again for reading and engaging—it really means a lot.

[54321]

Wow! She is heavenly, SO beautiful!

54321

[BallSpanking]

Lucky man, she is beautiful!
You write well.
I can understand the knot in your stomach when you know she is giving herself to her bulls.
It would seem to me creampies would be a natural and intimate progression in the reclaiming.

[venus-can99]

Thanks for sharing your story and giving us a glimpse at the incredible journey you are on. She looks gorgeous. Your writing is very engaging and enjoyable. Looking forward to further updates…
Are her visits to the firefighter just once in 2 weeks or more frequent?

[David52]

I noticed some of your posts on other threads and have wanted to DM you to ask that you start your own. Thanks, I appreciate your candor and insight.

It seems you are still struggling with the feeling of being left out or left behind. I also note you are posting in the hotwife not cuckhold section. If you do not consider yours a cuck relationship have you thought about and discussed opening it for you as well? Why should you not be accorded the some of the same freedom your wife has claimed?

[Tank Turner]

Hi hardk,

I live in the Greater Los Angeles Region. We have a substantial South Korean and Japanese population. First generation South Korean women and Japanese women quickly assimilate to the Southern California lifestyle. They quickly become Americanized. Native born South Korean and Japanese women are as American as Anglo Americans and all other native born Americans.

I've never met a native born Japanese or South Korean chick who did not have a European first name. Based on my interacting with Japanese and South Korean chicks on a daily basis, many are quintessentially California girl scorching hot.

There was a Japanese chick at my high school. From memory alone, I believe her first name was Kristy. She was a couple years older than me. She was a total fox. She was a cheerleader. She was extremely popular. Dudes chased her as though she was a rock star.

Like all races and ethnicities, not all Japanese and South Korean chicks were born with lucky genes. But those that were are scorching hot. They set the temperature bar for scorching hot. A couple months ago, the day after Ohtani had an unprecedented performance on the field, I saw a South Korean chick shopping at Costco. She was a mom. She was wearing an LA Dodgers baseball cap. She was movie star gorgeous. We BS'ed baseball for about five minutes.

Tommy Edman, the Dodgers second baseman, is a stud. He's half South Korean. His wife is American of South Korean lineage. She is a total fox.

Through high school and college, native born Japanese and South Korean chicks were indistinguishable from Anglo chicks in Southern California culture. They easily assimilated to Southern California and American culture. Writing of Ohtani, his wife is a total fox.

I'd have dated a South Korean or Japanese chick without a second's hesitation. I'm sure that they love sex every bit as all other women.

Japan and South Korea are among our most trusted and loyal allies.

After WWII, a lot of American soldiers returned home with Japanese brides. After the Korean War, a lot of American soldiers returned home with South Korean brides.

BTW, doesn't Japan have a sizable porn industry?

[pixmangurn]

Thanks for telling your story. She is stunning!

[hardk]

Lucky man, she is beautiful!
You write well.
I can understand the knot in your stomach when you know she is giving herself to her bulls.
It would seem to me creampies would be a natural and intimate progression in the reclaiming.

Hey BallSpanking, thanks for chiming in and for the kind words. My wife really is beautiful—and your inquiry on creampies has definitely got me thinking about how it all fits into what we do.

I’ll admit, it’s a head-spinning mix of arousal and inner turmoil. On one hand, imagining—or knowing—another man’s cum is still inside my wife makes my mind reel with a thousand erotic images. It’s unbelievably hot, but also a jab to the gut at times, because it’s raw and real. I really do feel a lot of jealousy around this at times. 

I had a vasectomy some time ago, while all of this was still fantasy, so there was no risk for us in our own bedroom, which meant condoms weren’t a concern for us personally. In fact we rarely used them while dating and even married. All our kids were essentially spontaneous because of this. 

But until she revealed her extramarital activities—when she was still doing it behind my back—she used condoms every single time. But like I suggested, she always hated condoms, ever since I first met her. The only times she’d gone bare in her past were with her old Korean ex in college, that one fling with the internet installer in grad school, and with me. That fling with the random internet installer actually caused her much anxiety afterwards due to the fact that no condoms were involved. 

A small related digression: About a month before she finally confessed to the affairs, there was this moment that jolted my suspicions. I was rummaging through her purse for her car keys and came across a condom in one of the pockets. (https://i.postimg.cc/y8KHnNL5/IMG-1864.jpg) It wasn’t ours—we hadn’t used condoms in like 5 years. My heart almost jumped out of my chest. When I confronted her, she offered an explanation that, on the surface, sounded reasonable—she said she’d thrown it in her purse after our early fantasy discussions we’d had a couple of years ago—where we’d joked about her being ‘prepared’ in case she ever spontaneously acted on a random fling we imagined. She claimed she’d simply forgotten it was in her purse. It sounded plausible enough—given the fantasies we’d talked about—but something still felt off. She tossed the condom out right then and there, looking genuinely relieved to have it gone. I told myself I’d let it slide—no proof meant no reason to accuse her of anything more. 

That moment stuck with me, though. I’d catch myself watching her a bit more closely. After the fact, she said she felt more guilt too, post-discovery. A few weeks later, this led to the truth finally spilling out. 

Interestingly, after her confession a few weeks later, I checked her purse the very next day out of sheer curiosity, and there was a new condom, a different brand, tucked in the same purse pocket. (https://i.postimg.cc/9MmH2g6B/IMG-1865.jpg ) That sight slammed into me like a sledgehammer, making it undeniably clear she’d been regularly sharing her body with other men—an intimate, physical truth and physical sign.

So after all this, about a year ago when she finally decided to be open, one of my requirements was she’d need to use contraception (I assumed condoms which she has used previously) with whoever she saw.

She actually agreed right away. But the next morning, as we were having coffee, she sat across from me, fidgeting with her mug. I remember her taking a breath, looking up, and saying, “You know I hate condoms, right? Always have. What if I got an IUD, got tested every few months, and only slept with those two guys I see—would that be okay?”

I vividly remember how she looked anxious I’d say no or might change my mind about the entire arrangement. Ironically, part of me enjoyed seeing her that vulnerable—because it meant she was laying her desires on the table honestly, no more hiding or half-truths. It was such a stark contrast to the secrecy that had plagued us before. I didn’t answer immediately—just stared, trying to process what it meant for both of us. I finally nodded, my mind spinning, but at the same time, a weird thrill shot through me. This was real—more real than I’d expected. In the end, I agreed, even if it felt like stepping off a ledge. Part of me wanted to give her that freedom; the other part was terrified by what I might feel when it actually happened. Knowing how much she’d always hated condoms—and the fact that she was taking every precaution otherwise—I agreed. It was a calculated risk, but also an acknowledgment that this was her body, her desire, and a major source of her sexual fulfillment and a sign of my support now that she was being open and honest. I wanted to reward that in a way.

Between her first and second open date after spilling the beans, she scheduled an appointment for an IUD—efficient, no fuss. The clinic actually wanted someone to drive her home afterwards. I volunteered. The morning of the procedure was tense, both of us quiet. I kept glancing at her in the passenger seat, trying to read her expression. At one point, she glanced at me and said, in a low voice, “I can’t believe I’m doing this. But I want it so badly.” Hearing her admit that—so plainly—sent a rush of conflicting emotions through me: envy, excitement, and an odd pride in her boldness. I gripped the steering wheel, trying to steady my breathing. In the waiting room, I thumbed through my phone, but nothing held my attention for long. The idea of her behind that door, taking a medical step so she could have unprotected sex with other men, made my head spin. I could feel my pulse hammering in my ears.

On the drive home, we spoke sparingly, both of us absorbing the magnitude of what she’d just done. There was an electric current between us—acknowledgment that our world had, yet again, shifted. Later that evening, when she was settled on the couch with a blanket, she confessed she felt a flutter in her stomach every time she remembered what the IUD would allow her to do. “It’s so weird,” she said, cheeks flushing. “I’m cramping a bit, but all I can think about is finally not having to worry about condoms when I...” Even though this was about a year ago, I can recall how she trailed off, giving me a meaningful look. It was erotic because she was acknowledging it all out loud—she was admitting how much she wanted that barrier gone, how the slight pain was nothing compared to the promise of bare, intimate contact. And at the same time, I felt that tight coil of jealousy and curiosity twist inside me, realizing just how real it all had become. 

The following week, I recall watching her get ready for her second open date since coming clean—this time with the firefighter again. A particular memory still burns in my mind: she was in a low-cut camisole that revealed enough cleavage to make my pulse skip, her pants not yet pulled on, leaving her hips and lower belly tantalizingly bare. (https://i.postimg.cc/Njjs8MJ4/IMG-1922.jpg) The way she stood—one hand resting lightly on her exposed skin—radiated a calm, sultry confidence, like she knew exactly the effect she was having on me. It was every bit as provocative as any dress, if not more, hinting at a deliberate, unapologetic sensuality that made her seem almost feline in her poise. Then she paused by the mirror, sliding her palm slowly over her now laser-smooth mound, (I’d later learn the businessman had bankrolled that procedure months before I even knew he existed.) Seeing her like that—absolutely bare, her skin soft and flawless—made my heart stutter in my chest. She caught my eye in the reflection, a hint of a smile curving her lips, savoring that electric moment of being watched. In a sudden flash, I pictured her on her back, hips flexed, fingers gripping the sheets as she welcomed the firefighter’s cock without any barrier for the first time—his seed spilling into the place I once thought was mine alone. The image nearly overwhelmed me with a potent mix of arousal and envy. 

One of the most vivid memories of the last year was as she was heading out the door for this date, she picked up her purse, rummaged in it for a second, then turned to me with two condoms in her hand. “Here,” she said softly, her expression calm but her eyes flickering with a mix of mischief and seriousness. “I have something for you to put away.”

