Satisfying Her Needs 2: A Hotwife Revealed Story (Her Needs Series) Read online

  And through their own selfishness, giving me what most excited me, what I fantasized about, what still lay hidden in my head, in my body, between my legs, in every inch of me.

  The arousal, the desire, the need to be taken.

  To be in the presence of sexual power, to succumb to that power. An energy that went far beyond testosterone, that transcended lust.

  In my heels, and with Peter in the desk chair, I towered over him. Without warning, the rush from being in charge surged into me, making me feel even taller, more powerful.

  In the past, I’d never been on this end of it, the one with the power, instead of the object for the powerful men to use.

  Not until Peter had let me do it to him. It had been a thrill I’d never contemplated before, always being on the receiving end.

  Not the domination of BDSM, nothing like that. Maybe domination wasn’t the right word, maybe it was control. Or sexual selfishness. The ability and position to do exactly what you wanted, to get just want you wanted, when you wanted it. From whoever you wanted it from. Whatever it was, I’d had a taste of it.

  And it was incredible.

  Peter grabbed at my fingers. I had been digging them into his shoulders.

  “Sorry,” I murmured. That was the wife speaking. The powerful persona, deep inside, wouldn’t have apologized.

  “Are you okay?” Peter’s voice was full of concern.

  I wasn’t sure how to answer that, so I asked a different question. “What about the other video? The one with Rodney? Does he have a copy?”

  “I’ll talk to him. We’ll work something out if he does.”

  “Have you looked at it?”

  Peter’s face changed, a reddening, yet his eyes glistened. Embarrassment, covered with excitement. “I have.”

  “And?”

  He hesitated, then said, “It’s better than the Rick video.”

  Something let loose in me, like the feeling you get in an airplane when it hits unexpected turbulence, dropping down, leaving your stomach behind, racing to catch up. No, that was merely upsetting. This was more like the thrill of a dangerous roller coaster.

  A ride you’d chosen, a decision you’d made.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked. I meant the video.

  Peter said, “That’s up to you.”

  “Us, you mean.”

  “Sure.”

  I pulled Peter’s head against my stomach. His subtle invitation to let me make the choice fed my inner temptation of being in charge, itching to be unfettered. Peter’s face was just inches from my pussy. Underneath my dress, I felt it reach out.

  “I want to see it,” I said.

  Peter looked up at me. “It’s your video.” He started to get up to let me sit in the desk chair.

  I decided. “No, stay there.”

  Peter turned back to the computer and pulled up the video. He hit play. The screen filled with the image of the hotel room, instantly transporting me back. Rodney, big on the screen, but not as big as in real life, far from it.

  Rodney was way hotter than any man I had seen at the bar tonight. Men who had made me wet.

  Rodney blew them all away.

  I sensed Peter tilt his head up, awkwardly, to look at me. Sensed, because my eyes were glued to the screen. That woman, that was me. On her knees, sucking on Rodney.

  My lips parted, remembering, savoring. I knew what would happen next, but like a favorite movie you watched over and over even though you knew the ending, I was enraptured.

  My husband, the man below me, had watched this video. I suspected more than once. He’d most likely jerked off while watching it.

  Was his cock hardening how, as he heard Rodney’s grunts, as he listened to the sucking sounds of my lips on Rodney’s cock?

  I spun the desk chair around, forcing Peter face to face with my pussy, his back now to the screen.

  I lifted up my dress.

  “You aren’t wearing underwear,” said Peter.

  Of course I wasn’t. Because when I had gone out with my girlfriends earlier, my fantasy was that I’d meet a man, a rough, strong man, and he’d get me alone somewhere and bend me over and fuck me. Panties would have just got in the way.

  I wouldn’t have done it. It was just a fantasy.

  That’s what I told myself then. Now I wasn’t so sure.

  Besides, if it was the right man, the man of my fantasy, I might not have had a choice. Not because he would have forced me, but because that was how it was meant to be.

