Returning to my hotel room, following a day of meetings, where I involuntarily inherited a load of actions to take away with me, I sat down on the edge of the double bed and called my husband, Paul. Holding the phone to my ear, I listened to the familiar voices and chaos at home, as he tried to juggle the children fighting over who spoke to me first.
We got there in the end, and I got to enjoy the children's cute chatter and laughter, a comforting reminder of home and family life. I listened to what they did in school that day, my blue eyes a mix of affection and sadness for not being with them. I then spoke to my husband for a while, recounting my own long, boring and mentally exhausting day, while twirling a few brown strands of hair with my finger.
"Why don't you go down to the bar and grab yourself a glass of wine and a bite to eat?" he suggested. "Enjoy the break from the noise at home."
"I'll probably have a shower and then order room service," I replied, undecided.
"Go down to the bar, Jemma. You never know, you might find a hot guy to take back to your room for the night," he chuckled mischievously.
"Behave yourself," I laughed.
"I'm being serious," my husband said. "Then you can tell me all about it when you get home."
"Yeah, you'd love that, wouldn't you?" I giggled down the line.
"You know me too well, my beautiful hotwife," Paul gave me a dirty chuckle.
"I told you not to call me that," I tutted at the private nickname he liked to call me.
"I'm sorry," he laughed, then the children were heard squabbling in the background. "Right, I have to go. Enjoy the peace and quiet, but I was being serious, Jemma. If you meet someone... you have my blessing."
"I know, but it's not happening. Not ever," I laughed once more. "Goodnight. I love you."
"Spoilsport," Paul jokingly moaned. "I love you too. Goodnight."
It was only 6.30pm, when we finished the call. I put my phone down on the bedside table and stood in front of the mirror, mulling over going down to the bar or ordering room service. But as I examined the reflection of my thirty-four-year-old, five-six, curvaceous figure, I flicked my long, brown hair behind my shoulders, framing my face of subtle makeup, and thought about my husbands hotwife/cuckold fantasies.
It started before we married. He just started asking me about previous lovers and particularly, one night stands. I hadn't had many of those, but they were his favourite. Not wanting to remember past lovers, I made up lots of sexy stories instead, incorporating some truth with the sex descriptions. Although it took me until my mid-twenties to realise it, I was an exhibitionist at heart. Paul loved it. It drove him wild in bed.
Whether it be wearing something provocative for a night out with the girls, wearing sexy lingerie to work, or sunbathing topless on a beach, he loved other men looking at me. I enjoyed it too, I'm human, after all, but I didn't want to have sexual relations with other men... did I? Of course, the thought of it was exciting, we all have naughty fantasies involving other people.
Clothed in a grey, plaid pencil skirt and a long-sleeved, white blouse, which hugged my curved hips and accentuated my ample bust, respectively, I thought about the men during the meetings that day. Their eyes had wandered up and down my bare legs and fixed briefly on the fullness of my breasts. I smiled at the not too distant memories and decided I would go down to the bar after all. Not to pull, but just to see if I could. It would certainly spice up the marital bed back home.
With a mischievous smile on my face, I slipped my black, low court heeled shoes back on, but left my jacket hanging up. The bar was quiet for the time of evening, with just a few patrons in the restaurant and a few more scattered around the bar. Mostly businessmen, I noticed, as I sat at a corner table and ordered a large glass of Pino Grigio and a chicken caesar salad.
After my meal, I went upto the bar for my second and last glass of wine, only for a man to approach me, which rarely happened to be fair. Most men just look and smile. In fact, I could count on one hand how many men had tried to buy me a drink when I worked away and stayed in hotels. It was flattering and unwanted, so I always declined, not wanting to encourage them.
But I decided to fuel this guys ego and then tease my husband about it when I got home. His name was Simon, and he looked about fifteen to twenty years older than me, but I didn't ask. He had styled grey hair and a handsome face, oozing life experience and confidence. He was delighted I gave him my name and allowed him to buy me a drink.