I just stood there, as she pressed them into my palm. The implication was crystal clear: she wasn’t going to need them. Then she asked, “Are you going to be okay?” The question cut through me—equal parts concern, but also a finality to it. 

Watching her walk out the door after that—was maybe the most angst-filled moment of the entire last year. A part of me was furious at how much it turned me on, how the jealousy and the craving tangled together, leaving me frozen in the doorway, those two condoms still clenched in my hand.



The Return from her First Post-Comdom Date:The night she got back from that second date it was after midnight, I had been up watching a movie trying to zone out. I recall immediately noticing her cheeks still flushed, and hair disheveled. This has since before a pretty clear first sign of her extracurricular activities. When our eyes met, she gave me this half-smile—hesitant at first, but undeniably sexual once she saw I was looking. There was no hiding where she’d been or what she’d done.

She took a minute to kick off her heels, then walked over and stood in front of me. I could sense she was debating how much to share. She lingered at the other end of the living room, eyes drifting anywhere but me, the tension a palpable force stretching between us. My mind spun with the images of what she’d just done, while she stood there, chest rising and falling, her lips parted but no words coming out. It felt like a gulf had opened between us—her body still obviously physically buzzing, mine trapped on the outside of an experience I’d only imagined.

Then, in a moment I will always remember, she crossed the room, closing that gap step by step. She was wearing pants in a dark, lightweight fabric that clung to her shape. I could see the pink creeping up her cheeks, and the way her eyes darted everywhere but toward me, like she was still caught in the aftershocks of what had just happened. She had on those dark, lightweight pants, hugging her hips in a way that accentuated every subtle curve. 

Without a word, she took my wrists, I noticed her wedding ring still on, she was still looking away. She guided my palms to the sides of her waist, then slid them down with a deliberate slowness until my fingers brushed over the thin fabric stretched across her lower belly. That was when I felt it—a damp, radiant heat that made my own pulse skyrocket. It was impossible not to realize she was still filled with his essence, the proof of her earlier pleasure lingering against my fingertips.

Her gaze stayed lowered, but there was a sort of determined calm in how she pressed my hands to her body, letting me sense everything she carried back from him. The jolt of realization—this was more than just an idea now, it was tangible—flooded me with a wild mix of jealousy, awe, and undeniable lust. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my ears, the primal awareness that another man had so recently claimed her coursing through my veins.

In that tense silence, I saw her lips part, a tiny hitch in her throat like she might speak, but the words didn’t come. Instead, she just exhaled shakily, as if to say, ‘Yes, this is real. This is us now.’ My stomach knotted at the competing urges surging through me: to pull away, to pull her closer, to demand every detail, to pretend it never happened. All I could do was stand there, hands against that damp warmth, feeling how profoundly everything had changed.

She still hadn’t said a word. Instead, she pressed my hands more firmly against her, letting me feel exactly what she carried back from him. My pulse thundered in my ears. That was when she finally whispered, “I love you... I’m yours.” The words came out shaky, but I could hear the sincerity there, layered over the heady reminder of what she’d just done. My mind reeled at the conflicting signals: the possessiveness in her voice while another man’s seed warmed her body.

Her gaze lifted, meeting mine with a blend of maybe guilt and lingering ecstasy. Then the tension broke—raw and vulnerable—when she slid closer, releasing my hand still between her legs frozen and hooking her arm behind my neck and pulling me in. Directly into my ear she whispered, “He pinned me down. I let him... it was so much more intense without.”

She paused, breath hot against my skin. I could sense every flicker of hesitation as she formed the next words. “He made me come—twice—before he... finished inside me. I can still feel it now inside, it’s warm”. Another whisper grazed my ear, and she took my hand, pressing it again into her groin, where heat still pulsed. It was more than just an image now; her body literally carried the proof.

A wave of longing and jealousy tangled in my gut. Her fingers curled around mine, guiding them in a slow circle over her clothing rubbing her pussy, emphasizing how sensitive she was. Then she met my eyes, that faint grin on her lips betraying a swirl of emotions. “I’m still yours,” she murmured, voice unsteady. “Even after all of that... especially now.” 

These moments were so intense I still feel my heart racing writing about it a year later. It is like it happened yesterday.

She led me to the couch, our hands intertwined, and we settled down side by side. She rested her head on my shoulder, her hair still carrying the faint scent of his cologne, and for a long minute, we just existed in that tension—our breathing soft, hearts pounding. Eventually, her fingers reached for mine again, giving a small squeeze. We didn’t speak much, but there was a sense of raw honesty in the air that said more than words could.

She stood after a while, stretching like her body still remembered the contortions of what she’d done. I followed her to the bedroom, the two of us moving slowly, as though each step was a question of whether we could handle the answers. Once inside, we changed into sleep clothes—loose shirts, cotton pjs—and crawled into bed. While she brushed her teeth, While she brushed her teeth, I quietly picked up the underwear she’d just tossed into the laundry basket—lace-trimmed in a muted color, still faintly warm from her skin. A subtle, musky scent clung to the crotch, telling me in no uncertain terms that she’d been wet for him. Near the center, there was a darker spot of dampness, and though it was slight, it spoke volumes—evidence of how recently she’d let him claim her. I stood there, heart pounding, torn between the sharp sting of jealousy and a flicker of undeniable arousal, before finally setting them back. (https://i.postimg.cc/2j0XbSWm/IMG-1867.jpg)

She curled into me, pressing her face to my neck as she often does. Her skin felt warmer than usual, and there was still that subtle, telltale dampness I couldn’t ignore over my thigh as she wrapped her legs around me, a reminder of just how recently she’d been filled by someone else. It sparked a tangled rush of jealousy and arousal all over again. She must have sensed it, because she whispered, “I love you,” pressing her pelvis more firmly into my thigh so that I felt the soft, lingering damp warmth through her pajama bottoms. The gentle pressure carried a desperate edge, as though she needed that solid contact to remind us both we were still together in this. My pulse kicked up at the sensation of her body molding to mine. And though her words were quiet, they held a fiercely protective resonance—like an anchor we clung to in the midst of this new, heady storm.

Quickly, fatigue won out over the adrenaline, and she drifted off, her hand still wrapped around mine. I recall laying awake a while longer, staring at the dim ceiling, still so aware of her body molded against me. Every shift of her leg sent a faint, humid warmth onto my thigh, a lingering testament to what she’d done that night. The subtle, musky drifted around us, refusing to let me forget how another man lingered on her skin. Eventually, her breathing slowed, and I felt soft puffs of air fluttering against my neck as she slept.

That’s when it hit me with staggering force: the same lips now parting with each tranquil breath against my ear had—barely two hours ago—been parted and likely crying out as he took her fully. That sudden clash between her serene exhalations and the imagination of those raw, urgent moans pounded in my chest. Jealousy, lust, and a strange sense of relief all tangled inside me, because no matter how unsettling it felt, her gentle breathing was proof she’d come home to me. The fact that her mouth, so quietly resting now, had almost certainly voiced those heated cries made my pulse hammer and it was hard to sleep. I have since found myself in this place with some frequency,



Post-Date Activities:

Over the last year, I’ve noticed there tend to be two distinct “post-bull” states she falls into:

Bubbly but Not InterestedIn this mode, she’s cheerful, calm, and extra attentive with me—almost glowing with confidence and positivity. She might cook more, laugh more, even be more affectionate in non-sexual ways, but she has zero interest in actual sex. She’ll cuddle or kiss, but there’s no spark. It’s like she’s completely sated and doesn’t need more for a while. This lack of sexual interest can last a few days—3 or 4, usually—while the cheerful calm can linger for a week or longer. The first time described above was such an occurance.

In HeatThen there’s the opposite extreme: sometimes she returns with a different energy altogether, like she’s still running on the high. She won’t want to talk at all—only to have sex, and fast. She’ll push me onto the bed, pulling at my clothes before I can even ask how things went. While it’s undeniably hot, I also find it frustrating at these times I like the details; hearing them fuels me. But in this state, she’s not interested in slowing down or explaining much—she just wants a release with me, a continuation of that hunger. Usually, this heated phase lasts a couple of days at most, and then she slides back into her baseline self.

It’s been fascinating—and sometimes maddening—navigating these two extremes when it comes to sex. In that calm, post-bull glow, she’s brimming with warmth and tenderness, yet her need for more sexual contact is nearly absent. I’ll lie next to her, sensing the faint trace of another man’s presence lingering on her skin, and she’ll snuggle in close—happy, glowing, but with no drive to go further. I respect it, but it gnaws at me, because I’m stuck replaying all she might have done while I wait for her libido to reignite. Meanwhile, her affectionate gestures—head on my chest, soft murmurs against my ear—keep me tethered, reminding me she’s still with me emotionally even if her body’s not hungry right now.

Then there’s the other side of the coin: she comes home as though she’s still on fire. She doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to slow down—she just pounces. I can barely get a word out before she’s tugging me toward the bed, hands everywhere, needing me inside her to release whatever intensity she’s carrying. It’s undeniably hot, but I also crave the details—I want to hear how it happened, what pushed her over the edge. In these moments, she finds explaining it all frustrating—like the words break the spell or cool the heat. I’m torn between letting her ride that fierce wave of desire and wishing she’d open up right then, because hearing her confess each moment turns me on even more. Ironically, once the raw urgency fades—either right after we finish or by the next morning—she’s usually more willing to talk, more inclined to share the blow-by-blow. That stark contrast, from silent hunger to post-orgasmic openness, both excites and challenges me every time.

Over time, I’ve learned to find a strange balance in both states. The calm phase tests my patience and invests me in the quieter aspects of our bond, even when I’m yearning for the raw physicality. The ‘in heat’ phase, as frustrating as it can be not to hear the blow-by-blow, offers me a glimpse of that pure, urgent lust that sets my own body on fire and gives me a glimpse of what the bulls likely see from her everytime.