  On the screen, Rodney grabbed the back of my head and rammed his cock into my mouth. My throat constricted, just as it had then.

  I grabbed the back of Peter’s head and pulled him into my pussy, my lips opening to receive his tongue, just as they would soon open to receive Rodney’s cock on the video. Peter’s tongue couldn’t possibly replace Rodney’s cock, but I was getting a thrill from it all the same.

  Peter, to his great credit, licked me with abandon, just as Rodney would fuck me with abandon. Peter had seen it, and I’d experienced it.

  I reached over Peter and turned the sound up all the way.

  I held out as long as I could, proud of myself for my control. The dress fell from my hands, covering Peter’s face, although I could feel his shoulders moving up and down. He was jerking off.

  Jerking off, knowing I was watching a video of myself getting fucked by a muscular black man. Not only watching it, but wet from watching, from remembering.

  My legs shook, my pleasure threatening to overcome my self control, yet I couldn’t pull away. I couldn’t take my eyes from the video, I couldn’t pull my pussy from Peter’s face.

  Who was that woman on the screen? A woman whose lust wasn’t faked. Not an actress, a real woman being taken on a sexual ride, a no holds barred we’re here for only one thing experience. With a man who had the same attitude. Rodney wasn’t there to caress me, to support me, to be in a relationship, to love me. He was there to fuck.

  To fuck me. Because I was that woman.

  Rodney’s grunts on the video filled the room, and we all knew what was coming. Rodney. Me.

  Peter.

  On the screen, Rodney rammed into me, his cock pulsing, his groan loud and satisfied, a powerful man getting what he wanted.

  I exploded into Peter’s face, my fingers holding his head in place under my dress, matching Rodney’s spasms, so help me wishing he hadn’t been wearing a condom, that he had shot his seed in me, that our juices had mixed, just as mine were now mixing in Peter’s mouth.

  Hot wetness dripped on my thighs. Peter had shot his load on me. He’d been turned on by it all, by having his head shoved into my pussy, by listening to Rodney fuck me, by me watching the video.

  Making a man come was the greatest turn on in the world.

  Coming on a man, I now realized, was a pretty close second.

  Peter

  I’d worked late at the office, hit the gym hard, but was still wired even after a hot shower and a sauna. My mind was still spinning from all that had happened in the last few weeks. My quiet life, and our rather staid marriage, had turned upside down.

  Or not. Certainly a lot had happened. But as for the marriage, is a situation really different if old thoughts long hidden had come to life, or been newly discovered? I mean, I still had the same wife. Was our relationship now fundamentally different because our sex lives were on a different track? Because I now knew what Andie really liked?

  Because I was still learning what I liked?

  The house was dark when I got home. A note on the refrigerator from Andie said, Out for a drink.

  No details. Nothing about being with her girlfriends. I immediately wondered if she was out trolling for another man. Or already with one.

  Of course, she may have left the note vague on purpose, just so I’d wonder.

  Maybe our marriage was different after all.

  I grabbed a beer and sat on the couch, still wired. I picked up the television remote, set it back down. I’d
never be able to concentrate even on a mindless show.

  For the longest time—literally years—I’d bemoaned the fact that my wife wasn’t that much into sex. I’d assumed she’d always been that way, that sex just wasn’t as important to her in a relationship. Or when I was feeling down, thinking the worst, that I just couldn’t please her. Not only that we were not compatible in bed, but we were not compatible because I wasn’t experienced enough or skilled enough to give her what she really wanted.

  That was bad enough. The only reason I hadn’t been totally depressed was the glimmer of hope that if we had more sex, I’d learn what she wanted, I’d finally discover how to please her.

  Never could I have imagined that there might be a reason for our situation that was more depressing than my worst fears. That it wasn’t my skills in bed, it was just—who I was. Not strong enough. Not forceful enough.

  Not man enough.

  Why had Andie married me then? Certainly she knew the kind of man I was. Why had she never shared her past, confessed to the doubts she must have had?

