Insatiable Mrs Pillsbury

It was fifteen minutes after noon, and I stood in the stairwell of the hotel where I was staying for the technology convention that my employer had sent me to for the weekend. I was naked, with my clothes lying messily on the stairwell landing to the side of me, and I leaned forward with my hands on the stairway rail as my boyfriend fucked me hard from behind, his thick cock thrusting in and out of my wet pussy in furious strokes.

I was taking an outrageous risk. Somebody might catch us, and it would have been difficult--no, impossible--to explain.

My phone, which lay face up in the pile of my clothes on the floor, buzzed. It was a text from my husband.

"I have to get this," I said to my boyfriend, Dave, who grunted his approval but didn't stop fucking me.

I leaned over and picked up the phone to see the text.

"How's it going?"

I managed to type out a reply, awkwardly, while my body rocked back and forth from Dave's cock thrusts.

"I'm being fucked in a stairway right now."

"The boyfriend?"

"Yes!" I texted back.

"You're a very bad wife. You should be punished. I'm going to have to fuck you hard when you get home."

"You better!" I replied. "But I'm probably going to be sore."

"That's what you get for being a bad wife. Bye for now."

He ended the text with an emoji of a yellow face sticking its tongue out at me.

I orgasmed right after that. Dave orgasmed too, moments later, his cum jetting into me and then leaking down my leg. We both panted as we came down from the sex and slowly got dressed afterward.

How in the world did I get here?

It's a good question and an interesting story.

I wasn't always a bad wife. Just a few years ago I could not have imagined being in this situation. I was Kristen Johnson, an executive at a famous technology company (I won't say which one), a soccer mom who volunteered sometimes to help in her kids' classrooms, and a loving and faithful wife (to my loving and faithful husband Rick).

One day, my husband started taking sexy pictures of me to spice things up in the marriage. Nothing too outrageous at first. He put them on some MILF chat forums on the Internet, and to our surprise, they were very popular. So, we kept posting, and the pics kept getting spicier.

Now, just two years later, I was Mrs. Pillsbury, my new online persona, a naked Internet sensation with a website that made tens of thousands of dollars every month from my salacious online activities. My pussy was on display to the world. I fucked men who were not my husband and I told everyone online about it.

I was shameless.

I was making money--more than I could have ever imagined from doing something like this.

I was having a great time. I'd even enlisted some of my friends--moms like me who were a little bored with the status quo and yearning to do something adventurous--to get naked with me online.

The funny thing? My marriage was better than ever. I loved being a hot wife. I think Rick liked it every bit as much as I did, maybe more. We were in our 40s, and our sex was more intense and pleasurable than ever.

Did I think about the implications of my lifestyle for my marriage? Of course, I did. But somehow, it worked out. My sexuality was like a boomerang, cavorting and spinning through the air, seemingly wild and likely to bump into something unexpected. But somehow it always returned to its point of origin. Rick, of course, often gave me that "What the hell have you been up to, Kristen?" look, eyes wide and arms crossed, when I returned from one of my adventures. But it was all part of the play-act. He knew I'd always come back. The sexy play was part of the super glue that held us together.

The Internet hot-wife lifestyle wasn't without its complications. I didn't want all my co-workers and neighbors to know. There was some unpleasant drama here and there when some people found out. But you know what was the weirdest and most unexpected thing? It was all the moms who approached me and confided to me in private about how they wanted to do the same thing, and about all the weird covert sexy shit that was going on in their lives. I became their confessor. Some of them set up websites just like I had. We even did videos together. I felt like the leader of a movement.

It was a good thing, all things considered, despite the constant delicate maneuvering that was needed to navigate the often-conflicting obligations of my demanding tech executive job, my mom duties, my wife duties, and the naughty but irresistible (and profitable) demands of my Mrs. Pillsbury online persona.

Things got especially tricky at a convention like the one I was at that day. I was obliged to be on my most professional and discreet behavior. At the same time, I felt hot and horny. I was like a jungle cat constantly on the prowl. Don't get me wrong: I took my job very seriously, and I was very good at it. But my pussy tingled constantly with sexual need. Kristen Johnson had a job to do. But Mrs. Pillsbury would not be denied.