Creampies as a “Natural Progression”:

BallSpanking, I see where you’re coming from; there’s something profoundly intimate about a creampie. The first time I confronted it, it was just little physical hints—her damp warmth, the faint residue of his seed on her underwear—and this swirl of pride, raw arousal, emasculation, and jealousy slammed into me at once. Even now, those feelings still spike whenever I notice something that reminds me she’s been possessed by someone else.

But it evolved beyond that over time. It started as subtle cues: the way her body heat felt different when she came home, or how she’d be in a dazed, almost blissful mood, yet oddly distant. Then new triggers surfaced—then there are the mounting physical signs of a fresh creampie that truly drove it home for me. Over the next five months I noticed in the following order:

Body Language Clues: This actually became the most common telltale sign, especially if she came home within an hour or so of doing the deed. She’d walk through the house with a different rhythm—slower, more deliberate. Her hips would sway with a soft, almost hesitant drag, just enough to make it obvious that she still felt him deep inside. I’d see her pause at the door way, or before getting in the car when I pick her up, one foot planted, the other sliding slightly inward as she squeezed her thighs together with a subtle pressure. She'd lower herself onto the chair with extra care, easing down like she was still tender, her weight shifting. This was particularly the case after being with the business man, maybe due to anal sex?

Tell-Tale Marks on Underwear: I started noticing specific textures and colors in her underwear—an opaque, tacky spot at the crotch that wasn’t just from her. The fabric would dry with a stiff ripple, and when I’d bring them close to fold, a faint musk clung to the lace or cotton—not entirely hers.

Heightened Sensitivity: she visibly flinches or gasps more than usual at certain touches, complaining she’s still sensitive. It’s like her nerves are still lit up from him.

Bodily Fluid Residue: A subtle leftover if I run my fingers along her vulva—or if she guides my hand there, letting me feel the sticky aftermath of his release. It can be a thin film or a thicker smear if she hasn’t rinsed off. But it is totally different in texture from her own wettness.

Subtle Stains on Dresses: Sometimes after she returned, especially in silk or light cotton, I could see a faint watermark low between her legs, as if she’d pressed herself into the seat of the car too soon after being filled. A slightly darker patch, or a stiffness to the fabric when I gathered it for the laundry. I’d stare, knowing exactly what caused it.

Lingerie She Brought Home: A particular moment still stands out—she bought a sheer, black thong from a boutique near her work. It looked new, unworn. But when I pulled it from the bag, I caught a trace of that musky tang. Just enough to make me freeze. She hadn’t washed it. Maybe she’d tried it on for him, maybe more. The scent was undeniable—another man had been close, and she’d carried that back to me, silently.

Slick Inner Thighs: Seeing or feeling a slight sheen on her thighs when she got home wearing a shorter dess—maybe she hasn’t fully cleaned up, so there’s a damp, glistening trail that signals where fluid might’ve trickled down during her commute.



Fluid Discharge During Our Own Sex: The first time I really noticed it was after she’d been with the businessman. When I slid into her, I felt a distinct warmth and extra slickness that had me reeling—knowing it wasn’t just her natural lubrication. That raw blend of jealousy and arousal spiked hard..

Yes, a creampie is the ultimate raw moment—fluid exchanged, no barriers, no second-guessing. In the beginning, I’ll be honest—I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Even though I had fantasized about it for years, when the reality finally arrived—I hesitated. She would be in that feral, “in heat” state, tossing her bag on the floor, barely able to undress fast enough. Her skin flushed, her breath shallow, her thighs damp and sticky with his finish. She wanted me. Desperately. To take her right then, exactly as she was—used, dripping, raw.

But something in my head would seize up every time.

I’d feel it pressing down, a barrier I hadn’t expected: the knowledge that she’d been filled minutes or hours ago. That her pussy wasn’t just wet from arousal—but from him. That his cum would still pooled inside her, and the second I entered her, it would be on me—on my cock. I couldn’t do it. The thought of that physical proximity to another man’s release was too intimate, too real. I’d freeze, get hard and lose it. I never had this problem before, it genuinely freaked me out. I thought I was losing control of my cock, sounds silly now, but it really did stress me out. This happened with alarming frequency in the first several months just with intimacy in general with my wife. Could be an interesting future post in of itself...

She noticed. She didn’t push, but I could see the frustration in her eyes—especially when she was in that overdriven, animal-like faral state. It was clear she wanted this. To be taken, claimed, fucked by her husband while still holding onto that rawness of being a hotwife who just fucked her bull. And it killed me to see her so ready while I was stuck in my own hesitation.

But over the next few months—maybe five or so—it began to shift.

The turning point wasn’t dramatic. It was subtle, incremental, each encounter nudging me a little closer to surrendering to what I’d initially resisted. It started with small acts, tentative at first. The first time I ran my fingers along her inner thighs after she got home and felt that unmistakable slickness—a blend of her own arousal and another man’s cum—and, to my own surprise, didn’t immediately pull away. My heart had raced, yet my fingers lingered, exploring that illicit warmth.

A few months later, after the episode described, when she returned flushed and hungry, she guided my hand between her legs, pressing my fingers gently but firmly into her still-wet opening. I felt the heat, the slippery texture, that tangible evidence of another man’s release in her for the first time. My mind fought it, but my body responded differently. Instead of withdrawing, my fingers remained inside her, stroking slowly, my pulse hammering as she whimpered softly, hips moving instinctively against my touch. It was a quiet surrender for me—but a powerful one.

Each experience wore away at my hesitation, slowly breaking down my internal barriers. Eventually, I stopped trying to avoid it. Instead, I began to anticipate it, the forbidden intimacy of feeling her freshly fucked pussy yield beneath my fingers.

The final breakthrough came about 5 months later, one night when she returned home from a date at a local fair with the firefighter bull, visibly disheveled, skin flushed with lingering pleasure. Her eyes met mine, and without hesitation, she took my hand, pulling me toward the bedroom. Very few words were exchanged. She was wearing a short dress. She lay back on the bed, parted her thighs, and I noticed no underwear, and she whispered, “I need you now—just as I am.”

Below is the updated snippet incorporating the added detail about your jealousy:



I hovered for a heartbeat at her entrance, my tip grazing folds that felt like warm silk—already parted and slick from another man’s touch. Normally, I’d ease into her, find the usual resistance, but now she yielded instantly, a heady, liquid heat enveloping me. It was like she’d had an hour of foreplay—yet in reality, she’d just flopped onto the bed seconds before, without a single kiss or caress from me.



A spike of jealousy caught in my throat, because it was an undeniable reminder that her body had been brought to this state without me. But each shallow thrust pulled me deeper into a raw, electric acceptance. She moaned softly, her whole body still vibrating from his last thrusts. I could feel the slick residue clinging to my length, coating me with every push, each stroke a reminder that I was taking what he’d just filled.



The realization twisted me up inside—jealousy and blazing arousal colliding in my chest. But instead of recoiling, I let that friction fuel me. Gradually, the pang of envy fused into a fierce, searing need. Her hips lifted, pulling me in, every movement urging me to surrender further. By the time I sank in fully, that lingering barrier in my mind shattered: I embraced the taboo, the rawness, and the faint echo of him lingering inside her. And in that moment, the warm silk of her freshly used body felt more intimate—more wildly addictive—than anything I’d known before.

From then onward, surrender became easier each time, less a battle with myself. Now, when she walks in wearing that “don’t-make-me-wait” expression—still smelling of sweat and sex—I know exactly what she wants. And I give it to her, no hesitation. Every time I do, it rewires me a little more. It’s the side of hotwifing that men who only fantasize about it don’t always grasp: once you cross that threshold and feel the rush of truly embracing it, your brain changes in ways you can’t undo.

Even now, despite how far we've come in embracing this dynamic, one boundary remains difficult for me to cross: going down on her soon after she's been with someone else. Ironically, she often asks for it most explicitly when she returns in that heated, craving state—her body still trembling, practically begging for my mouth between her legs. But even then, I'm hesitant. Knowing another man's cum was just inside her is something I still can't overcome.

To be fair, oral sex has never been my strength. I'm not particularly skilled at it, and my wife openly admits she enjoys it far more deeply with her bulls—who seem to know exactly how to please her that way. Perhaps that makes the reluctance easier to justify to myself, but either way, it's one boundary I haven't fully crossed.

Gentlemen, I appreciate your input and the conversation—it’s always helpful to hear from others who are navigating (or at least fascinated by) a similar path. My wife’s freedom, is both a turn-on and an emotional roller coaster. And yet, I wouldn’t trade it for anything, because the alternative was secrecy, distrust, and confusion. At least now, it’s all in the open. We’re on the same page, even if that page is more provocative and in some ways more complicated than I ever thought my life would be.

Anyway, thanks again for reading and commenting. Cheers to all of us still exploring what this lifestyle can be—complicated, thrilling, maddening, and, at the end of the day, ours.If you have questions, I'm literally an open book (look how much I wrote!). If there is something you would like to elaborate on or anything else, please let me know. I find writing this all down very therapeutic, so we can scratch each other's backs. 

[hardk]

It seems you are still struggling with the feeling of being left out or left behind.

If you do not consider yours a cuck relationship have you thought about and discussed opening it for you as well? Why should you not be accorded the some of the same freedom your wife has claimed?

