Hotwife Confessions My First Date

I never thought I'd ever wait in a hotel lobby to meet a stranger for sex. Yet, there I was. I remember feeling so anxious and nervous that I almost threw up in the sink. It was like prom night all over again--the nerves and anticipation of having sex for the first time.

It wasn't that this man was overly handsome or wealthy. It had little to do with who he was and more with who he wasn't. He wasn't my husband. This was all very new to me, having sex with strangers. I didn't even do that when I was single. Before I met my husband, Charles, I had never had a one-night stand--I never so much as had a casual fling. There I was, after over a decade of being happily married, waiting in a hotel lobby for a stranger to have sex with.

I understood then, as I do now, that what I do is morally wrong to most people. To them, I am just a cheating slut. Even though my husband not only loves me and approves, he encourages me. He helps me get dressed, and we sit by the pool and swipe left and right on apps as we pick the man together. He gets far more excited about my sex than I do. He wants to hear every detail and every second of every moment I'm with someone. We make love passionately after every encounter. Sometimes our sex is physical and powerful, as if he was reclaiming me, which I love. Other times it's sensitive and beautiful, as if he's reminding me that I am unique to him, which I also love. Either way, it's incredible, and so is he.

But that night, in the hotel lobby, I had no idea how this would all turn out. Charles had been very enthusiastic about me having this first date. I was still unsure how he would react when I got home. I wasn't sure how I would feel about myself. Slutty. It turns out I would feel very slutty. Slutty, sexy, and desired would be the best way to describe how I felt. That, and tired!

In the lobby, I recall feeling a little stupid. I was there before this stranger. I was waiting on him, and that felt wrong and awkward. I was tempted to get up and leave when my phone buzzed with a text from my husband.

"He's waiting at the bar."

My head spun around, looking for my husband. How could he possibly know where this man was, and how did he know there was a bar here? I hadn't even noticed the bar when I came into the lobby. As if Charles could read my mind, a follow-up text buzzed.

"He messaged you on the app, baby. He's been waiting for you and wants to know if you're still coming." Another text followed, "I love you."

I replied, letting him know I had been waiting in the lobby like an idiot. We went back and forth, making jokes and reminding myself how much I loved that man. He truly understands me like no one ever could. That, and he is positively my best friend.

With the comfort of that interaction with Charles, I made my way to the bar area. We made our introductions, and he ordered me a drink. I do not remember his name, although I've tried over the years to remember. Some people would say I should be ashamed that I don't know his name, but the truth is that it makes the memory that much hotter.

We had a few drinks, and I answered his questions about my husband, Charles, my marriage, and why I was there that night. Questions I would find out were pretty standard on a date like this. He told me about his career, and I would love to tell you I remembered what that was, but I don't. It took about an hour or more for us to find our comfort zone. Once we did slip into a comfort zone, it quickly became physical.

We started touching each other's legs, and his hands became more familiar with my thighs. Once he began to bring his fingers toward my panties under my dress, it was time to go. I've never been a fan of public affection, let alone public sluttiness.

I messaged Charles that we were heading to the room now, and he instantly responded with an eggplant emoji. I recall giggling as I walked with my new friend.

We got to the elevator, and the instant those doors closed, we were all over each other. We started making out, and my dress seemed to defy gravity as it stayed well above its natural resting state for the entire ride. It was hot, but it was also when I realized I was not too fond of making out with other men. My husband was a fantastic kisser, and throughout this journey, I liked to keep that kind of intimacy and passion between him and me. I realize most people would find that insane. I can let a strange man fuck me but only make out with my husband, but somehow it makes sense to me, and it feels right.

Once we got into the room, it was as if elastic bands had held back our bodies, and they had just been released. The time between when the hotel room door opened and when I was on the edge of the bed with my panties on the floor was a whirlwind and a blur. His tongue drove into me with expertise and precision. I don't know that I would say it was the best oral sex I've ever had because that would be unfair. My body was already ablaze when he started. Every nerve ending from fingertip to toenail was lit up like an erotic Christmas tree.

My first orgasm came hard and fast. I tried to hide it, but I'm pretty sure he knew. I wanted to return the favor mainly because I'm a pleaser. Acts of kindness are my love language, and I'm typically happier when doing things for others. But I wasn't given a chance. He firmly flipped me over onto the bed and started fucking me.

It was amazing. I remember that. I felt so out of control and accessible. I was vulnerable, and I was happy about it. I was embracing my sexuality, and that's not something women of my generation were "allowed" to do. Men could have sexual appetites and desires, but women had to be good girls and not want good sex. This was as liberating as it was erotic for me.

I wanted him to cum. Not so that this would end or so that I could go home. I wanted to know and feel his gratification on me, inside me. I wanted his warmth to cover me as a reassuring message that I was sexy.

He did not disappoint me. Not long after he entered me, I felt the warm spray of his desire on my back. I wanted to soak up that man into my skin somehow. I was a horny slut with no inhibitions; I was liberated. I was free.

We spent the next hour or so having crazy good sex. It's a scattered series of images and memories that were both overwhelming and exhilarating.

I got home to my husband that night, and despite knowing how I felt about all this when I left the house, I was genuinely surprised when I saw his erection and eagerness to hear my story. I left nothing out. I recanted everything I could remember, the feelings I felt, the thoughts I thought, everything.

Charles and I made love like we were teenagers that night. I'm still sometimes skeptical that he enjoys this as much as he says. But his erections speak volumes about how he really feels.