**Author's note:**
On a routine business trip, Ben expects late nights and video calls - not his wife showing up dressed like a slut, acting like a stranger, and hungry for attention that isn't his. But when Tasha turns fantasy into reality, Ben finds himself playing a game he didn't design... and might not control.
This is another story of Tasha and Ben, a hotwife vixen and her stag - a couple who love to share, and who thrive on being watched. But this time, the lines blur. This time, the game goes somewhere else.
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Ben lay on the bed of his hotel room, shirt undone, trousers on the chair. The room was expensively minimal. Soft rock played from the built-in speaker. He had a bottled beer beside him and the dull glow of the city skyline bled through the window.
Another fucking client dinner. Another day talking bullshit with people he'd rather ignore.
What he wanted - what he really wanted - was about to appear on his screen.
His phone buzzed.
Tasha. His wife.
He smiled as he answered. Her voice came through first, low and playful.
"Miss me?"
Then the video kicked in.
Tasha was at home in bed. His home. Their bed. She wore one of his old grey T-shirts, stretched across her large tits, no bra, and her legs were bare - the smooth, inked line of her thigh just visible beneath the duvet.
Her thick brunette hair was loose around her face. No makeup. Just flushed cheeks, and those sharp green eyes.
Ben shifted under the covers.
"Fuck," he said. "Look at you."
She stretched slowly, deliberately - arms overhead, back arched, shirt riding up. Just enough for him to catch the top of her black thong. Her nipples strained beneath the cotton.
"I had wine," she said. "Then a shower. Then I got lonely."
Ben took a sip of beer. "Dangerous combination."
She smiled. "Want to see how dangerous?"
His hand moved beneath the duvet. "Show me."
She shifted, phone propped on the pillow now. One hand played lazily with her breast, the other trailing down her stomach beneath the shirt.
Ben pushed his duvet back, revealing himself - already half-hard, penis thick in his hand.
"I was thinking about you," she said softly. "Sitting in that boring fucking hotel, pretending you don't want to bend the waitress over the table."
He laughed. "She was about sixty."
"I've seen your search history."
He stroked himself lazily. "Touch yourself."
"I already am," she whispered.
She pulled the duvet down. Her tiny black thong was already dark with damp. She peeled it aside with one finger, revealing her soaked slit, then reached for the black curved vibrator from the drawer.
"I was thinking," she said, sliding it in with a soft moan, "maybe I surprise you tomorrow night."
Ben tensed. "Yeah?"
"Show up at your hotel. Dressed like a fucking whore."
"Jesus."
"I'll come into the bar, find you, but I won't say a word. I won't even look at you. I'll pretend I've never met you."
Ben was stroking harder now, eyes fixed on her. The fantasy dug in deep.
"I'll sit alone," she went on, fucking herself slowly. "In heels. No knickers. Let some poor bastard buy me a drink. And when I'm good and ready, I'll walk up to you, whisper in your ear... and tell you I'm dripping."
Ben groaned. "Fuck, Tasha...."
"I'll ask if you want to take me upstairs. Just for one night. One fuck."
Her hips arched. She was getting close now - breath jagged, lips parted.
"And if you do," she gasped, "I'll let you have me like a stranger. No names. No history. Just...fuck me. Like you don't know anything about me."
Ben came with a deep, guttural grunt, cock twitching as he spilled cum across his stomach.
Tasha was only seconds behind - thighs clenching, the toy buzzing softly as she came, eyes fluttering shut.
For a few seconds, the call was silent. Just the sound of breathing. Distant rock.
Then she looked back at the camera. Smiled.
"Mmmm, I needed that. Sleep tight, baby," she said. "And keep your eyes open tomorrow night. You never know...."
She ended the call before he could say another word.
***
Later the next day Ben sat in the bar area with a glass in hand, shirt sleeves rolled, tie loose, top two buttons undone. It had been a long day of boardrooms and bullshit - enough corporate small talk to make his brain bleed.
He wasn't expecting anything tonight. Maybe a steak. Perhaps room service. Definitely a wank.
Then, without warning, his night changed.
It started with a sound. The unmistakable clack of boots on marble - sharp, rhythmic, and confident. Not the hesitant shuffle of hotel guests or the totter of stilettos.
This was purposeful and confident.
He looked up. And then he froze.
She'd walked in like she owned the place.
Tasha. His Tasha.
She wore her white cowboy boots, the ones that hugged her calves and announced trouble with every step. A wine-coloured PVC mini skirt clung to her hips - glossy, tight, and so short it barely covered the curve of her arse. Her top - if you could call it that - was a black leather bralette, hugging her big, natural tits, her nipples clearly hard beneath the material. No bra. No modesty.
Her body was bold and unapologetic - curves that dared you to stare, a softness that said touch me and see what happens. She looked like a woman younger than her late thirties, but who'd been loved hard, fucked better, and was now entirely her own. Her skin was marked in the right places - artistic tattoos on her arms, her thigh, hints of ink beneath the leather - enough to suggest not just danger, but experience.
Tonight her hair was wild. Lips glossed. Eyes rimmed dark.
She didn't even look at him.