Hey David52,

I appreciate you chiming in—it’s a valid question, and I totally get why you’d ask about me pursuing the same freedom. It’s something we’ve discussed at length over the years, especially when our dynamic was still more a fantasy than reality. Let me give you the full story:

When we first started exploring non-monogamy, the idea of swinging was front and center—something we thought we might do together. We’d toy with the hotwife fantasy, but it was more of a “side theme,” not the main course. Over the course of almost a decade, though, it gradually shifted toward a stag-vixen style, mainly because my wife has stronger jealousy triggers than I do. She’s dealt with being cheated on by a past boyfriend and has also been the “other woman” in someone else’s marriage, so there’s a tangle of trust issues there that runs pretty deep. In contrast, I felt less jealousy—at least theoretically, before all this became real.

So when the chance finally came for my wife to try the apps, it defaulted into a hotwife setup rather than a fully open relationship. In a way, it was the path of least resistance: she could see other men, and I didn’t mind the idea—until it actually happened. That’s when reality and feelings stepped in.

About a year ago, she confessed to having had extramarital activities behind my back for two years. I felt betrayed but also intensely turned on. It was a vortex of emotions: jealousy, shock, arousal, anger, curiosity… you name it. My immediate reaction was to say, “We’re either done, or we go open on both sides.” Part of me figured if I had the same freedom she’d been enjoying, at least it’d feel balanced. Secretly, I assumed we might end up divorced anyway because we were both so shaken.

She seemed open—on paper—to the idea of me exploring, too. But it quickly became clear it would wreck her. She kept flashing back to old trauma, old betrayals, and it triggered something deep in her. I didn’t want that weight on us, but I also didn’t want to ignore my own feelings of being “left behind.”

This was tested in a very real way a few weeks after her confession. I was out of town at a conference and met a lovely Vietnamese woman who was married but very unhappy. She found out I was married too, yet we clicked, ended up having dinner a few nights, and flirted pretty heavily. On the last evening, she invited me back to her hotel room—basically an open invitation for sex.

Part of me felt validated. My wife had just had two years of secret fun—why couldn’t I indulge for one night, especially when someone else was so obviously interested? I admit, in my head, it felt like it could even the score a bit. But I also knew it was venturing down a path of secrecy and hypocrisy—mirroring exactly what hurt me so much in the first place.

Right before I left my own hotel room to meet her, my wife called. We had a brutally honest conversation. I told her about this woman, about the invitation, and about how conflicted I felt. She was devastated—not because it was out in the open (we’d said we’d be honest), but because she realized she couldn’t handle the idea of me actually going through with it. Essentially, she said I could do it if I wanted, but it would break her. Hearing her voice and how pained she was, I knew this wasn’t going to fix anything. It wouldn’t truly give me closure or “balance.” It’d be an act of revenge, or at least it’d feel that way.

I ended up packing my bag immediately, getting an early flight home, and surprising her at the door 18 hours early. We talked—again—and confirmed that secrecy (on either side) would destroy our marriage for good, but also that her own triggers made it near-impossible for her to watch me date anyone.

Where That Left Us:

So, yeah, we talked about me having the same freedom. She even said she was fine with it in principle. But in practice, it was tearing her up—tapping into old betrayal trauma she’s never fully healed from. Somewhat ironic I know. Meanwhile, I recognized how damaging it would be if I forced it. If I forced it, it was going to end us, and any sexual exploration along with it. Also I did have to own some degree of what happened with my wife. I did lead her all the way down the alleyway towards reality in this fantasy. I rewarded her for indulging in my fantasy. I urged her. Then pulled back. I could sympathize how she ended up in her current position. I didn’t agree with it. But I empathized. I saw that being secretive or openly causing more trauma was simply going to complicate things more.

In that sense, the “hotwife-only” arrangement was kind of a compromise—she could continue, and I’d keep monogamy for myself. When she was honest she wanted extramarital sex. We both did. But I could maybe handle it, where she seemed traumatized with giving me the same. Is it equitable? No. Can I understand it? Yes. But this is still a struggle, don’t get me wrong.

Emotionally, do I feel left behind sometimes? Yes. It’s a lingering ache: she got to have all these mind-blowing experiences while I mostly watched from the sidelines or was oblivious. But I also realized that me going out and doing the same thing isn’t going to solve that feeling.

Now it’s unbalanced in some ways. But parts of marriage often are. I earn more money. I’m a better cook and cook more often. My wife is a better organizer. My wife gives me more oral sex than I give her. My wife cleans up more. We decided that if we’re going to stay together, we each have to face our own comfort levels with occupying different roles, tolerating different things, and having different benefits and needs. She can’t handle me sleeping with other women; I can accept (with a mix of jealousy and arousal) her continuing as a hotwife, she desires more sex and freedom, provided it’s all open and honest now. It’s not simple, but we’ve navigated this far.

I appreciate your insight, though, because it is a valid question: Why shouldn’t I claim the same freedom? In truth, I’ve had the chance, but seeing how it almost blew up in our faces convinced me that, for us, it isn’t the right move. That might change someday—or maybe it won’t. But right now, it’s what’s keeping our relationship intact while letting her embrace her side of things.

Hope that clarifies the journey a bit more. I’m definitely not discounting the idea of “equal freedom,” but in our case, it’s more about handling each other’s emotional thresholds than a strict fairness scoreboard.

Thanks again, David. Your question makes perfect sense, and I genuinely appreciate the chance to think it all through once more.

[hardk]

Thanks for sharing your story and giving us a glimpse at the incredible journey you are on. She looks gorgeous. Your writing is very engaging and enjoyable. Looking forward to further updates…
Are her visits to the firefighter just once in 2 weeks or more frequent?

Hey Venus,

Great question. It varies. In an ideal world, my wife likes to see each of her two regulars (the firefighter and the businessman) roughly every 10–14 days. But real life can get in the way—schedules, travel, workload—so sometimes it’s less frequent.

Here’s where we’re at right now:

Firefighter: She last saw him 17 days ago.

Businessman: It’s actually been over a month since their last meetup.

And tonight, she’s heading out to see the businessman—it’s been circled on the calendar for weeks, and you can practically sense the electricity coming off her.

Whenever it stretches this long, she grows visibly restless—her voice takes on a slightly impatient edge, and you can almost see her weighing each choice she makes throughout the day. There’s this simmering tension in the air, like she’s holding. She becomes more restless—almost like she’s physically aching for release. She’ll scroll through her phone more, linger in the shower longer, or pick out outfits even if she’s not going anywhere. Sometimes, she’ll sit quietly, distant but charged, like she’s mentally elsewhere—like she’s holding in something that desperately wants to be let out. She’s a little present with me and the family.

And the day of? She transforms completely. Hair perfect, makeup slightly more daring, her entire energy radiates with anticipation.

It’s undeniably erotic for me to watch. At home, she’ll tease me a little, but it’s clear her focus is on whoever she’s about to meet. This morning was no different—she woke up early, shifting beside me in bed, her body warm and already humming with need. She slid a leg over mine and pressed herself against me, her breath soft but urgent. I could feel how wet she already was, the heat between her thighs unmistakable. When I reached for her, she let out the kind of sound that only comes when she’s been building for days—and today, that buildup was all about him. We didn’t speak much—there was no need. Her hips moved with purpose, grinding against my hand, then my mouth, desperate and focused, as if this orgasm was just the opening act before the real show tonight.

Afterward, as she lay beside me catching her breath, she whispered, "It’s going to be intense tonight... I can feel it." Her fingers toyed with her lip, then dipped lower, between her legs again, almost absentmindedly. "I don’t think I’ll be able to hold back," she added with a soft moan, "He knows exactly how to pull it out of me."

Then she turned onto her back, eyes closed, and let her fingers drift down between her legs. As she began to touch herself—slowly, deliberately—she described how she wanted him to take her, how she hoped he'd pin her wrists and push deep until she cried out. Every word physically jolted through her body, her voice trembling as her pleasure mounted. Watching her build herself up again, whispering vivid, filthy promises about tonight's encounter—how she wanted him to choke her just a little as he fucked her from behind, how she wanted to be bent over the hotel bed and taken hard with her legs still trembling from the first round.

She eventually curled against me again, quiet for a moment before softly saying, "I want him to make me feel ruined tonight." Her voice was low, almost reverent. She wasn't talking to me, not really—she was confessing it aloud, letting it take shape in the room between us. Then she laughed under her breath and said, "I want to be so sore tomorrow that I wince every time I sit down." She kissed my shoulder absentmindedly. To this I asked if she was going to try anal sex tonight. She only does it with this one bull, and it's been a while since they met. She smiled—slow, knowing—and bit her lip before answering. "I think so," she said, her voice low and almost giddy. "He knows how to work me open... he always takes his time, and it drives him crazy."

The anal sex she reserves for this one bull drives me absolutely insane in the most primal way. The fact that is is exclusive makes it burn in my mind. When she even mentions it, I see her differently—her hips, the way she walks, her soft little wince the next day. I imagine his hands on her waist, steadying her as he pushes deep, her slim body straining to take him, the helpless whimpers she makes when he starts to really move. And when she comes home and casually mentions how sore she is, how slowly he stretched her open—it wrecks me in both a good and bad way. I picture her trembling under him, face buried in the pillow, legs shaking, voice breaking, and I can’t think of anything else.

