Vivienne Westwood famously said “Fashion is about eventually becoming naked.” For a hotwife however it often seems that the expected fashion choices are much more overt. They shouldn’t whisper “fuck me,” they should scream it. The imagined thoughts of some models in captions often propose a world in which women (implausibly) think exactly what their men (aka male viewers) want them to think. If only the world were so transparently harmonious.
Maybe this misrepresentation abounds because we feel we have to jump to the obvious, the gauche, to make our principled, promiscuous position clear. Unless I wear my anklet, the thinking goes, or unless I wear a sheer top showing my nipples, unless I hand that newcomer at the bar my thong, he may not dare to take things further. Or worse, he may think I am single and not shared, he may just want me to himself and not realize we must fuck in front of my husband if I am to get my fix. It is conceivable that the terrible ubiquity of vanilla adventurism is why we dress so extremely or why captions feel forced to portray that we are panting with infidelity even though we are actually just sitting in a restaurant flirting and wondering how the night will develop. Imagining it in that ‘already manifest’ or ‘fait accompli’ way just seems to put off the inevitable creep of mediocre sexual tension. You know that creeping mediocrity, the kind that turns so much of the porn that we used to enjoy into the sexual equivalent of ‘meh’. But to me, ‘cutting to the chase’ of the final infidelity misses out the very process that sexualizes everything.
Don’t get me wrong, I love fucking as much as the next girl… as long as the next girl is a cock sucking, well-hung-loving nymphomaniac who wants it 24/7 with people that are crazy about her. Otherwise, I love it more than the next girl… and I probably want to fuck the girl too whilst I am at it (that will sort her out). But what gets this hotwife really hot is not the sex at all really. It is the anticipation of the sex. It is not the act itself that drives me wild, it is the preparation that really gets me wet, the build up that really provides the outlet for my growing lust. Where does my desire explode? Before the act.
Let me be clear. I love cock. I love that first thrust, the pounding, the multiple orgasms that you will give me, the sucking on my nipples (you reeeeally want that don’t you), the explosive throbbing inside me and that spreading heat as your cum fills me. I love all of that. I want that. With you.
But let’s just pause the imagino-erotic machine before we simply re-tread a well worn jerking-off kleenex path. Is that what I want? Well, yes. But whilst I do want all of that, I recognize that those experiences are all ‘end products’. They are the caption fodder. What I actually want, what I actually desire are the feelings that precede them. Let’s rewind the tape and play it again, but this time we will pay closer attention to what I am really enjoying.
I love cock. Now what I actually love is thinking about your cock, wondering how well hung you are, whether I am making you hard (aka whether I am desirable and desired by you), wondering whether you know what to do with the size you have (no boys it is not all about size, it is all about enough size and oodles of skill, don’t believe that moronic porn stereotype). What I actually love is the anticipation of your cock and most importantly how I have made you feel, before the act of having your cock.
I love that first thrust. Now what I actually love is the gentle pressure of the head of your cock against my pussy. I love the slide of your tip across my clit, oh so gently parting my pussy lips with the girth of your head. I love the feeling of my pussy’s tightness in contrast to the stretch I am going to feel when you thrust in. I love the anticipation of the calm before the storm of your penetration, before the act of your first fuck.
I love the pounding. Now what I actually love is the onslaught you are about to bring to my body. The panting, the moaning, even the screaming that you will conjure from my lungs hangs potently as an anticipated chaos about to rain down on me, as your balls slap against me in frenzied metronomic rhythm. The chaos will be wild, but only because it is preceded by the eye of the storm, the ecstatic anticipation of frenzy amidst the pure calm of those first gentle thrusts before the act.
I love the multiple orgasms you will give me. Now what I actually love is the time and space before each climax. The sense of being about to burst, the disbelief that this exquisite sexual tension could be borne any longer or get any more intense. The inevitability of the crashing of the orgasmic wave, teetering tantalizingly within sight, anticipated but not yet realized before its time.
I love you sucking on my nipples. Now what I actually love is your hunger to devour me with your lips. The ache that builds within me as we kiss, your tongue entwined with mine, the softness of your lips eliciting an ache to have your mouth elsewhere on my body. I anticipate the feel of your breath on my nipples, I anticipate the gentle suck as you make me erect. I groan at the thought of you sucking my whole areola into your mouth and engulfing my breast with your desire. All from your kiss and all the aching and yearning in anticipation of the act.
I love to feel you throbbing explosively inside me. Now what I actually love is knowing that you desire me so much that fucking me is going to make you cum. I love to know you are on the edge, that you cannot hold back, that the storm brewing behind your eyes is of my creation. I love to feel that last few seconds of extra swelling in the head of your cock as the cum starts to fire in your balls. I love the anticipation of your orgasm, before the act.
I love to feel the warmth of your cum in me. Now what I really love is looking over at my husband, my eyes anticipating what I will see as I focus on him. His pain, written across his face, as he sees my legs still trembling from the force of you cumming in me. His heartbreak as he sees my triumphal smile at the feeling of your cum. I feel the high of your fuck being overwhelmed at the anticipation of a new high, a psychological high, a married and relational high as I push you gently off me so that he can see your cum trickling down my soft skin from my stretched pussy. I feel the longing to see him watch that, to watch my unfaithful self indulgence, long before you have even cum in me.
Fucking me will be incredible for you. My kisses are soft, my breasts are naturally large, with contoured areola and sensitive nipples. My hips are ample for your grip and my curves arousing. My pussy is juicy and tastes sweet on your tongue, whilst my clit is perfectly responsive. I am multi-orgasmic and often cum ten or more times in one night. I squirt easily and heavily, repeatedly.
But the men who get to fuck me repeatedly won’t be focused on that. Deep in their psychological make-up they are not wired to experience pleasure from my physicality, although they most certainly will satisfy their sexual appetite with me. Instead their pleasure is located on the journey they take me on before the act. Their arousal is nurtured in the deft twists and turns that they are able to bring about in my anticipation, in the states of arousal that they see pass across my face, my breath, my body, my texts, my emails, my words as they work their magic. My lovers are the alchemists that can create such potency in my head, heart and pussy, before the act, that our sexual oneness is not only explosive, it is inevitable and it is unsurpassable.
I know you are ready to act. I am ready for you to fuck me. But are you now ready and equipped for what must come before you act? If so, then show me.
kaledo-art
turnnoffyourmind
blakekathryn