Ben's cock surged in his trousers. He couldn't believe she had come, just like she'd teased. And fuck, she looked hot. He shifted on the barstool, trying to mask his growing erection with his jacket.
She took a seat across the bar. Crossed one bare thigh over the other, PVC hem riding even higher on her leg.
Two men noticed her immediately. Then four. Then the whole fucking bar.
Ben watched in stunned silence, amused and aroused, as a man in a suit made the first move.
Polite smile. Whiskey in hand. Tasha accepted the drink. Laughed at something he said. He touched her hair. She let her fingers rest just a little too long on his wrist.
She still hadn't even glanced at Ben.
And that was the hottest, most fucked-up thing in the world.
His wife - the love of his life - was across the room, dressed like a slut, pretending she didn't know him...and entertaining offers from strangers.
They played together - and with others - frequently. He loved to share her, and she him. But this was different to their normal game. He couldn't deny he was excited.
His jaw clenched. His cock pulsed. And all he could do was sit and watch as these men hit on her and she lapped it up.
Tasha laughed again. Not loud, not forced, but the kind of soft, sultry sound that made every man within earshot want to know the punchline.
The guy she was talking to - tall, mid-forties, sharp suit - leaned in closer. Confident. His fingers brushed the inside of her arm as he handed her another drink. She didn't flinch. Didn't pull away.
Instead, she took a slow sip, lips wrapping around the glass deliberately, tongue flicking over the rim when she was done. Her lipstick left a faint mark. Her eyes never even moved toward Ben.
Ben gripped his glass tighter.
He could feel the shift. The heat building behind his ribs. His cock was throbbing in his trousers, hard against the fabric. He didn't know if he wanted to go over there and fuck her senseless or drag her upstairs and remind her exactly who she was married to.
Another man approached. Younger with a confident swagger. Tight grey tee stretched across his chest and muscled arms, jeans slung low. The kind of lad who thought he was god's gift to whatever. He joined the conversation with a grin and a comment Ben couldn't hear.
Tasha turned slightly toward him on the barstool. Crossed her legs the other way. Her skirt shifted higher - now just barely covering her pussy.
The younger guy's eyes dropped. He said something.
She smirked.
Ben's heart thudded.
The three of them talked for a few more minutes. Then the suited one got up and left - a handshake, a smile, nothing more.
But the younger stayed.
He leaned closer.
Tasha didn't move.
Ben's breath caught as he saw her hand drift casually onto the guy's knee. Her fingers tapped against the denim. Her boot slid against his.
Then, without warning, the younger man leaned in and kissed her full on.
Tasha didn't stop him. instead she kissed him back.
Not a peck. Not a tease. A deep, open-mouthed kiss that left her lipstick smudged and her chest heaving slightly when they pulled apart.
Ben's world tilted.
He was rock hard - painfully so - his cock pulsing against the waistband of his trousers. His hand was shaking. He set down his drink before he dropped it.
She had just kissed another man, in front of him and without them agreeing it, like Ben didn't exist. And she was loving every second of it.
They talked quietly for a while longer. Then they stood up together. The guy said something - she nodded.
And just like that, they walked off - out of the bar and out of view.
Ben didn't move. He sat frozen, staring at the doorway where they'd gone. His jaw clenched so tight it ached. His knuckles white on the bar.
He had no idea where she'd gone.
And the idea that she might be on her way upstairs right now - in a stranger's room, dress hitched up, bralette pulled down, riding someone else's cock - made him feel like he was about to explode.
His stomach churned. His heart pounded.
And yet...his cock was still hard. Still aching.
Ben sat in silence, waiting and burning.
***
Ben had barely moved.
It had been half an hour - maybe more. His drink was untouched. His mind chewing itself raw.
He didn't know what he expected.
For her not to come back?
For her to come find him, smiling, laughing, whispering "just a game, baby..."?
He didn't know. Not until she reappeared.
There she was. Tasha.
Striding back into the bar like she'd never been away.
Alone.
Ben's eyes tracked every movement as she approached - and immediately, he knew.
Her hair was messier. Tousled. A little damp around the temples. Her lipstick had been reapplied - but hastily. Slightly uneven.
Her legs glistened faintly in the low light. And the PVC skirt... it was sitting just a little higher on one hip now. Twisted. Rumpled. The edge of her bralette strap had slipped slightly off her shoulder.
She looked like a woman who had just been fucked hard against a wall.
And still she didn't look at him.
She returned to the same stool. Crossed her legs. Ordered another drink. The bartender didn't even flinch - just nodded, poured, slid it across.
She sipped. Slowly. Casually.
Ben's throat was dry. His cock throbbed in his trousers.
He watched her legs shift as she crossed and uncrossed them - slow, casual, filthy. The skirt tugged up with the movement, revealing bare thigh, smooth and glowing under the bar lights.
And now...he could swear he saw it.
A faint sheen. A glisten. The evidence of what she'd just done.
From him?
No.
From someone else.
Could it really be? Or was his mind just fucking with him?
Another man had just fucked his wife - his Tasha - and now she sat in front of him, silent, radiant, legs spread just enough, pretending like he was nothing more than background noise.
The room didn't know. But he did.