I vividly remember a night in January when my phone buzzed unexpectedly, her name lighting up the screen. My pulse raced as I answered, already knowing something intimate was unfolding. I’d heard her in many situations before, but never like this. Her breathing was ragged, punctuated by shaky, strained whispers asking him to slow down, to be gentle. I heard him, calm yet commanding, asking her if she was okay. She hesitated, then managed a breathless and slightly uncertain "yes." Silence followed, tense and charged, broken only by her labored breaths. Then, suddenly, her voice shifted, deeper, more desperate—"God, you're filling me...my ass feels so full." This confirmed I was hearing my wife have anal, a first for me. Her words hit me like an electric shock. Then, more silence with only slight bed creaking, and eventually, I heard her low, guttural groans—sounds I'd never imagined coming from her. Each moan grew rawer, primal, escalating with intensity. He asked again, his voice rough with desire, "Does that feel good?" My wife's reply shattered me: breathless, almost pleading, ""Yes, give it to me...just take my ass," she gasped, voice shaking with raw intensity. I clutched the phone tighter, feeling my heart thud painfully in my chest, each breath from her heightening my senses. Through the line, I could hear the rhythmic creak of the bed, her urgent breathing growing heavier, punctuated by whispers and quiet gasps of encouragement from him. Her voice softened slightly, turning vulnerable yet charged with longing as she moaned, "Please, please, please—oh fuck, don't stop... fill me completely." Her voice broke into breathless cries, each louder than the last. I held the phone tightly, my pulse hammering, realizing this was the exact moment she let go, completely at his mercy. I imagined the tension rippling through her muscles, her body rigid and trembling, eyes squeezed shut as she fought for every shuddering breath. Each gasp, each moan that escaped her was a confession of the overwhelming pleasure and intensity she felt, leaving me lost in a haze of desire, jealousy, and a deep, pulsing ache inside my chest. There was a moment of hushed, ragged breathing—a stillness so charged that I felt every second stretch. Then I heard her let out one final, shivering cry, like her entire body gave in at once.

A faint laugh slipped through the phone, breathy and slightly tremulous, mixing relief with lingering arousal. His voice rumbled something low, a murmur I couldn’t make out, but the warmth and reassurance were undeniable. Then a hush settled, broken only by her unsteady breaths and a faint rustle of sheets. Slowly, she exhaled, “That was intense,” she whispered. I could practically feel her body trembling in the aftermath, the intimacy of the moment wrapping around us even through the distance. A gentle laugh slipped out of her, breathy and sweet, as though she was still riding the last waves of her orgasm. In the background, I caught the rumble of his voice—deep, reassuring, almost protective. "Hey," he said gently, a hint of amusement lacing his tone. "You okay there? Still breathing?" She let out a shaky laugh. "Barely." Another rustle of sheets followed, continued with a soft, breathless chuckle, "That was... intense." The way she said it felt like an intimate secret they shared. And with that, the call ended, leaving me alone with the roar of blood in my ears and the vivid imprint of her every moan. The silence felt deafening—a hum of leftover electricity—and all I could do was sit there, reeling from the raw intimacy I’d just been invited into. I took a shaky breath, adrenaline still coursing through me.

That was months ago, but even now, I feel the echoes of that phone call whenever I see her slip into that same headspace—like this morning, 

The mix of anticipation and tension can feel intoxicating—sometimes maddening. But it’s part of our normal now. In just a few hours, she’ll leave the house charged with excitement, and I’ll brace for the swirl of emotions that always hits once she’s gone.

Let me know if you're curious about anything else. I’m always happy to share.

[KarrieKraves]

hardk
A couple of curiosities from your above post.

----And tonight, she’s heading out to see the businessman—it’s been circled on the calendar for weeks, and you can practically sense the electricity coming off her.

Having k*ds, with your wife’s late(er) evening dates, have you had a situation where the k*ds have awoke and wanted her/discovered she wasn’t home and asked where she was?? How have you handled it?


----I vividly remember a night in January when my phone buzzed unexpectedly, her name lighting up the screen. My pulse raced as I answered, already knowing something intimate was unfolding.

How often does your wife contact you like this when she is with one of her guys? Is there any type of formal arrangement or expectations between you and her in terms of this type of communication? Have you ever spoken to her during one of these times or has the line simply been cut at some point??


----"Hey," he said gently, a hint of amusement lacing his tone. "You okay there? Still breathing?"

hardk could you take a bit of time to describe the relationship you have (or would like to have) with either of her “guys”

ie-Have you ever spoken to them, have you ever asked her any details about them, have you ever asked her how you “measure up” with them physically/emotionally etc? What does she like about them that you haven’t got??

Thanks
As always, another great post

[hardk]

hardk
A couple of curiosities from your above post.

----And tonight, she’s heading out to see the businessman—it’s been circled on the calendar for weeks, and you can practically sense the electricity coming off her.

Having k*ds, with your wife’s late(er) evening dates, have you had a situation where the k*ds have awoke and wanted her/discovered she wasn’t home and asked where she was?? How have you handled it?


----I vividly remember a night in January when my phone buzzed unexpectedly, her name lighting up the screen. My pulse raced as I answered, already knowing something intimate was unfolding.

How often does your wife contact you like this when she is with one of her guys? Is there any type of formal arrangement or expectations between you and her in terms of this type of communication? Have you ever spoken to her during one of these times or has the line simply been cut at some point??


----"Hey," he said gently, a hint of amusement lacing his tone. "You okay there? Still breathing?"

hardk could you take a bit of time to describe the relationship you have (or would like to have) with either of her “guys”

ie-Have you ever spoken to them, have you ever asked her any details about them, have you ever asked her how you “measure up” with them physically/emotionally etc? What does she like about them that you haven’t got??

Thanks
As always, another great post

Hey KarrieKraves,

Thanks for the thoughtful questions! Let me dive into them, giving you a peek into our daily life, especially with k1ds involved, managing late-night dates, and my own curiosity about measuring up compared to her guys.

We have k1ds, between ages 5 and 10. About three years ago, my wife took a new job requiring frequent evening commitments—2 to 3 nights weekly, often until 10 or 11 PM, including numerous legitimate work-related social engagements, often in the evening. Initially, the k1ds and I just assumed all those late nights were strictly work-related. It later turned out that around 20% were secretly dates. Now that she’s open with me about her two regular partners, she’s actually going out less often compared to two years ago.

If the k1ds wake up and wonder why mom isn’t home yet, the explanation is straightforward: “She’s working late.” If she gets dressed up to go out after work, it’s consistent with their experience over several years, especially since she frequently attends legitimate work-related social events or meetings that extend into the evening hours. Thankfully, we’ve never had the k1ds question it directly or suspiciously.

When she’s out with one of her partners, her phone is typically on silent, barring emergencies. Initially, her desire for secrecy came from feeling watched or obligated to “perform.” Our compromise now lets me ask about the date before and after and maybe take a photo as she gets ready, but otherwise, in return, I facilitate her being fully present with her date. Occasionally, she’ll text me on her way there or home—about half the time—but I never push for it.

Once a month or so, she’ll call me mid-encounter as I described. She never speaks, but I hear a lot—moans, movements, the intimacy unfolding. In those moments, my heart races, my breath quickens, and I’m flooded with a mix of raw excitement and intense jealousy. It’s an emotional cocktail that’s intoxicating yet unsettling, as if I’m intimately close yet painfully distant.

One particularly challenging moment stands out vividly: I remember hearing the rhythmic creak of the bed, the faint sound of her breath quickening into short gasps, punctuated by muffled cries of pleasure. Then, unmistakably, I heard her voice break through in a tone that shot through me—breathless, trembling, almost begging as she called out the businessman’s name, her voice trembling, “Yes, like that—right there—harder, please… Harder! Don’t stop, Oppa!” It was a desperate plea filled with raw desire and abandon, unlike anything I’d heard from her before—especially since she’d never once used the term ‘Oppa’ in all our years together, making it feel shockingly intimate and unexpected. In Korean culture, “Oppa” is deeply layered—it conveys affection, closeness, and even a subtle, flirtatious submission when spoken by a woman to an older man she’s involved with. It implies a dynamic of vulnerability and submission. To hear it from my wife’s lips towards another older white man in such a raw, passionate moment made the encounter feel profoundly personal and culturally rooted, evoking fantasies and romantic scenarios deeply entwined with race play. In that charged moment, I vividly pictured her—the flush of her cheeks, her body pressed against his pale skin, eyes glazed with desire, lips trembling as the forbidden word escaped her mouth and unconsciousness.

It felt dangerously exciting, painfully erotic, and emotionally unsettling, blurring lines between fantasy and reality in ways I’d never anticipated. Hearing her say it, so breathless and needy, intensified the feeling that she’d tapped into an erotic space previously untouched between us. It signaled a complete surrender of her usual inhibitions, a raw expression of desire that felt forbidden, intensely erotic, yet painfully exclusionary.

Then came the sound of her climax, louder and more passionate than I’d ever heard in our own bed—an explosive mix of gasping breaths and urgent cries. Then I heard it again at this moment. She moaned deeply, her voice shuddering, breaking as she begged, “Yes, yes! Oh Oppa, don’t stop, Oppa, I’m coming! I’m coming!” At the moment, the jealousy was almost unbearable. I remember cursing and pulling the phone away from my ear. My heart pounded relentlessly as I vividly pictured, even against my will, her body bent forward, hips raised and pressed firmly back against him as he took her from behind, her hands gripping the hotel sheets tightly, knuckles white with desperation, her face flushed and lost in a pleasure I’d never witnessed so intensely firsthand. Afterward, I sat alone in our bedroom, pulse pounding, body tense with desire, jealousy, and longing, knowing she’d soon come home to me carrying this fresh memory between us, unspoken yet intensely felt. For days afterward, that single word being moaned, “Oppa” echoed in my mind, sparking a mix of confusion, fascination, jealousy, and an insatiable craving to understand what had unlocked that hidden part of her sexuality.

Ok… Back to the questions…

We do maintain some clear boundaries. Any new partners beyond her current two must be discussed beforehand—no surprises. She keeps our personal details minimal, never sharing her real name, my name, phone numbers, or specifics about family and careers. Her partners tease her about being mysterious, but it’s vital for our privacy. Also, she always returns before morning, typically between 1 and 2 AM, never later than 5 AM, to avoid the k1ds noticing. The latest she has returned is 4 AM, this is very rare.