Simon introduced himself in an educated accent, but he didn't sound posh or snobby. His voice was quite smooth, actually, and he was tall and slim, wearing a well-fitted, navy pin-striped suit. He thanked me for allowing him to join me, slipping off his jacket as he kindly told the barman to add my drink to his tab.
"So, Jemma, a long day, or like me, are you simply fed up of hotels?" he asked, sitting.
"I don't spend much time away from home, but there isn't much else one can do on a weekday in a hotel," I replied nonchalantly.
"Oh, I don't know about that," he grinned. "I take it you have family at home?" he quickly added, nodding at the rings on my left hand.
"Yeah," I said, glancing at them, feeling a mix of pride and mischief. "What about you?" I nodded at his wedding band.
"A wife, but my children have flown the nest," he smiled, a smile that hinted he was still available if the opportunity arose.
As the conversation flowed effortlessly between us, his charm soon washed away my judgement of him being a cheater. Simon was funny, intelligent, and his compliments were subtle and flattering. I also found it amusing that he believed he could tempt me to stray, based purely on his chat-up skills, which were good to be fair to him, but he had no idea that I was using him to later tease my husband.
I obviously wasn't going to tell him either, but I did accept another drink at his expense. I was feeling tipsy and desired, excited to return to my room and work my husband into a frenzy about another man hitting on me. Then came the innuendos and the 'I want to fuck you' look. Simon's gaze lingered on my lips, my neckline, and my legs. He stole glances at my chest, but mostly he looked into my eyes, particularly when speaking.
Buzzing from both the alcohol and the attention, I became sexually aroused. I could feel my skin was warm and my heart was beating faster. It was exciting, different, and a lot of fun. I hadn't experienced this kind of attention since before I met Paul, because I never allowed it, despite my husbands never ending desire for me to screw another guy.
Excusing myself to use the bathroom, I took a moment to gather my thoughts and text my husband, suddenly feeling like I was cheating on him. Simon hadn't asked me to leave the bar with him, but I sensed it was only a matter of time. At that point, I really didn't know how I felt about it, how I would answer him if he asked me up to his room.
Sat on the toilet, inside a cubicle, with my skirt and knickers around my ankles, I texted Paul, updating him on my evening. He replied with suspicion, doubting I was telling him the truth. When I swore that I was, he told me to go for it. I texted back again, letting him know that Simon hadn't made an official move on me yet. Then my husband replied once more, calling me his hotwife.
Before returning to the bar, I stood alone in the ladies' room, in front of the mirror. I was flushed with nervous excitement. I realised I wanted to have sex with Simon, not because I quite fancied him, but because I could, and I reckoned it would be damn good sex too.
I fussed my hair for a few moments, placing it to fall down the front of my shoulders and then behind, trying to decide which looked more sultry. Finally deciding to keep it as it was, behind my shoulders, I went into my purse, for my red lipstick, and touched up my lips. Last but not least, I undid another button on my blouse for effect.
As I walked back to my seat at the bar, Simon grinned as I approached, his eyes skirting up and down my legs and body. His grin grew wider when he noticed an extra button was undone, showing a bit more cleavage. I picked up my drink and took a big gulp, suddenly feeling like a cheating slut rather than a wife. I had kids at home in bed, but a husband who wanted me to get fucked.
"Would you like another drink, Jemma?" Simon asked in a frisky tone, placing a hand on my knee. The first time he touched me. I looked at his hand and shivered, not sure what to say. "Maybe we could take a round of drinks up to my room and continue our conversation on the balcony?" he smiled.
"Or maybe we could sit on my balcony?" I suggested, my tummy churning.
"Which ever you prefer," Simon nodded, his smile still etched across his face. "Let me use the toilet first."
"Ok," I blushed crimson, knowing we were going to have sex. I texted my husband from the bar, who told me he loved me, trusted me, and to have a great time.
