Afterglow of the Hotel Encounter

It's been two weeks since that wild night at the hotel with Brooke and Chris, and things have felt... off. Not bad, just charged in a way I can't put my finger on. Brooke's been glowing, more alive than usual—her skin flushed even when we're just grabbing takeout, her laughs coming quicker, her touches lingering a second longer on my arm. She'll curl up next to me on the couch, her hand tracing lazy circles on my thigh, but then her phone buzzes and she glances at it with this secretive little smile before tucking it away. I chalk it up to the afterglow of what we did, that shared secret making our sex hotter, even if mine can't compare to what Chris gave her. Last night, she rode me slow, whispering how much she loved feeling "so full" again, her pussy clenching around my dick like she was chasing a memory. I came quick, but she didn't—kept grinding until she rubbed her clit herself, moaning something about needing it deeper. It stung a little, but fuck, it turned me on too.

I haven't pushed her about seeing Chris again. Part of me wants to, to beg for another show, but the jealousy twists in my gut every time I picture his thick cock stretching her out, her screams echoing off those cheap hotel walls. Instead, I've been jerking off to the details she fed me after: how he yanked her hair, how she squirted on his balls, the way she made me clean them both up. My small dick gets rock-hard thinking about it, but I keep it to myself, waiting for her to bring it up. She's been busier at work, or so she says. I trust her, or at least I tell myself I do. Our marriage has always thrived on this cuckold edge; it's what keeps the spark alive.

That changed on a Thursday afternoon. I got home early from the shop, the kind of random luck where a client cancels and suddenly you've got three hours to kill. The house was quiet, no sign of Brooke's car in the driveway, but her laptop was open on the kitchen counter, screen saver flickering with some abstract patterns. I wasn't snooping, not really—just grabbed a beer from the fridge and noticed her phone charging next to it, buzzing with a text notification. The preview popped up before I could look away: "Can't wait for tomorrow". No name, just a number I didn't recognize. My stomach dropped, but my dick twitched. I scrolled back—stupid, I know, but curiosity won. Messages from "C"—short, dirty exchanges. "Wore that dress you like today." "Fucked you so good last week, pussy still sore?" "Meet at the usual? Noon?"

Holy shit. Brooke's been seeing Chris. Alone. A couple times a week, from the dates. The first one lines up with the Monday after our threesome—she'd said she had a client lunch. Then Wednesday, Friday, even a quick one last Tuesday when she claimed to be working late. No wonder she's been walking funny some days, her panties discarded in the hamper with wet spots that smelled musky, not like her usual soap. I sat there, heart pounding, scrolling through pics he'd sent: his cock, hard and veined, glistening from her mouth; a shot of her tits spilling out of that black bra, nipples clamped with what looked like his belt buckle. She hadn't replied with words, just fire emojis and one blurry selfie of her ass in the mirror, red from handprints.

I should have been pissed. Yelling, confronting her. But instead, I unzipped my jeans right there in the kitchen, stroking my little dick to the evidence. Fuck, it was hot—my wife sneaking off to get railed by her ex, keeping it from me like some dirty secret. She was hooked, just like she admitted that night, and now she was feeding that addiction without me there to watch. I came hard into a napkin, guilt and arousal mixing in my veins. When she got home an hour later, I played it cool, kissing her hello while she hummed some tune, her hair tousled like she'd just been fucked. "Missed you," I said, and she grinned, pulling me into a hug that pressed her soft tits against my chest. That night, she sucked me off in the shower, her mouth sloppy and eager, but I swear I tasted a hint of salt on her tongue that wasn't mine.

The next day, I couldn't shake it. I called in sick to the shop—first time in years—and tailed her. Not creepy-stalker style, just drove by the coffee place she hits before "work." She was there, sipping a latte in yoga pants that hugged her ass, then hopped into her car headed out of town. I followed at a distance, my pulse racing like a teenager. She pulled into the parking lot of that same budget motel chain, the one with the flickering vacancy sign and trucks rumbling by on the highway. Room 112, second floor. I parked across the street behind a dumpster, watching as a familiar truck pulled up ten minutes later. Chris. He climbed out, all broad shoulders and easy stride, carrying a duffel bag like he planned to stay a while.

They met at the door—no hesitation, her arms around his neck, his hands grabbing her ass as they kissed like they couldn't wait. The door shut, and I was left sitting there, dick straining against my jeans, imagining what was happening inside. Should I knock? Burst in? Part of me wanted to, to catch them mid-fuck and join the party. But the cuckold in me won out—I stayed put, slipping a hand into my pants to stroke slow while I pictured it. Twenty minutes ticked by, then thirty. My mind filled in the blanks: her on her knees, worshipping that massive cock she'd compared to mine, gagging on its length while he called her his slut.