* * * *

Five minutes after my stairwell tryst, I was back in my hotel room. I had another hour before the afternoon session began. One of the scheduled presentations was to be performed by Dylan, a computer programmer at the company we worked at and a recent college graduate. He could not have been over 24 and he was kind of cute in an awkward, nerdy way, with a thick mop of hair, a shy grin, and an innocent, guileless face. I was his supervisor on a couple of projects. I sometimes referred to him (but not to his face) as one of my "cubs."

Naturally, I wanted him to bone me.

The subject first came up over lunch with one of my friends, Clarabelle, whom I had convinced a while earlier to have her own sexy Web page. I could be honest with her. I was talking about work and mentioned Dylan, and that I thought he was cute.

"Sounds like you want him to slip his kielbasa between your loaves," she said to me. Clarabelle was a chef, and she was always using silly food metaphors. I rolled my eyes, but I think I gave her a guilty look, too. She always knew how to read me. I knew I was busted.

"I kinda do," I said.

I thought about that conversation while I paced back and forth, naked, in my hotel room. I had to take off the dress I'd worn into the stairwell because it had a splotchy cum stain on it. Dylan was scheduled to stop by my room any minute so we could go over a few aspects of his presentation. I knew he was nervous. I wanted to help him get ready.

But more than that... I admit it... I wanted him. I wanted to seduce my young cub. He seemed so innocent, so in need of seducing. I was just the one to do it!

But I couldn't just open the door naked, so I pulled a light silk kimono from my suitcase and cinched it to my body, after drying off from the shower I'd just taken. It was sexy, but not totally over-the-line sexy. The hemline hit just above my knee. Obviously, I was braless. I saw my nipples poking forward from the fabric in the full-length mirror in my room. I am blessed--or cursed, depending on your point of view--with long pointy nipples that are often hard, and with thoughts of my cub coming by soon, they were undeniably firm at that moment, and rather conspicuous. But I thought I could pass it off as OK to wear the robe in his presence because I was just out of the shower and in the process of getting ready for the afternoon session of the convention.

I thought I could sell it. I was a business executive. It was my job to sell things. But not usually myself.

I heard a knock at the door.

I opened it, and it was Dylan, carrying a laptop, and looking at me with that shy and cute look that just made me want to jump him.

I didn't, though. Not yet. We had work to do.

I affected a casual, business-like air, as though there was nothing sexy or unusual about my wearing just a thin silk robe over my otherwise nude body in front of my co-worker.

"Let's see your presentation," I said.

We sat on the edge of the bed, and he opened his laptop. I tried to pretend I was interested, but all I could think about was that his hip was pressed against mine, and I liked knowing how close my bare skin was to him. I wondered if he thought about it, too. Dylan had a shy and nervous nature, so I couldn't tell whether the occasional hesitation and nervousness in his voice were the result of his anticipation of the presentation or of his awareness of being next to me.

I flirted. I tried to be subtle about it, and I thought maybe since he was a goofy and inexperienced young man, he wouldn't be aware of what I was doing, but as we talked about his presentation, I sometimes touched his hand or his thigh on the bed. I even shifted and touched a bare knee to his leg. The silk kimono, parted, just an inch or two, revealing a bit more of my bare leg, and I wondered if he realized how close my pussy was to being exposed to his eye. I wondered if he wanted to see it. I wondered how he would react if he saw it.

But he didn't say or do anything obvious in response. He seemed to keep his concentration on his project. I was disappointed, to tell the truth. I wanted my cub to want me. I wanted to see signs of his desire.

I put a comforting hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye. Our faces were so close!

"I think you've got a great presentation, Dylan. You'll do great. You're doing a great job at the company. If you ever need anything--anything at all--you can come to me."

I thought for sure I'd get a reaction from him with that line--something, anything. But no. He remained impassive.

Swing and a miss. But I swung again.

I gestured toward my outfit with my hands.

"I'm sorry about not getting dressed and ready to talk about your presentation. I hope you don't think it's inappropriate of me."

"No... no... not at all," he said. Was that a trace of a stammer in his voice?

