Worship the hotwife | 3

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Part 3: The Afterglow

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I didn’t ride him. Not exactly.

I rubbed against him—slow and grinding, wet lips dragging over the rigid fabric of his pants, soaking him with everything he’d earned from my body. I kept my pussy just out of reach from anything that might give him too much friction, too much hope.

Because of hope? That’s the first thing I strip away.

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“You feel that?” I whispered, my breath hot against his cheek as I circled my hips lazily. “That’s your reward. The heat. The slick. But not the release. Not yet.”

His wrists flexed against the silk ties, the need in him now near-feral. I rolled my hips harder, faster, just enough for the wet slap of my cunt against his clothed cock to echo around the candlelit room.

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From the corner, the screen still glowed.

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My husband was panting. Plug still in. Caged and red. Staring. Helpless. His cock pulsed like it was begging for permission through the screen.

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“Poor thing,” I cooed toward the camera. “Didn’t think your little toy was going to get to watch me grind myself stupid on another man’s lap tonight, did you?”

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My stud beneath me gasped—half in lust, half in guilt. I leaned in closer, grabbing his jaw.

“Tell him what it feels like,” I commanded.

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He hesitated.

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I slapped his face. Not hard—just sharp enough to light a fire.

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“Say it.”

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His voice was a wreck. “It… it feels like heaven. Like sin. Like I could die right here and still have lived more than he ever will.”

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Oh, damn. That earned him another slow grind, my pussy now absolutely dripping, soaking through the thin fabric barrier between us.

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“Mm,” I purred, “filthy and poetic.”

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I was getting close—hips stuttering, clit grinding against the stiff ridge of his cock through his pants. My own body betrayed me, trembling, greedy, and hungry for another orgasm, but I wasn’t done playing yet. Not until I had all the power in the room writhing for me.

I turned to the screen.

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“You,” I said to my husband, sharp and commanding. “Show me how badly you want to taste me. Stick out your tongue.”

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He did.

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I reached down and slid two fingers through my soaked folds, collecting every drop, then held it up to the camera lens.

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“You see that? That’s what you’ll clean up—if you’re lucky.”

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Then I shoved those fingers in the mouth of the man beneath me.

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“Suck.”

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He obeyed. Greedy. Tongue swirling, moaning like I’d just fed him straight from heaven’s dripping gates.

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That was it. My orgasm tore through me again, this one meaner—sharp, aggressive, dragged from deep inside, and screamed out loud. I gripped the arms of the chair, grinding down on his lap like I could break him open and wring out everything left in me.

My thighs were shaking. My breath came in ragged moans. And the room filled with the scent of sex, the sound of ruin.

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But I wasn’t done.

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I climbed off him slowly, my body still twitching from aftershocks, and stood between them both—the screen and the man.

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Two men. Two toys. Two slaves to the altar between my legs. One in ropes and silk. The other is behind a camera and a cage. I walked behind my panting stud, dragged a chair over, and sat down like a queen returning to her throne.

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“I’m going to ask one question,” I said, my voice like velvet dragged across a whip. “And you better answer carefully.”

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They both waited—still, silent.

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“Who deserves to come?”

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My stud opened his mouth. My husband whimpered.

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I smiled, slow and cruel.

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“Wrong. Neither of you.”

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The reaction was divine. My husband whimpered loud enough for the mic to crackle. The stud beneath me whimpered, cock twitching painfully in his pants.

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“You both belong to me,” I said, stretching out like a lazy sin. “And I’ll decide when you're allowed pleasure. When you earn it. When you ache enough for it.”

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Then I walked over to the stud. Untied him. Pulled him to his knees.

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“Lick it up,” I ordered. “Every drop. Off the fabric, the floor, my skin. I want him to see what obedience looks like.”

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He obeyed. Tongue lapping every glistening trace of my orgasm from the soaked chair, from my inner thighs, and from the floor where I’d dripped while teasing him. Devoted. Messy.

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“Good stud,” I whispered, tilting his chin up when he was done. “You don’t get to come tonight. But you do get to watch me get dressed.”

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And my husband?

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I turned to the screen.

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“You get nothing,” I said, blowing him a kiss. “Now be a good little cuck and edge for me. Ten times. No coming. And leave the camera on.”

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