About meeting the bulls—I’ve never actually met either of them or even spoken with them on the phone. My only glimpses of them come from two photos each that my wife shared with me. They don’t know what I look like, and I wouldn’t recognize them if we crossed paths in public. There was one particularly tense moment, though, when we attended a theater event, and the firefighter happened to be there with his k1d. My wife instantly recognized him, her body stiffening visibly next to me as she gripped my arm tighter than usual. She later confessed the anxiety that flooded her, fearing we’d inadvertently cross paths and be forced into an awkward introduction. At the time, I mistook her anxiety for sudden illness, completely unaware of how close our worlds had come to colliding.

Although my wife sometimes jokes about arranging a casual meeting or even suggesting a threesome, the idea makes me uncomfortable. I’m not drawn to humiliation scenarios or traditional cuckold fantasies, and I prefer maintaining some distance from these men who’ve become such an intimate part of her life. The potential awkwardness and emotional complexity of such an encounter are something I’m not eager to confront, so I keep a careful emotional buffer around this sensitive territory.

My wife occasionally jokes about me meeting them or even a threesome, but that’s not something we are actively pursuing; I prefer distance rather than humiliation scenarios. However, I do recall vividly on New Year’s Eve when, in an attempt to explore the anal play she usually reserves for her businessman partner, I introduced an anal plug. After gently inserting it, I ended up fucking her while the plug was firmly in place, enhancing the intensity for both of us. She commented breathlessly at that moment how incredibly full and satisfied she felt, before whispering to me that she wished her businessman was there, taking her ass simultaneously while I filled her pussy.

Comparisons between myself and her partners remain a major emotional hurdle.

I’m slim-athletic, nordic ethnically, a runner’s build. Average height. She appreciates my stamina and firmness, though admits I’m less skilled in foreplay, particularly oral, and manual play than all her current partners. Comparisons are frequent; she’ll instruct me to “try it like the firefighter” or mention how one partner excels in specific areas, which fuels both my jealousy and my competitive streak. Apparently, she uses similar comments with her partners to intensify their competition too, which she finds thrilling.

The firefighter is taller than me, mediterrian, and very muscular with broad shoulders, exuding a physical dominance she finds irresistible. She once confided in me that his physical appearance was the primary reason she initially decided to meet him. When she secretly began exploring apps, she recalled thinking, “If I’m actually going to do this, have sex with other men as a married woman, I want something completely different sexually from anything I’ve experienced before.” My wife describes his muscular build and commanding presence exactly the kind of contrast she desired, driving her initial attraction and ultimately leading to their first sexual encounter.

She vividly describes numerous occasions when he effortlessly lifts her into his strong arms, wrapping her slender Asian frame around his muscular body, her legs gripping tightly around his waist. I often find myself haunted by the vivid imagery of their contrasting bodies—the firefighter’s powerful, broad frame towering over her petite, delicate form. I picture her slim legs clinging desperately around his hips, her smooth skin pressed firmly against his rugged torso, fingers digging into his shoulders as she surrenders herself completely. This particular image intrudes on my thoughts almost daily, its one of the most common, whether she’s peacefully asleep next to me in bed, as we make love, or even at quiet moments during the day, leaving me tormented by a potent mixture of jealousy, arousal, and a deep, unshakeable curiosity.
Emotionally, my wife describes the firefighter as someone she could never genuinely date. She finds him deeply uninteresting outside of bed—mentioning several times how their conversations rarely go beyond superficial topics, often leaving her bored or even slightly annoyed. She’s explicitly called him “a dumb jock,” a phrase that seems to capture her frustrations with his limited intellectual curiosity and their lack of shared interests. She compares their connection to that of a gym partner—someone exciting to work out with and physically satisfying in the moment, but whose company she neither seeks nor enjoys beyond their physical interactions. She openly admits that without the intensity of their sexual chemistry, there would be absolutely nothing keeping them connected, emphasizing that the appeal of their relationship is strictly confined to sex. She describes the sex as objectively better and more satisfying with both the businessman and me. Yet, the appeal of sex with the firefighter is precisely because it’s so distinctly different—almost a completely separate act altogether. It’s primal, raw, and deeply submissive, marked by the stark physical contrasts between her petite, slender Asian frame and his massive, muscular build. She vividly describes a sense of physical vulnerability and surrender. She says this sex fulfills a deeply hidden desire she’s always carried—a primal, almost animalistic desire to be taken by a physically imposing man, something she admits she’s secretly yearned for long before becoming open about these feelings. 



Unfortunately, she also vividly recalls how the firefighter occasionally struggles with stamina and erection issues, disrupting their encounters and significantly altering the dynamic. She described to me, in explicit detail, several times early in their relationship when she went over to his apartment, her anticipation palpable—only to find him unable to perform. She recounted, with visible frustration, sitting on the edge of his bed, naked, having been warmed up orally, feeling both embarrassed and frusterated, as he struggled unsuccessfully to get hard despite her teasing touch and seductive whispers. She told me that on one particularly strained evening, in a moment of raw frustration, she sharply commented on his impotence, leaving him humiliated and angry. Her words cut deeply enough that they didn’t see each other for nearly two months afterward. I like this, as it’s something I never struggle with, and it’s nice to know I can be reliable to my wife in that way.

On the other hand, the businessman, slightly shorter than me, sporting a comfortable dad-bod, generic anglo-saxon type appearance, apparently excels in the subtler arts of foreplay, taking his time to lavish attention on her body, to wine and dine her outside of bed as well. She says he’s patient, methodical, and introduced her, as mentioned, to the realm of anal play—something she’d kept off-limits to me. She often describes vividly how attentive and skillful his foreplay is, recounting in explicit detail the slow, deliberate way he teases, mixing gentle touches with more insistent pressure, reading her reactions expertly and guiding her toward the brink repeatedly before finally letting her climax. In sharp contrast, she candidly admits my approach is often hurried, too direct, and lacking in the patient sensuality that her businessman partner excels in. Hearing these vivid comparisons both stings and motivates me, fueling a mix of jealousy, fascination, and an earnest desire to learn and improve. In fact, she ranks his sexual finesse second only to a previous lover from her past, a guy she nostalgically recalls meeting through a running club in grad school, whose memory still occasionally surfaces in her fantasy descriptions in bed.

Emotionally, she says the businessman taps into a deeper emotional fantasy, vividly recalling how when she was around 16 and 17, older men from her adolescence in Korea—work friends of her father- would come over to be entertained. She states that these guys would flirt subtly yet provocatively, their casual touches lingering a bit too long, their compliments laced with innuendo. She would serve these guys during the dinners and linger in the background. She admits these interactions awakened a forbidden curiosity that lingered throughout her youth. She once shared with me, vividly and explicitly, that she would quietly excuse herself from these gatherings, slipping away upstairs to her room. Her heart would race with nervous excitement as she’d quickly undress, lying back on her bed, imagining one of these attractive, older visitors following her secretly. In her mind, she’d picture him confidently entering her room, pinning her gently yet firmly beneath him, and taking her passionately. After climaxing to this forbidden fantasy, she’d quickly compose herself, return downstairs flushed and then awkwardly attempt to flirt back with the very man she’d just imagined in her bedroom.

This erotic cycle, filled with youthful innocence and forbidden desire, was intensified further by another memory she shared. The summer before starting university in the  U.S., she accompanied her father on a business trip in Asia. While staying in a luxurious hotel, she spent an afternoon lounging by the pool in her bikini. A German businessman associated with her father’s company noticed her, approached confidently, flirted openly, and invited her to lunch by the pool. She described vividly how he placed his hand boldly high up on her bare thigh, his touch firm yet tantalizingly gentle, openly suggestive yet subtly restrained. She admitted feeling exhilarated and willingly receptive, her pulse racing with excitement. Their interaction ended abruptly when her father unexpectedly returned, causing the German man to politely withdraw. Now, she says the businessman bull vividly evokes the memory of this forbidden figure from her youth.

With the businessman, she feels she’s finally experiencing scenarios she imagined in real life—the comforting weight of an older man’s authority, a business man, the thrill of surrendering to someone she perceives as more experienced, and the intoxicating sensation of crossing a forbidden line. Listening to her describe these encounters, so openly and explicitly, leaves me grappling with a complex mix of fascination, jealousy, and an unsettling curiosity about a part of her sexuality I’ve only just begun to understand.

Long-term, we haven’t fully defined our path, recognizing that attempting to script our future in detail feels unrealistic. We’ve learned through trial and error that the complexity of emotions, unexpected triggers, and shifting dynamics require adaptability. Each new revelation or experience reshapes our understanding, and instead of rigidly mapping out every potential scenario, we focus on maintaining open and mutual honesty. Though uncertainty can be unsettling, embracing flexibility has allowed us to navigate our unique relationship dynamic more authentically and thoughtfully. We’ve discussed openly how if we had chosen to separate after she revealed her secret affairs, everyone involved—our k1ds included—would’ve faced significant consequences. My wife would inevitably become less present at home, her attention divided as she’d pursue fulfillment elsewhere. I would’ve remained forever curious and unfulfilled, unable to explore these deeply rooted fantasies that have long intrigued me. Equally importantly, my wife would lose the security of exploring her desires safely and openly, forced instead into secrecy and potential risk. Despite the complexity and emotional challenges, we’ve come to realize staying together and navigating this unconventional path has genuinely allowed both of us to grow and explore in ways we never would have otherwise. The honesty we’ve built through these experiences has, paradoxically, deepened our emotional intimacy, even amidst ongoing tensions and occasional jealousy. It is very much a double edge sword, there is growth, a lot of growth, but also loss, blood and tears.

Yes, I still occasionally feel “left behind,” especially recalling her earlier secret adventures. But openness has helped heal much of that pain, even if some discomfort remains. We’re continually navigating life, parenting, and our unique relationship, day by day, always learning.