"It's important for people at work to dress appropriately," I said. "And not to send the wrong message. But I'm so much older than you. You must think of me as an old lady so I figured you wouldn't think anything about it."

"No, no," he said, shaking his head insistently. "I don't think of you as old at all. You're very...."

I arched my eyebrows at him, waiting for a reply.

"Youthful," he said at last.

It was something. Maybe I'd gotten a nibble. But it was obvious Dylan wasn't quite ready to be reeled in.

I jumped off the bed, aware of the way my silky robe flounced around my figure before his eyes as I did.

"Better get back to your room to finish your presentation," I said. "I must get dressed. I can't wear this to the presentation, after all."

"Ah, no," he said, in an adorable way. "I guess not."

He left and I closed the door behind him and vowed to myself:

"You're mine, cub."

I was so horny I could barely stand it.

I thought about it. I was a planner. I'd get another chance at Dylan later that night, after his presentation and after dinner. Maybe if I got him a bit tipsy....

Room service. That was the ticket. I called the front desk.

"Room service."

"Hi, this is room 325. Could I have a bottle of champagne brought up to my room? And two champagne flutes to go with it?"

I didn't want to celebrate Dylan's presentation by drinking from the plastic cups sitting on top of the little refrigerator.

"Right away, ma'am."

Ma'am. Sigh. I may have felt like a lusty young strumpet, but the march of time could not be denied, and others wouldn't let me forget it.

Time and age notwithstanding, I still felt horny. The room service server would be coming soon. I had an idea.

I loosened the sash on my kimono.

I picked my phone off the little desk in the room, and I set it up in an out-of-the-way spot with the camera lens focused on the area inside the room door. I hit "on." I fished a backup phone out of my purse and put it on a little table near the door.

I was always looking for a way to have fun, and to contribute something fun and spicy to my website. I may have been a bad wife, but I was a smart and enterprising one.

A knock sounded at the door. I opened it, and a man who looked 30-ish and no taller than I held a metal bucket with a bottle of champagne in it. I beckoned him to come in.

"Can you put it over there?" I asked, pointing to the table. He did.

"Thank you so much!"

I walked away from the door, toward the camera, near which I had put my purse. I bent over at the waist--way over, knowing that the back of my robe would ride up and expose a lot of my bare thighs. I wondered if he was ogling me. I would find out later when I watched the video I was recording. After fishing out some money and before turning back to him I quickly loosened the sash of my robe a little. It was loose enough that it would barely hold the robe together, if it all. That's how I wanted it.

I approached the man and noticed his eyes were on my chest and quickly scanning downward. I glanced down and sure enough, my robe was coming apart. An expanse of cleavage showed, but my nipples weren't quite in view. I could feel the robe loosening and exposing my body, but I pretended not to notice and walked toward him with some cash in my hand for a tip. By the time I reached him, I knew that the sashes had fallen completely away and hung to the side of me.

I held out the money and he took it, but his eyes were cast downward the whole time and his mouth was open.

I looked down and feigned surprise.

"My goodness, I'm naked!" I said loudly, for the benefit of the video camera. My husband was going to love my naughtiness when I showed it to him later.

I didn't move, pretending I was paralyzed, but I looked up into the face of the room service man and sure enough, his eyes roved over my exposed body. I let them rove for more than a few seconds before saying anything.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I hope you don't mind. I get a little careless with the way I'm dressed sometimes."

"It's no problem," he said, his voice a strangled whisper. I admit it gave me pleasure to see the intensity of his gaze on my body.

I don't know what made me say it, but I did, when he finished scanning my body and looked me in the eyes:

"You can touch them if you want to."

My hands held the kimono open, and my chest arched forward, pushing my tits toward his face.

We locked eyes for a few seconds, or maybe longer than that--I don't know--but eventually, his eyes dropped from my face to my nipples, and he reached a hand forward, tentatively, as though trying to decide which breast to touch and not knowing if he would have a second chance if he guessed wrong.

Finally, an extended, nervous forefinger touched the tip of my nipple. I shuddered. My nipples were hard as pebbles, and their dark pinky-brown hue contrasted with the lighter color of his fingertip. At first, he touched me tentatively and nervously, as though my nipple were a piece of china that might break. But when it became clear it wouldn't, he played with it more vigorously, pushing it back into my breast, tipping it from side to side, and twirling around it. My arousal was off the charts.

