A Little Confession
I’d told Hubby I had to work late – emergency stocktake at the office, back around 9ish, don’t wait up, blah blah. He bought it, of course. Sweet, trusting man.
All morning I’d been the office’s secret slut. The animal-print bodycon dress was pure sin – stretched tight over my heavy tits, clinging to every roll and curve, hem barely covering the lace tops of my sheer black 15-denier stockings. No knickers. Just the glossy nylon whispering against my thighs with every step, and a thick black butt plug seated deep in my arse since I left the house. God, the constant stretch and pressure was relentless – every time I shifted in my chair, crossed my legs, or bent to pick up a pen, it nudged deeper, keeping me dripping wet and half-mad with anticipation. Colleagues chatted about deadlines while I smiled sweetly, thighs clenched, thinking if only you knew I’m plugged and throbbing, counting the hours until I get my arse fucked raw.
By 4 p.m. I was done pretending. I grabbed my bag, muttered something about a “quick external meeting,” and headed straight to the Hotel car park.
Marc was waiting in the far corner, leaning against his battered white van, eyes locked on me the second I stepped out of the car. My heels clicked loud on the tarmac, stockings catching the dim afternoon light, dress riding higher with every stride.
He didn’t waste words. Grabbed my wrist, pulled me behind the van where the cameras couldn’t reach, and pushed me down. “On your knees, slut.”
The tarmac was cold and rough under my knees as I knelt, dress stretched tight across my thighs. Zip down, belt clinking, and his thick cock was in my face – heavy, veined, already beading at the tip. I opened wide and took him deep, lips stretching, tongue flat, tasting salt and skin and the faint metallic edge of him. He groaned low, big hand fisting my dark hair, guiding me onto him. I sucked like I was starving – sloppy, wet, noisy – spit dripping down my chin, lipstick smearing along his shaft, mascara starting to run as he pushed into my throat. The car park was quiet except for the obscene wet sounds of my mouth and his rough curses. “Fuck… good girl… take it all…”
I hollowed my cheeks, bobbed faster, gagging softly when he held me down. My own wetness was soaking the tops of my stockings, the plug still filling me, reminding me what was next.He didn’t finish in my mouth. Pulled out with a wet pop, strings of spit hanging between my swollen lips and his glistening cock. “Up. Room. Now.”
He hauled me to my feet, arm around my waist like he owned me, and we hurried across the car park to room 312. Door slammed shut and he had me bent over the little desk in seconds – dress rucked up to my waist, plug yanked out roughly and tossed aside. Palms flat on the wood, arse high, legs spread in the sheer black nylons. He spat on his hand, slicked his cock still wet from my mouth, then pressed the fat head against my gaping hole.
One long, slow push and he was buried deep – stretching me wide, filling me completely. I moaned loud enough to rattle the thin walls. He gripped the lace tops of my stockings like handles and fucked me hard – deep, punishing strokes that slapped against my cheeks, desk rattling under us. “Tell me you’re a cheating whore,” he growled. “I’m a cheating whore,” I gasped, pushing back onto him. “Sucked you off in the car park… now taking your cock up my arse while my husband thinks I’m working late…”
He went feral. Brutal, relentless thrusts. My tits bounced under the tight dress, nipples scraping the fabric. I came hard without touching myself – shaking, clenching, crying out as the orgasm tore through me. He didn’t stop. A dozen more savage strokes and he buried himself balls-deep, groaning like an animal. “Fuck… take every drop…”Hot, thick spurts flooded me – pulse after pulse until I felt overfull, dripping. When he pulled out there was that filthy wet sound, followed by the slow, warm trickle of his cum leaking out, sliding down towards the sheer black lace.
He gave my arse one last sharp slap, helped me tug the dress down. The stockings were still perfect – no ladders, just that sticky sheen on the inside of one thigh where his cum had soaked in. I drove home like that – bare under the dress, his load slowly seeping out, marking the sheer nylon I’d worn all day. Every bump, every red light, I felt it leaking further.
I got home late. Hubby was on the sofa, eyes dark with that mix of worry and hunger. I didn’t speak. Just straddled him, lifted the hem of the dress, and sank down onto his cock in one slow, slick motion. He groaned as he felt how loose and wet I still was, how open another man had left me. I rode him hard, tits bouncing in the tight dress, stockings still on, his hands gripping my hips. Then, while he was buried deep inside me, fucking up into his filthy wife, I reached into my bag, pulled out my phone, and opened the pictures Marc had taken of me in the car park and room.
“I’ve been so bad,” I whispered, grinding down harder. “ I met a guy after work and he Fucked my mouth in the car park… then filled my arse while you were waiting at home…”
Hubby’s eyes went wide, pupils blown, cock throbbing inside me. He fucked me harder, faster, staring at the evidence of my cheating, growling. I came again clenching around him, milking him until he exploded deep inside me, mixing his load with the one still leaking from my arse.
