My husband Ethan flies to Hong Kong twice a year for two-week training blocks. Two weeks without his snoring, his morning coffee breath, and yes… his cock. Don’t get me wrong — Ethan’s a good man, twelve years older, steady job, steady in bed. But steady doesn’t make my clit throb anymore.

I’m Rose. Forty-three. Six-foot-three in bare feet, 195 lbs of long legs, strong thighs, soft belly, and heavy, freckle-dusted C-cups that overflow any bra I own. Green eyes, pale skin, strawberry-blonde hair I dye chestnut in winter. Ethan says my ass was built for grabbing and spanking. He’s not wrong.

When he’s gone that long, I turn into a dripping, desperate mess. My vibe lives on the nightstand. My thick dildo lives right beside it. But lately even three screaming orgasms a night weren’t cutting it. I needed skin. I needed breath on my neck. I needed to feel wanted so badly it hurt.

So when Ethan texted that his trip got extended three extra days, I did what any self-respecting horny wife would do: I shaved my pussy baby-smooth, booked a full spa day, and went hunting.

The room was almost pitch black, warm, humid, smelling of mud and essential oils. Soft Middle-Eastern music. Five rowdy guys in there for a stag do — and one quiet god among them. Liam. Taller than me (which is rare), lean swimmer’s build, shaved chest, shaved everywhere, and a soft cock that swung between his thighs like it was already bored with gravity. Twenty-two years old. Twenty. Fucking. Two.

I slid onto the tiled bench right beside him. When the instructor’s voice floated in — “Now gently scrub your neighbour’s back with self-love” — Liam muttered under his breath, “Fuck self-love, I need a woman.”

My cunt clenched so hard I swear the mud on my tits cracked.

When it was time for backs and asses, I turned and asked, all innocent, “Could you get my back, sweetie?” His hands were on me in half a heartbeat — big, warm, greedy. Shoulders, spine, the swell of my ass, fingers brushing the sides of my breasts like he couldn’t help himself. I was dripping down my thighs before he even finished.

Then I did him. Sweet Jesus. By the time my hands were on his shoulders, his cock had gone from swinging to pointing — thick, long, curved upward, the head already glossy. I “accidentally” let my tits brush his arm. He shivered.

His buddies left to jump in the cold-plunge lake. Liam and I stayed behind. The room cooled. Steam still swirling. Just us.

“Want to rinse my back properly?” I asked, voice low. “I’ll do yours.”

He laughed, nervous and horny. “Pretty sure that’s forbidden.” “For a woman like you I’ll take the warning,” he said.

Thirty seconds later, we’re under the open showers, alone. Warm water cascading. I soaped his back, his ass, let my fingers trail everywhere. He turned me around, hands sliding over my wet skin, thumbs grazing the undersides of my tits. I stepped backward on purpose — felt that rock-hard cock nestle right between my ass cheeks. He groaned, hips jerking.

“Don’t… someone’ll catch us,” he whispered, but didn’t move away.

I left the spa that day shaking, pussy throbbing so hard I had to finger myself in the jacuzzi until I came biting my arm to stay quiet.

That night he texted from my business card I’d slipped him: “Hey, it’s Liam from the spa. Yesterday was insane. Drink soon?”

Soon? Baby, I wanted now.

I played it cool (barely) and suggested ice cream that same evening. I got a thumbs-up emoji in three seconds flat.

The day crawled. I could not focus at the office. My lace panties were soaked by 10 a.m. I shaved again, just in case. Wore a tight navy business dress that hugs my ass, black lace bra and thong underneath, nipples already poking through.

I was twenty minutes early at the ice shop, heart hammering. He showed up looking like a walking wet dream — ripped jeans with strategic holes, pale-green polo still creased from the package. Three cheek kisses and I nearly dragged him into the alley.

We got ice cream, walked to the canal, sat on a bench. He was shy again — stealing glances, blushing when I fed him a spoonful of my stracciatella. I slid closer. He put a trembling hand on my bare knee.

Talk turned to the stag do. He was the best man, the youngest of the group, and — plot twist — a total late-bloomer. Twenty-two and never had a real girlfriend. Religious family, years buried in coding textbooks. Basically, a virgin.

Reader, my pussy performed an actual backflip.

I kissed his cheek. No reaction. Kissed his mouth. Boom — we’re making out like teenagers, tongues everywhere, his hands finally daring to cup my tits through the dress.

Some weed dealer interrupted us. I grabbed Liam’s hand. “Somewhere quieter?”

He looked at me with those big blue eyes. “Can I… want more?”

I smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”

I booked us into Hotel Lumen while we walked to my car — big rooms, huge bed, no football match that night, perfect. In the parking lot I undid two extra buttons so my cleavage spilled out. He stared like a starving man.

Elevator ride: he grabbed me from behind, cock grinding into my ass again, hands sliding up to grope my tits properly for the first time. I was dripping down my thighs.

Room 312. Door barely closed before he’s kissing me like he’ll die if he stops. I poured prosecco. We sat on the bed. I put my hand on his thigh and asked, straight-up:

“Liam… do you want to fuck me tonight?”

He froze, nodded, stood up, took my hand and pulled me toward the bathroom like he couldn’t wait another second.

We never made it to the shower at first.

I pushed him onto the bed, peeled off my dress, bra, thong. He stared — mouth open — at my naked body like he’d never seen tits and pussy in real life. (He basically hadn’t.)

I climbed over him, kissed down his chest, took that gorgeous cock in my mouth. Salty precum flooded my tongue instantly. He lasted maybe forty-five seconds the first time — warned me with a panicked “I’m gonna—” and exploded down my throat. I swallowed every drop, grinning.

Then I taught him how to eat pussy.

Straddled his face, showed him where my clit was, how to circle, how to suck. He learned fast — within minutes I was grinding on his tongue, coming so hard I saw stars, soaking his chin.

Round two: I guided him inside me missionary, he was thick. That fat head stretched me open in a way I haven’t felt in years. He went slow at first, then lost control — slammed in balls-deep, eyes wide, groaning my name. Came buckets inside me with a shout, hips jerking. I’d already had two more orgasms from his fingers and tongue, so I just held him while he shuddered.

We dozed off tangled and sticky.

3 a.m. I woke up needing to pee, came back to bed, stroked him lazy — he was hard again in ten seconds. 69’d until I came on his tongue again while swallowing his second load of the night.

7:30 a.m. — my phone alarm went off (forgot to disable it). He dragged me into the actual shower this time, pinned me against the tiles, spread my legs, and fucked me from behind so hard my tits slapped against the wall with every thrust. Grabbed them, pounded me, balls smacking my clit until I screamed into my forearm. He roared, pumped me full one last time — I felt every hot spurt deep inside.

We ordered breakfast to the room, ate croissants naked, cum still dripping down my thighs. Made plans for “next time” before checkout.

Ethan comes home in four days.

I’ve already blocked two nights at the same hotel next month.

Some wives get flowers when their husbands are away. I got stretched, filled, and worshipped by the most beautiful 22-year-old cock I’ve ever had… and I’m absolutely doing it again.

Want to know exactly how many times he made me come? How it felt when that virgin boy turned into an animal the second he was inside me? Every filthy, dripping detail is yours — soon..