I pulled the kimono back farther with my hands.

"Do you want to squeeze them?" I asked him.

He extended both hands, each one cupping a different breast. He squeezed and fondled both. I liked the naughty feeling that my body was being used for the pleasure of a man I'd never met before. He didn't say anything. He seemed to be struck dumb with amazement at what I'd let him do to me.

I was so bad. I felt it, my badness, down through my body, to my toes. I reveled in it - the indescribable deliciousness of the way I offered myself to him. I wanted to do more. I wanted the badness to keep going and going and going.

I took one of his hands, which was busy kneading and mashing a breast, into mine. I pulled the hand away and then laid it against my tummy. I looked down.

"Down there," I said. "You can touch that too."

His hand slid down my torso, over my belly button--down, down, down it went. And then I felt it: a finger touching and tickling my clit, stopping at the nub, pushing and pressing it as it had against my nipple, although now the effect was ten times as powerful, electric in its intensity. I pushed my hips forward to encourage him. There was no limit, seemingly, to my badness. It was a Jekyll and Hyde moment, and Hyde had taken over.

That finger! It mashed and encircled my clit, and then it dipped down, until it found the furrow of my pussy, and it plunged into it. I knew the room service guy didn't know how much longer his luck would hold out, and he was going to take advantage of every opportunity I gave him to invade my body. His tentativeness evaporated, replaced by aggressive urgency, and I felt the delicious, vigorous pumping of his thick finger into my pussy. And it was so, so wet! A gusher. I was so horny. He pumped his finger into me, and we said nothing as we both listened to the thick squelching sounds leave my body and fill the room.

It didn't take long. In no more than two minutes, my body spasmed with his finger inside me, the orgasm spreading through me in irregular waves. My knees almost buckled. I grabbed his wrist.

"Ah," I said. "I can't take more."

He withdrew his finger from inside me--reluctantly, I think, because the look in his eyes made me think he wanted a lot more. I fell back against the wall, my legs shaking.

Somehow, I stumbled over to where the money was. I grabbed enough for the tip and stumbled back to him, handing him the cash.

"Thanks," I said, my voice shaky.

"Thank YOU," the room service guy said.

I could tell he didn't want to leave, and I wasn't sure I wanted him to, either, but I had no choice. I had to get myself together and get ready for the afternoon session of the program. Still, I was leaving him high and dry, so I thought I would offer at least something.

"Do you have a phone?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Why?"

"I have to get ready now for something. But I'll let you take a few photos of me, and you can take them with you."

I'd never seen a phone whipped out of a pocket so fast. I let him take several photos - some of my entire body and a few closeups of my pussy. I pulled my lips back for him. I knew what he'd be doing later as soon as he had an opportunity. It seemed like fair compensation after the pleasure he'd given me.

When he was done, and after a few uncertain seconds, he turned to the door and let himself out. I almost fell to the floor when the door closed behind him.

After a few deep breaths, I steadied myself, and I dressed for the afternoon's events.

* * * *

They say money doesn't buy happiness, and I believe it's true, but boy, does money help you get away with a lot.

I knew with my extracurricular and online activities that I was taking many risks, but it was so much fun! And I made so much money from it. Could something go wrong? Of course! There were all kinds of ways I could get caught and get in trouble, but the monthly subscription revenue offered a kind of insurance policy against the risks, plus I knew I was good at my job and my employer would have a difficult time firing me even if the higher ups found out what I was doing. Heck, as far as I knew maybe they DID know what I was doing and just pretended they didn't.

So, with every passing month, I took more risks. I pushed my limits. I became more brazen. It was intoxicating, in a way.

My husband told me one time, "I think you like this almost too much."

I said, "You might be right, but I think you might like it even more."

He grinned sheepishly.

"I think you might be right."

"No regrets?" I asked.

"None from me," he replied.

"You're a good husband," I told him, patting his cheek. Then I pulled up my skirt, showing him that I wasn't wearing panties. "And I'm a bad wife, and I intend to keep it that way."