I hope that gives you more insight into our situation—communication, boundaries, experiences and my personal challenges with comparisons. Feel free to ask anything else!

[hardk]

Last night was one of those evenings that felt charged right from the start. My wife had been quietly eager for days, knowing the businessman was flying in for their first date in nearly a month. Her last encounter with a bull—the firefighter—was 17 days ago, and she’d clearly been getting restless. Throughout the afternoon, I could sense her excitement: small, private smiles, a distinct sparkle in her eyes, and meticulous attention to selecting her outfit. She chose something undeniably seductive, perfectly suited to the upscale venue—a sleek black dress hugging her slender frame beautifully, complemented by elegant heels that accentuated her graceful legs. (https://i.postimg.cc/YSHYWD1h/IMG-1973.jpg) Watching her carefully apply makeup and style her hair, I felt the familiar, potent mix of jealousy and arousal that always accompanies these moments.

We shared a quick family dinner at home while she sat in her date outfit, seamlessly playing the roles of wife and mom. Casual conversation flowed, never entirely masking the anticipation lingering beneath the surface for both of us.

At precisely 8:45 PM, she kissed me softly, offered a gentle, reassuring smile, and slipped quietly out the door to meet him at a discreet yet luxurious hotel near the airport, a spot they’d chosen several times before.

I spent the evening attempting distractions but inevitably found myself consumed by thoughts of what was unfolding in that hotel room. Eventually, after midnight, exhaustion overtook my anxiety, and I fell asleep with vivid images of their intimacy still lingering.

Around 3:30 AM, I was faintly aware of her quietly entering our bedroom. The subtle blend of her perfume mingled with cologne, faint sweat, and something unmistakably erotic drifted into the room with her. She climbed gently into bed, her silky nightgown cool and smooth against my skin as she nestled against me from behind. Half-awake, I heard her whisper softly, almost to herself, “I’m home,” her breath warm on my neck. Moments later, she sighed contentedly, murmuring sleepily, “Tonight was good. Really good. Thanks again.” Her voice carried the satisfied exhaustion of someone thoroughly fulfilled.

I awoke early this morning to muted dawn light filling the room. Beside me, she remained deeply asleep, her expression serene, body completely relaxed. She’d scheduled the day off to rest and recharge, anticipating the night’s intensity. Observing her peaceful rest, I noticed a subtle red mark—a hickey—over her left collarbone, something I’ve spotted just two or three times over the past year. A complex swirl of affection, curiosity, and jealousy filled me as I wondered which stories she might choose to share once awake.

For now, I’ll try to carry on with my day, maintaining a sense of normalcy despite the emotions swirling inside.

[David52]

Thank you for sharing your story illustrated with your very beautiful wife. Does the businessman really not know her name, after 3 years?

[hardk]

Thank you for sharing your story illustrated with your very beautiful wife. Does the businessman really not know her name, after 3 years?

Hey David52,

Great question. The businessman genuinely doesn’t know her real name—even after three years. She uses a consistent pseudonym (name up first name with maiden name) adopted for all interactions with her bulls and dating apps. She’s always been extremely privacy-focused, which was actually a huge relief for me when she first came clean. We’ve since clearly and deliberately agreed to maintain this boundary.

In fact, she keeps her hotwife persona entirely separate from her everyday life as a mom and wife. She uses a burner phone, a separate email, and even references her previous career rather than her current one when talking to her partners. It’s all intentional, carefully constructed, and consistent.

Both bulls have playfully suggested she’s not being totally forthcoming—it’s become a bit of a running joke between my wife and them. One speculates whether I’m secretly a prominent politician or public figure, while the other teases that she must have some wildly secretive career she’s hiding.

But ultimately they seem ok knowing what they know, and spending time with my wife based on this.

[hardk]

Last night was one of those evenings that felt charged right from the start. My wife had been quietly eager for days, knowing the businessman was flying in for their first date in nearly a month. Her last encounter with a bull—the firefighter—was 17 days ago, and she’d clearly been getting restless. Throughout the afternoon, I could sense her excitement: small, private smiles, a distinct sparkle in her eyes, and meticulous attention to selecting her outfit. She chose something undeniably seductive, perfectly suited to the upscale venue—a sleek black dress hugging her slender frame beautifully, complemented by elegant heels that accentuated her graceful legs. (https://i.postimg.cc/YSHYWD1h/IMG-1973.jpg) Watching her carefully apply makeup and style her hair, I felt the familiar, potent mix of jealousy and arousal that always accompanies these moments.

We shared a quick family dinner at home while she sat in her date outfit, seamlessly playing the roles of wife and mom. Casual conversation flowed, never entirely masking the anticipation lingering beneath the surface for both of us.

At precisely 8:45 PM, she kissed me softly, offered a gentle, reassuring smile, and slipped quietly out the door to meet him at a discreet yet luxurious hotel near the airport, a spot they’d chosen several times before.

I spent the evening attempting distractions but inevitably found myself consumed by thoughts of what was unfolding in that hotel room. Eventually, after midnight, exhaustion overtook my anxiety, and I fell asleep with vivid images of their intimacy still lingering.

Around 3:30 AM, I was faintly aware of her quietly entering our bedroom. The subtle blend of her perfume mingled with cologne, faint sweat, and something unmistakably erotic drifted into the room with her. She climbed gently into bed, her silky nightgown cool and smooth against my skin as she nestled against me from behind. Half-awake, I heard her whisper softly, almost to herself, “I’m home,” her breath warm on my neck. Moments later, she sighed contentedly, murmuring sleepily, “Tonight was good. Really good. Thanks again.” Her voice carried the satisfied exhaustion of someone thoroughly fulfilled.

I awoke early this morning to muted dawn light filling the room. Beside me, she remained deeply asleep, her expression serene, body completely relaxed. She’d scheduled the day off to rest and recharge, anticipating the night’s intensity. Observing her peaceful rest, I noticed a subtle red mark—a hickey—over her left collarbone, something I’ve spotted just two or three times over the past year. A complex swirl of affection, curiosity, and jealousy filled me as I wondered which stories she might choose to share once awake.

For now, I’ll try to carry on with my day, maintaining a sense of normalcy despite the emotions swirling inside.

A promised update. It took me some time to collect my thoughts. Below recalls this past Wednesday  

That content post-sex mood had followed my wife all day, softening her edges in subtle but unmistakable ways—longer hugs, a gentler tone with the k1ds, a kind of looseness in her body language I hadn’t seen for the last few days. Something had been scratched, sated, rebalanced.

We had only exchanged brief small talk about her date last night after I got home from work. Nothing detailed. Just a quick "Was it good?" from me, and a simple smile with "Yeah, really good" from her.

 Later, while we cleaned up after dinner, we were chatting about plans for the following day. At some point she said, "Let’s just say, I don’t think I’ll be sitting cross-legged at yoga tomorrow."

She didn’t look up, just turned to load the next dish into the washer, her expression perfectly neutral, like she hadn’t just lit a slow-burning fuse inside me.

I didn’t ask. I didn’t need to. The cheeky grin on her face said everything.

Still, I couldn’t help myself. I tilted my head just slightly, gave her a look, and said under my breath, "Oh really, huh?"

She smirked, then lowered her voice just enough to thread it beneath the noise of the k1ds. "Yeah. Not really the moment to explain why my legs feel like I worked out all night." Her eyes flicked toward the living room, then back to me, full of mischief.  

Then she turned back seamlessly to cleaning up and talking about school pickups and grocery lists. But my skin tingled with that unmistakable heat—jealousy stirred by arousal, arousal sharpened by the mental imagery triggered.

After the k1ds were finally down and the house had settled into quiet, we ended up on the couch together with a wildlife documentary playing in the background. It was something about lions —territorial rituals, the usual type of stuff. We were not really fully watching it. 

My mind was not on lions. 

She was wearing a long, light blue traditional style nightgown that draped softly below her knees, the fabric loose but feminine. (https://i.postimg.cc/dQdPFVwf/IMG-1981.jpg not my wife but very similar nightgown) It left her collar bare, revealing the faint hickey I had noticed earlier that morning—a dusky bloom just above her left collarbone that hadn't faded. Her hair was up in a loose bun. In that soft, conservative nightgown, hair pinned up and face bare, she looked like a traditional Korean housewife—modest, serene, almost demure. But that illusion made the truth even more provocative. Because beneath that quiet, domestic presence was the woman who, just 24 hours earlier, had been taken in a hotel room by another man. And that faint hickey just above her collarbone, the one I hadn’t given her, sat like a stamp of that secret. The contrast was maddening. Tantalizing. A private, whispered scandal hiding in plain sight.

That contrast between now and what I knew from just 24 hours earlier was maddening. She looked so traditionally composed—her perfect posture, her expression, her entire presence radiated quiet restraint, like some archetype of a well-mannered Korean wife. Everything about her in that moment whispered modesty. And yet, behind that gentle facade was the same woman who had spent last night with her face buried in hotel sheets, having sex that left her too sore for yoga. The faint hickey on her collarbone— visible above the neckline of her nightgown—was so out of place on someone who looked like she belonged in a church pew. This reminded me how she had fooled me for years exactly because of her ability to appear like this. And somehow, knowing that, craving that contradiction, made it even more enticing. I wanted her right there in that nightgown in the couch. 

And just as I was lost in that thought, she let out a soft, unexpected soft, almost musical giggle—playful. It snapped me back to the TV. Her eyes flicked toward the screen, and I followed her gaze. Something there had caught her attention.

