People always ask me, “Why are you so picky about finding another full-time boyfriend?” Well, first off, I’m in no rush. Second, it needs to happen naturally. But the biggest reason? I have a perfectly good cock at home that I own completely. My cuckold husband has a nice, big dick that I control entirely—and that gives me the freedom to take my time and enjoy myself however I please.
When I have a boyfriend, my husband stays pussy-free, locked in chastity, aching, desperate, watching me take my pleasure from another man while he remains on the sidelines, just like a good little cuck should. But when I’m between lovers, I get to decide when and if he gets a taste. I love making him beg, teasing him, dangling the possibility in front of him before shutting him down with a smirk. Sometimes, if he’s been really good, I’ll throw him a bone—literally. But only when it suits me.
Being a dominant hotwife has its privileges. I get the best of both worlds: the thrill of new lovers who worship me, young studs who can’t get enough of me, while keeping a devoted, obedient husband in his proper place. And I absolutely love the power. The control. The knowledge that every single moment of pleasure he gets is entirely at my mercy.
I’ll never forget the night my husband looked me in the eyes after I came home from fucking another man. He was on his knees, desperate to hear every detail, hanging onto my every word. I told him everything—how the man took me, how good it felt, how I moaned for him—and I watched as my husband’s breath hitched, his body reacting in the way I knew it would. The most satisfying part? Seeing how turned on he got, how much he wanted me even more because I had just been with someone else. He didn’t just accept it—he encouraged it. That moment was the ultimate truth of what really gets us off.
One night, after spending hours taking my newest lovers big dick, I came home still dripping with his scent. I sat my husband down, pulled out my phone, and showed him the videos I had taken—my ass bouncing on another man’s cock, the way my pussy glided up and down his shaft, the sounds of my pleasure. His eyes widened, his breath caught in his throat, and I watched his hands clench into fists. Not out of jealousy—but out of desperate, aching need. “Did he make you cum?” he asked, his voice trembling. I smirked, pressing play on a clip where I was screaming another man’s name. “What do you think?”
One time, I came home wearing nothing but my boyfriends oversized shirt—no panties, no bra—still flushed from the night’s adventure. I straddled my husband on the couch, grabbing his face and making him look at the fresh bite marks trailing down my neck and breasts. “He was rough with me tonight,” I whispered, watching as my husband swallowed hard, his body betraying him. “He fucked me in the backseat of his car, right after dinner. Didn’t even make it home. Couldn’t keep his hands off me.” I straddled my husband, took his top off, and ground my wet, used pussy over his stomach moving up to sit on his face. He groaned and twitched, his hands squeezing my hips, but I just laughed and pulled away. “Too bad for you,” I teased, leaving him there, desperate and denied.
I’ve had my cake and eaten it too for years, and trust me—I have no plans to stop anytime soon.