  My beer was empty, I’d nervously gulped it all. I jumped up, torn between depression and anger. In the kitchen I took out another beer, changed my mind. Beer wasn’t enough. From the freezer I took out a bottle of vodka. I poured a healthy glassful and took a long drink. Bitterly cold, just like Andie had been to me. Icy.

  And yet. . .

  Andie was no fool. She was a realist, a great judge of character. This wasn’t a woman who didn’t think things through.

  She knew exactly what she’d be getting when she married me. We’d been together enough before our wedding. She hadn’t hinted about wanting me to change, she hadn’t ever even suggested I be different in the bedroom.

  She knew, and yet she’d married me anyway.

  For some reason, she’d decided that whatever I offered her—and right now I was pretty hard pressed to imagine what it was—was worth more than what she was giving up.

  Andie had told me as much. The thought should have cheered me up. Yet what man wanted to find out that he couldn’t please his woman in the way she wanted to be pleased? In the way she needed to be pleased?

  The way Rodney and even Rick had pleased her? The way other men—who knew how many—had pleased her in the past?

  Still. . .

  There was no doubt in my mind that she’d really been excited by our recent sex. Yes, the catalyst had been other men, thinking of them, being with them, having sex with them. Yet it wasn’t as if Andie could only be aroused and satisfied by other men. I was the one with her, I was the one arousing her, I was the one taking her over the top.

  It all depended in your point of view, your frame of reference.

  So what if Andie liked being a little—in control, even dominant, now and then? Was that any different from me in the past wallowing in the enjoyment of having a woman on her knees, sucking on my cock?

  It all depended on how you looked at it. In this case, that also applied literally. Looking down. Or being the one looking up, from below.

  I swirled the rest of the vodka around in the glass. When I took another sip, it had noticeably warmed. It still had that edge, but once in my mouth, the alcohol combined with my body heat to light a fire, growing hotter and hotter.

  Just like Andie.

  Andie

  I finished my drink and signaled the bartender for the tab.

  “Come on, Andie, one more!”

  “I really should go,” I said. My friend Halle could drink me under the table; if I matched her drink for drink I’d never be able to drive home.

  Halle pouted. “You’re no fun. Who are you, and what have you done to my wild and crazy friend from college?”

  “I think she’s still there,” I replied, smiling. It was only after I’d spoken that I realized my words could have two meanings.

  Sasha, sitting on the other side of Halle, said, “Keep it down, you two, I’m trying to concentrate.”

  I looked over at the object of Sasha’s focus. Not surprisingly, it was a man. Or two men, very good looking. They had just entered the room, sizing up the place. Or the women.

  I felt Halle sit up taller next to me. No doubt Sasha had done the same. I was certain of this because without even having to think about it, so had I.

  The men were white, clean shaven, around thirty perhaps, in great shape. Not with bulky, lopsided gym created muscles, but rather the complete body package, muscles that formed from real world use. Their confident aura suggested they were comfortable in any situation. I sensed they were in the military, perhaps special forces, since there was a major army base only ten miles away.

  “Now that,” said Sasha, “is what I’m talking about.”

  “Which one?” asked Halle.

  “Who cares?”

  “I call the darker one then,” said Halle. It was an old game with us, like calling shotgun in the car.

  “You always call the darker one,” I said, but I couldn’t blame her. The olive skinned man, dark brown hair, a bit taller, had an aura of command. Of power. A tingle ran up the hair on my arms.

  “Flip you for him,” said Halle. “No wait, I forgot. You’re married.”

  “So’s Sasha,” I said.

  “Who cares?” said Sasha.

  We all laughed. Sasha was all talk, she’d never screw around.

  Not like I had.

  I was still coming to grips with that. When I had married Peter, I never, never, thought I’d cheat. I knew Peter would never cheat, which is one of the many reasons why I’d married him. The other men I’d been with—I didn’t trust many of them along those lines.

  And still I’d fucked another man. Two of them.