I don't know what possessed me—maybe the thrill, maybe the need to see it for real—but I got out of the car, crossed the lot, and climbed the stairs quiet as I could. The motel was cheap, walls thin; I could hear muffled voices through the door, her laugh turning into a gasp. I pressed my ear to the wood, breath shallow. "Fuck, Chris, I've needed this all week," she said, voice husky. Fabric rustled, then a zipper. "Show me how much you missed my dick." A wet smack—her mouth on him, probably. I could picture it: her perfect tits out, bouncing as she bobbed, that piercing in her pussy glinting from her cum.

My hand was back on my cock, rubbing through my pants as I listened. He groaned, low and rough. "Suck it deeper, Brooke. Larry doesn't get this treatment, does he?" She pulled off with a pop—I knew the sound from that night. "No, baby. He tries, but you're the one who owns this throat." Then movement, bed creaking. "Bend over. I want that ass up." She moaned, long and needy, as he must have slid into her super slow. The slaps started—skin on skin, her pussy taking his full nine inches while mine could barely bottom out. "Yes, fuck me hard! Just like the first time." He was pounding her now, the headboard thumping the wall. "You're so tight—better without him watching, huh? My little secret whore."

Jealousy burned, but so did the heat in my balls. She was right; this was raw, just them, no audience. I unzipped fully, jerking my small dick in the hallway, risking it all. Her cries built: "Deeper—stretch me, Chris! God, your cock's ruining me." He growled something about filling her up, and she begged for it, voice breaking. The rhythm sped up, wet and frantic, until she screamed—cumming hard, I bet, her juices soaking his shaft. He followed with a grunt, thrusting deep to unload. Silence after, just heavy breathing and her giggling. "You're addictive. Let's do this every Tuesday and Thursday."

I came then, spurting onto the concrete walkway, biting my lip to stay quiet. Shame hit me as I tucked myself away and slipped back to my car, but the arousal lingered, thick and insistent. By the time Brooke got home that evening, I was composed, dinner started—steaks on the grill like nothing happened. She breezed in, cheeks pink, hair damp from a "shower after work." "Hey, babe," she said, kissing me deep, her body pressing close. I could smell faint cologne on her neck, not mine. "Rough day?"

She shrugged, grabbing a beer. "Productive. How about you?" Her eyes sparkled with that post-fuck glow, and I swear her walk had that subtle sway, like her pussy was still tender. We ate on the patio, talking about nothing—weather, the neighbor's dog—while my mind replayed the sounds from the motel. She shifted in her seat, wincing a little, and I almost asked. But instead, I watched her, dick stirring again under the table.

Later, in bed, she initiated—straddling my face first, grinding her pussy against my mouth. It was swollen, slick with more than her own wetness; a faint trace of cum lingered, salty on my tongue as I lapped at her folds. She moaned, riding my face, the piercing bumping my chin. "Taste good?" she asked, voice teasing. I nodded, sucking her clit, knowing I'd just eaten Chris's load from hours ago without her saying a word. It made me harder than ever. She slid down, impaling herself on my dick—easy, loose from him—and fucked me quick, her tits bouncing in my face. "You're so good to me, Larry," she whispered, but her eyes were distant, like she was reliving the afternoon.

I didn't last long, pumping into her with a groan, adding my smaller contribution to whatever was already there. She came too, rubbing her clit furiously, but it was her second wind of the day. As we lay tangled, her head on my chest, she traced my skin with her finger. "You know I love you, right? This... whatever we're doing, it makes us stronger." I kissed her forehead, heart racing. "Yeah, babe. I know."

The next morning, she left for "work" again, and I checked her phone while she showered—more texts from C, planning the next hookup. This time, I didn't follow. Instead, I texted her from the kitchen: "Have fun today." She emerged, towel around her, eyes narrowing playfully. "What do you mean?" I shrugged, pulling her close. "Just... be safe. Tell me about it later?" Her face lit up, that nervous excitement from the bar night flashing back, mixed with relief. "You knew?" I nodded, confessing the phone, the motel—everything but jerking off in the hall. She laughed, low and dirty, dropping the towel to reveal her naked body, tits full and nipples perking in the cool air. "Fuck, Larry. You're the best. Want details now, or wait till I get home full of his cum?"

We fucked right there on the counter—me bending her over, sliding into her from behind while she confessed the past two weeks. "First time, he took me to the room and ate my pussy for an hour, made me squirt twice before fucking me doggy till I couldn't walk." She pushed back against me, her ass cheeks soft. "Tuesday, we did anal—something you never try. His cock stretched my ass so good, filled it with cum while I fingered my clit." My thrusts got sloppy, the images hitting hard. "And yesterday? He tied my hands with his belt, fucked my throat till he came over and over filling my mouth. He made me promise that I would kiss you when I got home. He loves using your wife like a whore and making you a little bitch.