At one point, the show shifted to a segment on lion mating behavior. The footage showed a massive male lion mounting a lioness from behind, his teeth clamping down gently but firmly on the back of her neck as he held her still with the sheer weight of his body. The lioness didn’t resist, her body going almost limp beneath the male. The narration called it instinctive, efficient breeding, dominant. The narrator pointed out how for the lioness this was something welcomed and familiar, despite it looking aggressive upon first impression. It was pointed out how the lioness didn’t just yield; she melted beneath the lion, not because she had to, but because she wanted to. It wasn’t about dominance—it was about recognition of the dominant male. Without turning her head, my wife tilted it ever so slightly and let out a soft exhale. “She looks like she’s letting herself go,” she murmured, eyes still fixed on the screen. Her voice was low, almost thoughtful. “Like she instinctively knows to give up control.” 

She smirked. Not at me. At the screen.

"That kind of thing makes sense," she murmured, barely audible. I don’t think she thought I would hear that part.

I looked over. "Yeah?"

She shrugged, eyes still on the TV. "Sometimes it's just... better to stop thinking. Let nature and instinct do their thing.”

She said it lightly. Casually. Like a passing thought.

The narrator’s voice continued, smooth and clinical: “Female lions typically mate with the dominant males within their pride, along with dominant males without a pride or from other groups an instinctive behavior that promotes genetic diversity and strengthens social bonds.”

My wife smirked again, eyes still fixed on the screen, her voice drifting into that teasing, sing-song tone she uses when she’s enjoying herself just a little too much. "I must’ve been a lioness in a past life," she murmured. "She gives herself to the strongest one… or two… or three," she added, dragging the numbers out with a mock-innocent shrug. "I don’t know, something about her—it’s familiar. Letting herself go like that, knowing she’ll be taken care of because she knows exactly who she’s giving it to. I get her."

She smiled faintly, as if indulging a memory, and let the thought hang there, suspended in the quiet between us.

She gave a tiny stretch, her arms lifting briefly over her head, the neckline of her nightgown slipping just slightly to reveal more of the faint mark on her collarbone. "I think some of us are wired to give in when we feel the right weight on us. Not just physically... but instinctually."

She looked at me then—just briefly—and added with a mischievous glint, "That kind of surrender isn’t weak. It’s knowing your worth without saying a word. Just letting them prove they deserve it physically, you know?”

She stretched again, slow and feline, her voice trailing just slightly. Then she added in that same dry, almost clinical tone she used when teasing me, "Last night... I think there was a moment where I forgot I was allowed to say no. Not because I couldn’t. Because I didn’t want to. I just... wanted to be taken."

Then her gaze returned to the screen, serene, as if nothing had been said at all.

We turned the TV off a little after 10. Went through the usual routine. Teeth brushed. Kitchen lights off. Her phone plugged in on the far side of the bed. She wore that conservative night gown to bed, no bra. 

I slid into bed and turned toward her. My hand found her hip, fingertips lightly pulling up the long down to her hips. 

She stopped me gently.

"Not tonight," she whispered. "My body’s not there. I just want to be close."

So I lay back. Let her curl against me.

After a long silence, her voice returned. Low. Almost a confession.

"Its wild you know," she said. "How much I needed last night. Like... Physically...“

I felt her breath rise and fall against my chest. Now I knew I was going to get some details  

Last night, "I came fast," she whispered. "Really fast. It caught me off guard. But not him. He always knows."

She didn't say his name. She didn't need to.

I stayed still. Just breathing her in. Letting the weight of her words settle.

And in that quiet, I felt it all at once—the ache, the jealousy, the strange peace. I didn’t want to ruin the moment, but the silence only made my curiosity sharper, heavier. It was that unbearable tension between needing to know and fearing what I’d feel when I did. Finally, I asked, just above a whisper, “Tell me how he had you.”

She lay there beside me, fingers moving gently across my chest, but her words painted the picture vividly—one I could only imagine.

"We grabbed drinks at the bar, but we didn’t finish them. He doesn’t rush—but he doesn’t waste time either. The second the door closed, he had me face-down on the bed. Still in my heels. Dress bunched around my waist."

I pictured it exactly. Her back arched, legs slightly parted, the way she must’ve looked beneath him.

"He undressed me slow," she said. "Deliberate. Hands on my thighs. Then my back. Then lower. He kissed along my spine while he pressed me flat with one hand. Didn’t ask for anything. Just... took his time getting there."

Her voice dipped then, quieter.

"He went down on me first—slow, focused. He used his fingers too, two inside me while his mouth stayed on my clit. I came like that, the first time with my heels still on, dress around my waist.”

She lay beside me, her voice steady, but what she described landed in vivid flashes behind my eyes.

"He was already inside me, fucking me from behind, when he started playing lower, with my butt" she murmured. "His fingers circled and pressed, slow. I didn’t say anything—I just lifted my hips a little. That was enough."

I pictured it as she spoke. Her flat on her stomach, her back arched just slightly, his hands holding her open.

"He took his time. One finger first. Then two. Then he stopped fucking me. I found this frustrating but then he pushed the tip in—slow, steady. It wasn’t rushed. Just deep, deliberate pressure. I really just wanted to be fucked again.”

Her voice dropped to almost nothing. "But he stayed there by my ass for a long time. Started making slow strokes—controlled. He never asks. He just... waits until I give him a sign. Sometimes I don’t even realize I’ve given it until after the fact."

She hesitated, her hand now lazily wrapped around my cock.

"When he started pressing lower… I tilted my hips back into him, just a little. It wasn’t something I planned. I’m always unsure at first with that. I never know if I want it until my body decides for me. It’s like I go on autopilot. But after I give him that sign, that little shift in how I moved, the way I arched—he always picks up on that. He knows my tells. He always has.

She swallowed softly, eyes not quite meeting mine. "He was slow, steady. Not rough. Just deep. He told me to hold still—but it was hard. Every time he moved, it made me clench—at first because it felt like I needed to poop. It always starts that way, a little embarrassing, a little uncertain. But by now I know this passes. The pressure started to change, and then... it stopped feeling like I needed to push something out, and started feeling like I was being filled in the right way. That tightness, that fullness—it built slowly into something else. Something deeper”

 She told me it still catches her off guard—how good it can feel. She never expects to want it, and that surprise—how the pleasure grows—makes it hit even harder. She said it felt like being taken to a place her mind hadn’t given permission for, but her body had already welcomed.

Her fingers lightly tightened around my cock. She away, her voice quieter. "I started rubbing myself without even thinking. But with him in my ass like that, this feels different in a good way. With this going on I came faster than I thought I would."

She hesitated again, then whispered, "He stayed deep. Came in me right after. Didn’t pull out. He never does when he takes me that way. He just holds my waist there until he’s finished. And I let him."

She paused, her breath hitching slightly.

My cock pulsed in her hand, and I could feel the heat rise behind my ears. It wasn’t just what she said—it was how calmly, how intimately she said it. My mind raced trying to picture it all, while my body just responded.

Then, without saying a word, she slowly slid down under the covers and took me in her mouth. Warm, wet, unhurried. She kept her eyes closed, one hand still lightly stroking the base as she settled into a rhythm.

Between slow strokes, her voice came soft and muffled, teasing. "When he came in me like that, it felt... heavy. Warm. Deep." A flick of her tongue. "It makes my whole body tense and let go at the same time."

Another beat. Then barely above a whisper: "He never pulls out."

She hesitated briefly, then added, voice soft but steady, "We took a quick shower after. Then he sat me on the bathroom counter, spread my legs, and kissed me."

Her eyes drifted as she spoke, but I could hear the vivid edge in her tone. "He went down on me again there. I was already sore but so sensitive. I tried to hold still but I kept squirming, and he liked that. I came again."

She continued to work my cock then paused. "Then he pulled me back toward him, guided me to the edge of the counter, and pushed in again—this time in front, slow and deliberate. I came again while he was still fucking me. And a minute later, he followed—deep, with a quiet groan, still inside. He stayed there, like he always does, until we were both done shaking."

She looked at me shyly then. "It didn’t take long. He finished again. Inside."

She didn’t say anything else after that—just kept her eyes on me while her lips slid back down my shaft, slow and steady. Her mouth was warm, her tongue soft, her rhythm unhurried but intentional, like she wasn’t trying to finish me fast—just remind me, with every stroke, what she’d brought home with her.

My breath caught. The things she’d said, the images she’d given me, the sound of her voice—it all pressed in at once. My hand gently touched the back of her head. She didn’t stop.

She moaned softly around me, and I felt it—the vibration, the warmth, the way her mouth sealed around me perfectly. She knew exactly what I needed, and she gave it to me in the same calm, focused way she’d probably given herself to him the night before.

I came with a quiet gasp, my fingers tightening in her hair. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back. Just stayed there until I had nothing left to give.

She kissed the base of my stomach, wiped her mouth on the inside of her wrist, then crawled back up beside me.

Neither of us said anything.

She curled into my side, head on my shoulder, her leg thrown gently across mine. I could still feel the faint wetness on her cheek against my skin. Her breathing slowed.

Then everything went still.

And I stayed there, wide awake, heart pounding—for about an hour until I too finally fell asleep.

[Watchinu69]

#way to long to read

[David52]

Not for me. I love your complete detailed acccouns

[hardk]

Not for me. I love your complete detailed acccouns

Thanks David. If people want me to give shorter accounts I can try. But I generally write here to get things off my chest. So I just write what comes to mind.

[venus-can99]

Thanks David. If people want me to give shorter accounts I can try. But I generally write here to get things off my chest. So I just write what comes to mind.

Not at all - you described this so well - how she can be a "normal" Korean housewife, mother and a wonderful companion doing regular stuff and then when she meets her lovers turns into someone else - the lioness? - entirely. I love your description of your emotions - jealousy, exhilaration, curiosity.
Those who find this "too long" or "boring" can always look elsewhere for jerkoff materials IMO.

[Cuckcuckgoose1]

Don't change the way you write. Write what you feel and fuck those that complain about it.