  I should have felt like shit. And yet, perhaps because of how it had all come about, perhaps because of Peter’s reaction, I felt—exhilarated. Like I’d lived in a house for many years, and had found a hidden door. A trap door. I’d fallen in, and instead of a long bruising crash, I’d floated upward instead of down, ending up in a room with a familiar feel, a familiar scent. A magical room that was even better than I could have possibly imagined.

  A room with all I had before, plus more.

  Halle turned a little on the bar stool, crossing her long legs, her head facing me but her eyes straining toward the door. Her female magnetism worked its magic; both of the soldiers—I was sure they were—turning our way.

  Without hesitation they headed toward the bar.

  “Last chance,” said Halle.

  “Some lucky guy and gal is going to get laid tonight!” said Sasha.

  “Maybe two lucky guys,” said Halle.

  Sasha moaned. “Right, throw it in our faces.”

  No doubt Sasha was projecting, imagining what Halle would do with those men. Perhaps both of them. At the same time.

  In all my wild and crazy years, even I hadn’t done that.

  The men were closing in, other women at the bar reacting too late, trying to get their attention.

  “I’ll want details,” hissed Sasha. She was joking. About being mad. She actually would want details. So would I.

  “Now it’s really time for me to go,” I said, dropping cash on the bar for my tab.

  “I’m going to at least drool over the menu,” said Sasha. “Why don’t you stick around?”

  One of the men—the darker skinned one—had his eyes all over me. The tingle in my arms ran across my shoulders, slammed together, making my neck tighten, my entire body stiffening, my nipples poking out at him like beacons of desire, neon signs shouting available.

  Two nipples, two men.

  I had a sudden vision, the two men pressing me to a wall, one on each side, each pinning one of my arms overhead, their other hands yanking down the top of my dress, pulling out my breasts. The heads dropping as one, each taking a nipple, sucking hard. Unable to escape, unable to move, I can only watch and suffer and succumb to their strength. Their other hands reach under my skirt, lifting it. . .

  My eyes flutter as I
stepped away from the bar, and I bump into the men. They are hard, like the hard wall in my fantasy. I might have fallen, but the dark haired one catches me, his strong hands on my forearm. I almost expect him to raise it over my head.

  “Someone is in a hurry,” he said. He’s not smiling, but I sense he is amused. Or perhaps surprised that his chosen woman is leaving.

  “I—I have to go see my husband,” I stammered.

  I pushed past them without waiting for a reply. Or perhaps I don’t trust myself. A wave of regret slams into me as his hand drops from my arm, a hint of what I was walking away from.

  Another reminder of the life I’d left behind.

  And yet, I’d never wanted to see Peter more than I did at that moment. For the first time in years, I couldn’t wait to get home.

  I practically ran out of the bar, my hard nipples now pointed toward my husband.

  Peter

  I had one hand on the note Andie had left me, and the other hand on my crotch, when the door practically crashed open. I spun around on the sofa. Andie stood in the entryway in the dim light, out of breath.

  I immediately knew that she wasn’t afraid, that she wasn’t being chased, that her flushed face and fast breathing was not due to some fear. Instead, she was aroused.

  My fingers, instantly sweaty, tightened around her note. Where had she been?

  Our eyes met, and—don’t ask me how I knew this, but I was certain—I discerned we had just stepped into a new reality, defined by a new shared realization.

  “Hurry,” she pleaded.

  Andie ran up the stairs. I was right behind her.

  In the bedroom I tore at her clothes, but even in my haste I wasn’t fast enough. Andie pulled down the top of her dress so hard I thought it would tear, grabbing my hand and shoving it under her breast. One of her tits jumped out at my face over her half cut bra. Her nipple was dark and hard, begging to be sucked. Or had just been sucked.

  My mouth clamped on, and she shoved me around, pulling me down on the bed on top of her, her hands pulling at my head, just as she had when I had licked her while she watched the video.

  Here I was again, facing the two sides of the coin. Being practically forced to do her bidding. Yet how could one be upset about being forced to suck on the nipple of a beautiful, aroused woman?